Savages

THE British Airlines, Boeing 747 Jumbo had aborted out of Heathrow Airport just as a violent winter storm crashed out across the North Sea from Northern Europe. It would be the last jet departing for some days.

Styled out in first class, two women sat. One was the color of snow, short white hair, pale skin, a fortyish English stunner and her name was Clare. The other woman was black, the color of onyx. She was tall, angular, thin, a facially scarred, African Somali woman named Oba. They both looked years younger than their passport pictures depicted. Some gals were lucky like that - both of them were forty.

They were mute - no gaiety, no smiles. Their mission was a dire one, a dangerous one. Clare was desperate - bad news had come, hard times. It was a journey of salvation for her twin eighteen year old daughters.

Her daughters, two tall, model-beautiful, blondes, grounded jocks, sat rotting in a Jakarta prison. They were scheduled for execution if the dice crapped out. At best, if the proper bribes were paid, and the money ate its way up the food chain of Indonesian corruption and found the right people - a life in prison, maybe, in one of the worst gulags ever created by man. Perhaps death would be better.

It was the old story, heroin trafficked, a distraction, the drug slipped into the girls’ luggage. The bust had gone down. The two young women never had a chance.

Clare was wealthy, not fuck you money, but really rich. Pressure, lots of it, had been exerted by the British, diplomatic bull shit, every angle pushed, nothing had worked. Jakarta, illusions, a piss hole of corruption, had a zero tolerance law in place when it came to drugs. Clare was screwed.

Desperate, frantic, terrified, she’d turned to one of her oldest friend’s, Oba for help.

She knew bits and pieces of Oba’s past. For some reason Oba refused to mention, she had offered to help. Oba said she knew people, like her, complex, brutally hard, compassionate people who had done both horrible and wonderful things.

Clare had heard the stories and had been stunned by them. Oba’s life sounded like a movie, although she knew it was the real deal. Oba had been a criminal, a thief partnered with a man named Mal. They’d grifted in Europe, Morocco, Japan and The Middle East. They’d smuggled hashish and stolen jewel in the south of France and trafficked arms in Somalia’s aborted fetus of a Civil war. They’d both been killers. On Aba’s part, that was a casual add-on.

Oba’s tales had been cryptic. Oba had no ego or brag in her. It was just what it was. Sometimes, Oba had said.

Results, well, some people die, in the end no one gets out Planet Earth alive.

They had been girl friends for years. Clare, in the main artery of London society, had met Oba who owned an exclusive, way chic eatery in London, just off Sloane Square called, ‘Oba’s.

Flirts’ and cheek kisses, brushes on lips, lots of touches for Oba was a drama queen, aggressive, a stunning diva. Claire had figured it was simply girl flirt stuff. She’d been wrong.

Clare had not gone there. She preferred men, only men. Oba’s aggressive style with her, well she was famous for living a proper English life of sexual denial. Her greatest sexual pleasures had always been a ride on a one-way ticket to a dildo, vibrator ville.

She was sick of her own denial. She was frustrated before the twin’s trouble, her sex nerves had been sparking like cheap wiring in a Stockwell tenement flop. English men were twisted freaks wearing mums nylons and garters. She knew she was too hard on British men, for there we’re so many smashing many of them. Yet, she could never get the touch of Oba’s satin lips off her lips. She was, sick of trying.

She had had it, fed up - disillusioned to say the fucking least. She needed something new, something exciting, maybe an orgasm would do the trick. She just didn’t know.

Oba was a searing sexual flame. Clare was the moth, get to close, well burning wings, fear, awe, or maybe a concrete street tomb would be her reward. Sometimes death was necessary for a English-lass to be reborn.

Clare was certain Oba was a lesbian, bi-sexual at least. For like that flame, Oba drew the young lovelies in, powdered model wings fluttering, constantly surrounded by beautiful girls. Clare had seen them come and go, come and go. Most of them never left a lock of hair behind.

Clare’s girls, well look at the cards dealt. A losing hand any way she looked at it.

Yet, she couldn’t stop thinking for Oba was an Earth magnet. Her own attraction to the black Somali had been like acid eating away her convoluted mind. Her complicated thoughts seemed wrong, she was at the edge. Maybe guilt would come later. Her brain was out of whack. Money bought a lot of things, coffins for her twins, maybe.

Clare did not pretend to get her. Who could? Yet there had always been something amazing, sexual, the tribal scars on her towering cheek bones, bone white teeth, that small nose and shaved head. She couldn’t jettison the thoughts. Her mind had been constantly spinning with contemplations of her, maybe guilt later.

At the moment, she felt ashamed. Her thoughts weren’t conducive to sanity. Unbearable pain, her brain fried in worry. Her brains screamed, enough. She was satiated, exhausted.

Let’s see what will happen, shrieked in her mind.

In a last ditch effort of hope, Oba had agreed to do what she could. Oba’s words.

People die, no one gets out alive in the end.

Seemed right to Clare.

Oba’s people - may be strange, violent, but they were cut to the edge people. Clare had a couple of hundred million quid and every pence, pound, euro, and dollar, everything, would go to getting her girls back.

Who in the fuck we’re these people?

She didn’t know or care. She just wanted her girls back. If she couldn’t get them released or rescue them, then flames would roar from of the tip of a hand gun barrel. The odor of cordite and blood, possibly her blood would fill her world because she had no life with out her girls.

That was a day earlier. Today, Kennedy.

They gathered their luggage then caught a commuter jet to Butte Montana. It was winter, and as the small jet flew west, Clare watched the world below change. It was a white world, a brittle world, snow was everywhere, and the further they flew, the more desolate, raw and beautiful it became.

Once in Butte, they had dragged their luggage carts toward a small gate. The temp was down below zero - winter, brutal - matching the permafrost in Clare’s blue-blood veins. At the gate was a small, short, nut brown Hispanic man.

Oba whispered that his name was Beto, Mal’s man. Clare kept wondering who this Mal was? She was sure she’d find out soon. Oba smiled, kissed him on top of his shock of black hair.

The boy, he looked so young, smiled, and Clare was sure she caught him sneak a peek at her blonde hair and pale skin. The tricked out pale leather, sheep skin coat, gloves and English riding boots along with her heavy wool trousers didn’t hurt either.

Oba wore the same, but hers was all in black. She was a stylist, after all.

He’d taken the luggage and led them into the icy weather. Bags in tow, he moved onto the private tarmac of the small airport. Once there, he loaded the luggage aboard a blue and white twin engine King Air.

It was Mal’s plane, Oba had whispered again.

Who is Mal? Clare again thought.

Oba had remained silent when it came to him.

The kid was serious, a pro. He wasted no time firing up the twin props, receiving the get go from the tower and taxiing out to a thin ribbon of asphalt. He gunned the engines, the props spun and they were ready.

He poured fuel to the twin props and they’d screamed down the runway, hit blue air and elevated. Quickly, he found five thousand feet and blue winter sky. He banked hard, leveled the wings out and headed for the snow covered mountains in the distance.

As Clare stared at the vastness of a remote slice of Montana’s wilderness, she began to think.

I am Clare and I am terrified, not only because my daughters are in a gulag in Jakarta, but because of where I’m going and the people I’m going to meet.

Oba, she was been a mate, owns a stylish eatery in London. Claire knew a little bit of her violent past and she scared her as well as enticed her with her sexuality.

And I am confused about that.

She was tired of the dance around that subject - she was a last resort. She had whispered little of where they were going, was very hesitant in describing the people they’d meet once were there, wherever there was.

It was beautiful down there. She understood why they call it Big Sky Country. Sky was teal blue, optic clear, the mountains covered with snow. It’s so strikingly strident it hurt her blue eyes, even though she had sunglasses on. Rayban’s - fuck - it used to matter what kind of sun glasses she wore, no longer though.

Oba was quiet, why she was doing this, Clare didn’t know. She said. Sometimes violence has to be met with more violence.

I really don’t know what she’s talking about, I’m fucking terrified.

Clare’s world was fashion, staying fit, her daughters, her horses, tea with mates, unrealistic stuff, very hip girl/woman, until then. She’d been educated in America, Vassar, still chatted like an American. She liked that, more direct, clearer and more to the point. She’d need that train of thought for what was before her, she was certain.

Her frivolous, famous husband died some years back, a drunken fire ball car accident in Milan, an English football star, Chelsea, in the end that was a good thing. He gave her two marvelous gifts in my daughter’s, DNA perfect, pure athletes. She could never repay him for that.

Reality has detonated her life. Soon her girls would be dead, or worse, perhaps spending their lives in a living Hell, unless, well let’s see. Clare was so horribly crippled of what she knew so far of their fate she could barely breathe any longer. If she lost them, she would lose herself and would live the life of the living dead for the rest of her life. She begged God, who had been replaced by Oba that something can, will be done, or she was a dead woman walking.

Oba, so tall, shaved head, thin, black heavy trousers, stout black work boots, layered in cotton shirts, big worn black leather mountain jacket, onyx lamb collar, black gloves on those long fingers, she was so dramatic, such a diva, Clare adored her.

Herself, worn faded jeans, English riding boots, like her, layered in cotton, massive brown dear skin jacket, same, white lamb collar coat, stylish stuff, you know, English countryside bullshit stuff.

Clare knew that then, priorities right, riding leather gloves, she said it was winter, looking down there it looks brittle cold, stark, unbelievably beautiful, almost Mars like with rivers stitched into its skin.

Wherever they were going was past those mountains, struck with snow. Time seemed to dissolve as they moved past their tips, then began to descend, the kid driving the plane, did it well.

Clare saw elk grazing, a massive Grizzly bear, she thought, crossing a river. A herd of scattering deer stalked by a single wolf, they were lost in time in her mind, where are they going?

Time moved on, they were a few hundred feet off of the earth, skimming a forest of snow tipped firs. She couldn’t feel anything but fear. Then the kid flying the King Air banked, pulled back on the throttle and leveled off. Clre gasped as he tipped the nose and they began to rip along a snow etched river.

Off in the distance were forests, towering pines and firs, green everywhere tinted with white tear drops of snow. There was a river which twisted around a massive lodge pole rambling home, barns, out-buildings, fenced pastures with cows and a dirt landing strip some fifty meters from the main building.

They flew deep into a bowl of the valley. It was the only sight of human life for as far as the eye could see. Then the Beto kid tilted the steering bar forward and swooped down. When the wheels skipped across the tarmac, he threw the flaps out and they slowed, taxiing to the end of the strip. He flicked the toggle switch and the engines died - matching her soul.

Out and down the ramp they went, into the freezing cold. It was probably well below zero, Fahrenheit. She watched Oba’s breath as well as her own, as Beto grabbed their bags. He corralled them into an old army jeep, its green paint peeling. He kicked the engine to life, slammed it in to gear and drove toward what she assumed was the main house. The cold drilled into her bone marrow.

They arrived and she was stunned. The place was one of those log lodge pole mansions. The kind one of those weekend cowboys from Wall Street had - pretending they were wild-west men, not the spoiled half humans from a dehumanizing world they really were.

Except this was a working ranch. Several dogs barked - three huge, black Sheppard’s, tongues lolling, trailed them. There were out-buildings, sheds and barns, tractors, wagons and a couple of old pick-up trucks, Fords she thought. Horses whinnied from the barns, as they pull up and parked.

Oba looked at her strangely and in her elegant British African accent, whispered, “Now, Clare, darling, don’t be shocked or frightened by anything you see. These are odd people, but friends, trust me, darling, okay?”

Clare looked at her. She was so dramatic and had always called her darling. Sometimes Clare thought the beautiful dark skinned woman wanted to reach out and kiss her for there was always a sexual current kicking off her black skin. For some reason, Clare had always been attracted to her, which confuses her.

Yet, her failure with so many lacking men - she was confused. She hadn’t been there before, other than a little femme flirting at university. She was suddenly embarrassed by her thoughts. Even though she was a woman, apparently she couldn’t help her-self, for the moment.

She nodded and they climbed from the jeep into the shrill cold. She gasped and blinked her eyes wide open. To the left a dead steer, bloodied, its guts ripped open was frozen sprawled in the mud. She jerked away and glared at Oba who shrugged. Looking around, she realized nobody seemed to mind the cadaver. She certainly did.

She looked right where an elevated expansive porch was set before the three-story, yellow beamed ranch house with its steep pitched roof.

Beto calmed the dogs and looked at Oba. He nodded and took their bags, lugging them down the slate walkway and onto the porch where a small Mexican woman wearing an apron greeted him. Oba, a little grin on her full lips looked at Claire.

Am I am gawking at two women?

Clare wondered while watching the oddest and most exotically beautiful women she’d ever seen taking up space on the front porch and staring at them.

There were handmade wooden deck chairs on the porch, and sitting in one of them was a cinnamon skinned girl. She looked like a teenager, maybe five feet six, just a slip of a girl whose jet black hair was center parted and roped in a braided pony tail spilling down to her tiny waist. She had the largest and blackest almond eyes Clare had ever seen, small features and full lips, no smile, just a stare that sent ice into Clare’s veins.

She wore a pair of stained tan leather trousers and black steel toed boots. The two long sleeve collarless logger shirts were faded red and had a few buttons ended at a flat chest, and her worn leather gloves protected hands lying flat on the chair arms.

Strapped to her broad slender frame were two shoulder holsters, cartridge caps on the bandoleer and heavy hand guns in the holsters. All the while Clare had eyed her, judged her, the young woman still hadn’t blinked. This was no teenager.

Clare gasped again and took a look at Oba. She was gazing at Clare. She thought the dark fleshed woman was amused. Clare was ready to turn and run back to the plane. Yet, unable to resist, she looked at the teak washed girl with the guns, then at the alien looking blonde girl/woman/prepubescent boy/creature, she didn’t know which.

She was so boyishly beautiful, like a shoelace stood on end, standing behind the brown skinned girl. Both of her bare hands rested on the teak girls shoulders. The Hispanic girl had one hand on the girl’s bare hand. What in heavens was going down?

The girl with the white hair leered at Clare. Her skin was faded tan, and Clare knew the color must have come from the sun. She was silent, so very quiet, her topaz blue eyes looked like multi-faceted diamonds and she was so intense - Clare’s toes were so cold and felt like they were freezing off her feet.

The woman with buzzed short white hair and wide set blue eyes reminded Clare of the ice of winter. She had a pointed small nose, a sharp jaw, high cheekbones and full luscious lips, like Clare had never seen before. She was so exotic, beautiful and Nordic-cold. She was the most beautiful female Clare had ever seen- except for Oba, and that brown skinned girl who was at the moment getting her straight black hair petted by the blonde, as if she was a favorite pet.

The blonde wore ripped, old brown leather logging pants and brown tasseled chocker boots. She’d layered torn woodsmen shirts, maybe six or seven of them. Yet, she still looked so constructed of nothing - so tall, so thin, fuck she could wear a dozen shirts and still be a string bean of exotic beauty.

Like her girlfriend, Clare assumed that’s who she was, they certainly looked cozy together. If Claire didn’t know better, she’d swear they were lovers. The blonde had a leather holster and a white handled handgun, blue iron, not on her broad shoulders but riveted to her waist.

She wore men’s red suspenders. Clare guessed that was the only way she could keeps those stout logging pants from falling off her slender, boy hips, and neither of them had blinked - not once. On the other side of her hip, laced there, was a twelve-inch Bowie knife, stitched into a sheath.

Behind her resting against the wooden wall was a Winchester 30.06 rifle with a Zeiss scope. Clare knew her weapons - she hunted for sport. There was something terribly wrong there. It was like she’d been transported into some old western scene, violent women - armed, frontier woman - except these women looked like homicidal fashion models, girls with guns.

Oba stepped closer to her, taking her hand. Clare was glad for that. She nodded at the women - Blondie nodded back, nothing from the Hispanic gal as Oba whispered into Clare’s ear. “Mandal’s the white one and Pilar’s the brown one. Be nice, okay, I want them to like you.”

What does that mean ripped through her skull.

Just as suddenly, a commotion to her left made her turn and when she did, she gawked again and tried to recapture her breath.

A man, a tall man, like nothing she’d ever seen before, led a saddle bagged and saddled brown mare out of the barn. A Hispanic, short plug of a man walked behind him, holding a set of reins to a pack burro. He pulled the four legged beast forward by leather straps.

The man - she called him a man but he looked more like he’d been carved out of a slab of old leather with his burnt brown face, cut with lines and his shaved head. He had an unshaven square jaw and wore heavy leather logger pants that were short to his ankles - no cute cowboy boots on this man’s feet. He wore hard, blunt-toed, logging shin boots on those stomps of feet.

Faded red suspenders layer down several old long-sleeved, man’s work-shirts, pressing against an expanded chest. Power simply oozed from his tall, lean and obviously well-muscled body. Walking up to them, he checked her out and nodded at Oba. There was no joy or glad to meet you in his demeanor as he extended a gloved hand to her. Claire pressed her hand into his and gasped inside when he squeezed, just a little. It was like she’d touched steel, his fingers were like iron ingots. She shivered from the look in his blue eyes.

Oba made the introductions. “Mal, Clare, Clare, Mal.”

“Hello, Clare, we’ll discuss business later. Maybe we can help. A steer’s been killed by a rogue grizzly. It has to be hunted, right now. We’re hoping to take it down before it wreaks more havoc on the herd.”

It began to snow. It was so beautifully surreal.

Clare was dumbstruck by the man looking at the two women on the porch. Then he smiled. The blonde seemed to glow. Obviously, he was in love as a smile cracked like lightening across his lips, presenting more deep fissures in that remarkable life-lined face. His front teeth were chipped, adding more masculinity to him, if that was at all possible.

Clare watched the Nordic blond leaned down and whispered into the Hispanic beauty’s ear. She kissed her on the lips and grabbed the 30.06, as well as a shoulder holster she hadn’t noticed, a 357 black magnum slotted into it. Turning away, she moved off of the porch, and strode toward them.

“Christ.” Claire moaned, the woman was taller than she’d thought, thinner than she’d thought and more dangerous than she’d thought, for she moved like hot mercury let loose, like a spool of power. Something about her scared the Hell out of Claire. Maybe it was the faded scars covering her once perfect face.

These folks don’t talk a lot, Clare thought as she watched the beauty sidle up and kiss her man on the lips. He smiled up at her. Two of his front teeth were chipped. She wondered if she’d ever know how that happened. Their simple kiss was so erotic. Clare was even more confused than before. Moments ago, the blonde had been kissing the Hispanic girl, what was going on there?

She handed him the carbine, then the magnum, which he buckled to his hips. He was an old man, but there was nothing old about him. He was a tall man, a lean man. His movements were sharp, sure. His face looked a century old, but rest of him - well he scared the Hell out of her too.

He slid the Winchester in to a saddle brace, grabbed a faded Levi jacket with a lamb collar from the mule’s back and threw it on. Already hitched to the horse’s saddle, are the mule’s reins. The blonde was quiet as was the serious Hispanic kid, bullet black eyes, silent, just watching from the porch, just waiting. Man, everybody seemed so serious, so intense, what the blast was going on?

This Mal fella whispered to Oba, then Clare, then the blonde, as he saddled up.

“Have fun, eat, chat and get settled in.”

He leaned down and kissed the Mandal babe on her luscious lips and whispered loud enough for Clare to hear, “I love you.”

She blushed. There was so much love and pride in her eyes - you know when a woman just totally loved and admired the man she was with. It was foreign to her.

Pulling a Wilco Feed Store baseball cap on to his head, no cowboy hat for this guy, he said kinda easy and slow, “Don’t know how long it will be, saunas fired up, Armida’s inside, roasting beef I think. I gotta go. If I don’t come back, well that’s the way it is, you know what to do.”

If I don’t return. What the Hell did that mean?

No one bothered to ask nor did anyone seem to care. He clicked his heals into the mare’s ribs and, with donkey trailing behind by the leather straps, moved out.

Everybody was quiet as his horse walked to the iced river and knee deep slushed across it, up the mud bank. Then giddied up, he set a loping pace until he’d disappeared into the setting sun and falling snow.

I’m crazy, waiting for some director to yell, ‘Cut’. But, this was for real and he was a real man.

Oba did the intros.” Mandal, Clare, Clare, Mandal.”

The girl, she was a girl although Clare thought she was a woman, too, with the white faded scared covering her flawless face nodded at her. She shook Clare’s hand, was silent as they turned and made their way along the slate walkway. Clare looked at Mandal, then asked, “Isn’t that dangerous, what he’s doing?”

She looked at Clare oddly, snuck a peek at Oba, then kinda smiled and said, “Yes, of course, he is Mal after all.”

Perfect answer. Clare felt as if she was trapped in some kind of cell surrounded by the mad.

On the porch, Mandal looked at Pilar, who had no smile for Clare, no nothing, just black cobra eyes scrutinizing her. She fidgeted with her handgun. The corner of her peach colored lips twitched.

Again, those eyes absolutely nail gunned on Clare. The Hispanic doll didn’t flinch or blink, just stared with pure intensity. She reminded Claire of one of those King Cobras she’d seen on National Geographic, ready to whip out and sink its fangs into her throat. Clare tried a smile on her, and got - nothing.

Clare turned to Oba, who smiled at her. Again she seemed amused as the blonde moved to the scary girl, bent, whispered to her, kissed her on the lips, not a peck, but a luscious kiss. Mandal turned, then took Clare by the hand and led Oba and her into the house.

The three black Sheppard’s, tongues lolling, followed.

Half way through the door, Clare snuck a peek at Pilar. Her eyes hadn’t left Clare. From the look in the woman’s eyes, Claire got the feeling she would have been quite happy to murder her if given half a chance. Pilar calmly lit a cigarette then snuffed the burning match tip out with her raw fingertips. She didn’t flinch. A tick pulled at her cheek. Clare couldn’t wait to get away from her.

Once inside, the three Sheppard’s slouched on over to a massive stone fireplace where they lie prone, lazing in front of the roaring fire. Their eyes remain alert, never leaving Clare either.

Clare’s jaw dropped. She gawked. The place was massive. Forty foot connected lodge pole beams kept the roof from collapsing. A pine staircase climbed from floor to floor, railings edged the entire gang plank, off shoots of rooms. Clare expected stuffed animal heads on the walls, but there were none. On the floors, there were Persian rugs and animal skins.

The place looked like one of those domed stadiums, smaller though, and on the walls dozens of the most beautiful water colors and oil paintings she’d ever seen hung. In front of the huge living room was a stone fireplace that went the full three stories, from the floor to the ceiling. A blistering fire flamed in it. Subdued lighting was everywhere as well as dozens of candles flickering. The place looked like a golden Buddhist temple.

Mandal sauntered into this expansive ranch kitchen, chatted it up with the woman Clare assumed was Armida, in perfect Spanish. She was a small woman with mahogany colored skin who smiled a lot. As the blonde smiled and hugged her, Armida got busy doing something.

The blonde didn’t look like the domestic type, unless wielding that gun and Bowie knife on her hips could be considered domestic.

The kitchen was amazing, lots of rare woods, pine, mahogany, maple counters and pine plank floor, cast iron hung from chains and hooks. Black iron cauldrons, pots and pans simmered and boiled on a black cast iron stove. Pungent food aromas were everywhere.

Clare’s stomach growled as she looked at a painting of Mandal, naked, flowers woven in her hair, her bronze skin darker then it was now.

She sat on a cobalt blue blanket, beach sand dunes behind her and flowers everywhere. She was eating a peach, the juice spilling down her boyish, naked breasts. It was so erotic; Clare’s loins moved just looking at the painting of the woman’s nude body.

Her face heated and she knew she was blushing from her thoughts. She looked at Oba, and mouthed, “Amazing art.”

She half smiled and whispered, “Mal.”

Clare shook her head and looked at her quizzically, then touched one of about a dozen of the most amazing porcelain vases she’d ever seen, all filled with fresh flowers, all sitting on old western antique tables, benches, dressers. She assumed all the vases were priceless antiques, French and Venetian, she figured.

She looked at Oba who was grinning. She tilted her hand to this translucent cherry and burgundy meter high paper thin vase, whales dancing within the glass, opal blue dolphins swirling around its girth.

Oba giggled, just a little bit, and whispered, “Mal.”

Clare felt earthquake struck - not that hard man out there - how could that be?

Truly she felt like she’d entered Vienna a hundred years ago, where artist lived and prospered, before they were no longer loved.

Then Oba laced her fingers over Clare’s hand. She seems proud of her friend’s genius, his talent. She pointed out a gold ring on her forefinger. Clare had admired it before, it was a rams’ head.

She was an Aries, she has told Clare before. The ring was constructed out of carved, Persian Turquoise and Iranian Lapis, surrounded and faceted by bezels of gold. Oba whispered all the information to her, as well as another word. “Mal.”

Enough! Clare was overwhelmed. A moment later, Mandal returned with a slice of plum in her hand which she instantly plopped into Claire’s mouth. She didn’t ask for permission, and Clare obeyed, chewing away. She had lightened up and Clare hoped, for her sake, the woman liked her. God forbid if she didn’t.

Back and forth, nothing serious, not just yet, they chatted. She seemed like a friendly woman, but Claire got the feeling Mandal was just being a proper hostess. Her manners were welcomed after that Pilar doll outside. As they talked, Clare peered around the mammoth living room. Overstuffed pine couches with deep green cushions, lounge chairs and accompanied by music we’re everywhere.

Clare thought it was Taylor Swifts’ voice coiling into the room. Also, she saw lots of weapons, handguns, automatic rifles, AK-47’s, banana clips, M-16’s, hatchets, knives, lots of them, scattered everywhere on the walls, on gun racks and sky high cabinets.

Without asking, and quite natural, Mandal swung her arms around Clare, hugging her thin frame with her arms. She then placed her at arm’s length, and smiled.

“You must be tired Clare. Please, wash, look around, our home is your home. Oba please, ‘The Elk Room’. I must talk to Pilar, please, we’ll have dinner soon. Afterwards, we’ll have coffee, drinks on the veranda, we’ll talk then. Welcome Clare, you’re with friends now.” She turned and pirouetted away, powerfully, gracefully moving toward and through the door.

Then, she was gone.

Oba was silent for a heartbeat then said, “Come with me, darling, let’s get you settled.”

She led her across the living room. They climbed pine stairs, along the indoor balconies. She turned to her and said, “Please, Clare, relax - if you can. Mandal likes you. And, I’m positive they can help. Wash, check out the scenery, Armida’s a great cook, come, this is your room.”

Clare’s daughters were dying and Oba was casual. She almost resented her for that, but what was she to do.

The room was magnificent, great pine bed, white down comforter, brass and copper, an antique lamp or two, wall windows showing winter snow pressed against a great and vast forest. It was snowing. How dramatic. Clare felt so lost. The river was edged with ice and white, she’d never seen anything so raw, so beautiful. She cracked a window open and heard the white water rushing past the chalet. She knew of no other way to describe it.

Once she was alone, she tried to relax, but needed a shower. She peeled off her clothes, she turned and naked stared into a wall mirror. She was English white, small breasted, tall for a British girl, rather slender, fit, horses kept a woman that way.

Men, she’d been told, more often than not, found her irresistible. She’d deprived herself of pleasure her entire life. In her mind, she’d never been decently bedded. Some English men were that way. She did not fault any man for not having a crystal ball to help understand who and what she was.

She had heard there were some smashing men, though mostly they were distant, no creativity, uninspired and she couldn’t get Oba out of her head. She was again ashamed of her sex thoughts. The more often they appeared, the more fear ripped her mind.

Emotionally, she was a complete wreck.

Never mind, she walked into the bathroom. It was amazing, black and grey tiles set into a tall glass enclosed shower. Two large windows showed the river meandering into the pine forest, snow and night. A full moon secreted behind the clouds made them translucent and she gasped seeing a herd of deer skip across the river. She didn’t think she’d ever been anyplace so crude, savage and majestic in her life.

Clare showered quickly, forcing herself to steer clear of any sexual fantasies. She was embarrassed even thinking about those. She’d always been very sexual, forever frustrated, completely in a state of denial of her own needs.

She toweled off with a thick, coal colored towel then sauntered into the bedroom. She dressed casually, black stove pipe trousers, a white, cashmere turtleneck and two-inch black boots. She went to the door, then through it.

Clare walked down the plank runway, then hesitated at a door she saw cracked open. She heard something and edged closer, peeking inside. Her eyes acclimate to the dim lighting. Only a single candle lit the room. She gasped and blinked her eyes in awe.

Pilar was inside. She was decked out, from neck to bare toes, in a white gymnast’s skin-tight bodysuit. Her body was so tiny, thin and well-muscled, every muscle, every sinew; every nerve cut like an anatomy chart.

She was on a balance beam, moving to music that sounded like Alicia Keys. Clare only knew her from her daughters IPod. Her feet were small, calloused. She moved so gracefully, Clare could do nothing but gawk at her.

Pilar tensed her knees and in progression, did two flips, then did and air born somersaults down the entire length of the bar, landing at the end solidly on her powerful feet. Clare stared, and watched as Pilar moved backward repeating the procedure, then at the end of bar, she twisted, did a double revolution and spun off the bar, again landing on her feet.

Instantly Pilar knelt to a crouch. On the floor was a black velvet swath and on it were three small black handled throwing blades. Then as Clare watched in fear and awe, Pilar in repetition and in a martial arts stance, sliced the three knifes across the room.

“Phist phist phist.” The sounds of the knives whistled through the air.

“Thump, thump, thump.” Clare gasped as the knives centered into the heart of a man silhouetted in paint into the wall.

Stunned, Clare stared, as suddenly Pilar turned and leered right at her.

Clare shivered, for her eyes were blacker than any she’d ever seen before, blacker than she’d thought possible and filled with more fury than Clare could have imagined. Until that moment, Claire had never seen her blink.

Feeling fear, Clare meekly smiled at her. Nothing, there was nothing from her. Turning away, Clare rushed down the staircase, wanting nothing to do with the violent looking spook hiding in a female’s body.

At the bottom of the stairs, stood Oba, thank fucking God. Clare calmed a little. She was dressed in sleek, white linen trousers, a heavy white cashmere crew neck sweater and was barefoot. A six-foot, one-inch woman could do that. On her African ears were huge gold hoops, a heavy, hand-crafted gold chain fell down past her collar bones, stopping at her flat chest. Clare assumed Mal had made that too. Oba could apparently see Clare was shaken and asked, “What is it, my dear?”

Clare stuttered, for she was fatigued by stress and worry. “Pilar, who, what, why is she?”

Oba looked concerned, edgy. Her pink tongues graced her full African lips. Clare had never seen her like that before. After a moment, she moved close and whispered, “Pilar, yes, she’s Mandal’s woman. She loves Mal, he and her are friends. She and Mandal are the same, savages, kind, violent and honest, and they are inseparable. Best, my dear to avoid her. She’s lethal, knows only one set of masters, complicated, one never knows what she’ll do or when she’ll do it.”

Clare groaned, just great, a perfect explanation.

She asked herself, who are these odd people?

Oba took her hand, turned her toward the kitchen. They strolled, Arctic blood raced in her arteries.

Off the kitchen was a five meter pine table, it looked to be at least a couple of hundred years old. It was layered with old cobalt china plates, silver dinnerware, sparkling crystal was everywhere, as well as bottles of wine. A decanter of what looked like scotch sat waiting. Two ruby-red pitchers of water were bookends on the flat top, burnt pine tabletop. The kitchen was humming, Armida and Beto worked as a team, checking food roasting, boiling and simmering in cast iron. Stirring and chopping, the aromas were magnificent.

Clare was stunned.

Then Mandal, like a Soviet gymnast, wearing an ankle to neck black bodysuit, barefoot, whipped open a set of massive pine doors near the fireplace. She glided over to them, and Clare was again awed by her stunning beauty. She was a sliver, cut like the maniac upstairs, yet longer and taller.

She smiled and took Clare’s hand, leaned in, kissed her on the lips then said, “You look lovely, Clare, come, let’s see what’s what, I bet you’re hungry.”

With out a word, Oba trailing, smiling, she led them to the dinner table. As they moved Claire still felt the heat from her lips on her mouth, making her insides warm.

What’s happening to me?

Time passed and dinner was served. They were joined by several silent, short, Hispanic men, as well as Beto and Armida. There was a cut of beef, hardy carrots, potatoes and turnips. A garden was whispered about as well as a root cellar for storage over the winter months, and a green house, somewhere. There was salad, homemade enchiladas, refried beans and a basket filled with steaming tortillas. Wine, drink and polite conversation were passed, much Spanish spoken of which Clare understood only a little. Mandal spoke it fluently, as did Oba. Then Mandal and Oba conversed in perfect French, which Clare had studied at university. She chipped in, and Armida’s black eyes never left her during the entire dinner and she wondered why.

They finished their meal and were shushed away from the table by Armida. Oba led them to the top floor, down a long corridor. Clare hesitantly looked into Pilar’s room again, for obvious reasons.

At a door, Oba grabbed three woven wool capes constructed of a myriad of apple green, plum and cherry colored thread’s, all with great hoods on them. It was cold outside and still snowing lightly. The capes were perfect.

The veranda faced a horizon of forest, rivers and pastures, all illuminated by the few glowing, dull lights rimming the lodge pole fences. The clouds suddenly departed. The snow stopped filtering from the night as the full moon sat so white and whole and large Clare felt as if she could reach out and touch it.

With the clouds departing, it grew colder, yet a fire pit blazed nearby. Beto arrived with a tray. He set the cups down and, then poured hot coffee into them. Done, he added several logs to the fire and like the clouds, maybe like Clare’s life, he dissolved away.

There was silence, storm winds gathered and whistled through the firs. Mandal and Oba seemed lost in thought. Mandal peered toward the forest, crinkled her brow then sipped coffee. Clare thought she saw great concern on the woman’s face. Finally, she appeared to be human, capable of concern for, Claire assumed, her man out there, somewhere, hunting one of the most dangerous animals on earth.

Mandal began to talk and the blonde came back from whatever deep thoughts she’d been having. They talked about Clare’s daughters.

“Yes we can help, perhaps, Mal must lead. Pilar can do her thing as well as Oba. I cannot help, I have something else planned, very important, but....”

Mandal and Oba exchange glances, then she continued, “In the morning, Clare, we will see what Mal and Pilar have set up. What information they’ve gathered. Mal has a plan, already, but we must wait until he returns, if he...” She grew silent.

Silence, Clare didn’t probe, what is Pilar’s thing and although curiosity racked her brain, she didn’t ask, dared not ask, was afraid to ask.

From deep in the night forest, the loud crack a 30.06 carbine echoed within the firs and snow. It was a tin shot sound, but it was clear that it was a rifle shot. Mandal’s gaze was riveted to the horizon.

Crack! Crack!

Time took a breath and, then another crack sounded with many tiny echoes bouncing back along the winter night.

Mandal turned to Oba, whispered, her breath fogging from her full lips. “Four, Oba, I don’t know.”

Oba stood and moved alongside her, weaving her arm around her tiny waist, pulling Mandal tight into her body. Mandal leaned her head against Oba’s shoulder, just standing there, almost as if they were a couple in love staring at something beautiful on their honeymoon.

Time passed, long cold moments of it as they stood and worried. They had nothing left to say. Good nights are shared all around.

Tomorrow would be fruitful was whispered, if - if - that word hung in the air.

Clare was frightened. What if this Mal character was dead, who would lead, who would help her, and her daughters? She was ashamed of how self-obsessed with her own pathetic helpless life.

It was 2 A.M., and she couldn’t sleep. The moon kept blistering through her window, but that wasn’t why. Of course, it was her girls, in that prison, raped, beaten. Death would follow as legendary would have her believe.

She’d been there three times, and each time, she’d seen her daughters in their grey prison jumpsuits, the filth, the squalor, she’d screamed. It was a steaming sewer of life, holding human garbage.

My babies, oh my darlings! She wept.

Feeling some kind of kinetic magnetic energy pulling at her from downstairs, Clare wasn’t sure which or what it was, maybe shamans were holding court, she dressed in a white, sheer cotton slip but remained barefoot. Her throat so dry, acrid like my brain, she could barely breathe. She walked down the stairs, and turned toward the kitchen when she got to the main floor. She’d heard something, or felt something, she wasn’t sure which. She turned toward the flames in the fireplace. The entire room flickered with lit candles dancing. It was both eerie and beautiful.

She squinted and turned, looking at the large doors near the fire, the place where the blonde had danced out of earlier. She watched undulating shadows and was certain something or someone wanted her, was drawing her to the partially opened door.

Around the fireplace were the three great black Sheppard’s. They lay on their sides, chests billowing, they weren’t asleep. Their brown eyes seemed riveted on her. Yet, they were well-trained and seemed to understand she was a guest. She definitely wouldn’t want to be an intruder in the house, not because of those guardians although they’d be formidable indeed. But, because of the lethal women who dwelled there.

Barefoot, Clare walked across the living room, until she was near the cracked open door. She hesitated. Shadows, somewhere, flames, ebbed and pirouetted. The entire scenario seemed so surreal. There was music, Debussy, she thought, soft, melodic, powerful and as disturbing as the drug addict who’d created it.

Heart thundering, she was afraid. Yet she could not help herself. She’s sure she’s being drawn, as a moth to an electrical current. At the door, she silently moved ahead. She couldn’t have been any quieter. She edged closer then gazed inside. Her eyes widen. She placed her fingers across her mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle the gasp spilling out.

There were candles, and the last flames on the opposite side of the living areas stone fireplace billowed creating silhouettes of two bodies on the walls. A great bed was pushed against one stone-wall. It was low to the floor. There were animal skins on the planked floor and there they were - other animals, more dream-like than actually being human.

Pilar was lying on her back, nude, a frail copper thread. She was covered in glistening perspiration. She was close enough for Clare to see each drop beading, flowing from her tiny breasts, down her stomach and dissolving into the white sheets.

The white girl/woman was straddling her. Her small back was arched and her magnificent fingers pressed against the brown girl’s breasts. Her knees pressed against the sheets, her shaved vagina strung like a pink pearl against the Hispanics killers beautiful mouth.

Clare heard the moans from both lovers, those deviants. She didn’t know what those creatures were. Mandal’s body seemed unable to control itself. Her stomach heaved, her breathing increased as did the other girl’s. She jerked her blonde head back and forth as the girl explored her nether lips with teeth and tongue. She dug her fingers into the sheets, wildly thrashing her blonde head back and forth, moaning. It was primal, raw, as her entire moon colored body trembled as an orgasm overwhelms her. She uttered a primal sound Clare had never heard before, even from her own lips, or any others.

Her clipped, white hair was drenched, sweat spilling down her face. She collapsed into her lover’s arms - their tummies brazed together, sweat mixing with sweat.

Mandal appeared to be weeping, whispering, moaning as the cinnamon stick wrapped her arms around her. Holding her close, she kissed Mandal deeply, passionately, each kiss matched as their pussies ground together.

Minutes passed then Pilar, the odd and exotic creature, rolled Mandal on to her back. It was a poignant moment, so tender within the realms of love. Clare couldn’t understand any of it. Pilar’s languid brown fingers, the ones she’d fondled the trigger of a handgun with before, simply touched the girls’ quivering lips and her scarred face. Clare had never seen anything so erotic, so banal and so exquisite, ever.

She watched Mandal, her white hair gathering flames from the fire reach up, touch the crippled in love Hispanics girl’s swollen, trembling lips, as streaks of sweat-soaked black hair slithered down her shoulders, face and back.

There was a smile then Pilar gently, sweetly rolled her on to her still heaving tummy.

My God! Clare internally whispered, this Mandal was strung like a single streamer of white tortoise shell, almost invisible. Her thin body blended into the white sheets as if they were a part of her.

Clare’s breathing was out of control, her pulse pounded in her temples. Her hands were still clamped over her mouth as Pilar trailed her fingers down the girl’s spine. Clare couldn’t think of Mandal as anything more than just a girl, she was so girl-like, so frail in form. Then past her tiny rump which blended into her legs, again, almost like a small boys, Pilar’s hands roamed.

Clare saw trails of sweat drip down her arching back from where Pilar’s finger had just been. Gently, her hand fell between the cleft of Mandal’s long legs, at the V. Mandal moaned, her body twitched involuntarily. Clare could have sworn, she was chewing on the down pillow where her face was stuck. Clare saw those white fingers eating at the sheets as she moaned, and her butt lifted slightly, every muscle in her torso tensing.

Clare gasped, as a trickle of liquid slithered down her inner thighs. Embarrassment heated her face, yet she felt as if the Hispanic girls’ tongue, teeth and lips were digging into her vagina.

What is happening to me?

She wondered who those women were. In this center of a nowhere paradise/hell, did creatures constructed of skin, passion and desire, things she knew she’d never felt in her life, truly exist.

She couldn’t help myself - she couldn’t turn away when Pilar moved her fingers lower as sweat spilled down her slender brown back, down her rump and again onto the sheets. She moved her fingers in and around the girl’s vagina, more moans reached Clare as the blonde writhed against the sheets. Mandal gasped as Pilar, in a single push, thrust her tiny fist into the white girl’s vagina up to her wrist.

Mandal moaned and arched her back, raising her butt as she spread her legs and rose up on to her knees and elbows, her head bowed. She moaned, gulping in seething lumps of air as she was claimed by the Hispanic girl’s fist, not moving, just there, pushing back each time.

Her alabaster body squirmed against Pilar’s fist, which drove at an increased pace, matching each lunge with one of her own. Clare watched sweat pour off their bodies for minutes as Mandal bit the sheets and wailed into them, her body shattering as she reached what looked like an Earth shaking orgasm. That didn’t stop her, she was insatiable.

The Mandal was on her knees, the top of her feet touching the sheets behind her. As Pilar pumped her fist into her cunt, Mandal began to growl like one of the dogs. Then she climaxed and began crashing her fists against the wall and wildly shaking her blond head back and forth. Beads of sweat, picking up shards of candle light glistened in the air around the girls.

As quickly as she’d thrust inside Mandal, Pilar pulled her fist out. Mandal groaned, and, then flopped to the sheets on her stomach, her eyes blazing, struck wide open.

Pilar leaned over and touched something on the sheets next to them, then raised it to her eyes. She bent, pressing her teak skin and breasts against the girl’s back. Pilar placed a massive double-knobbed, black dildo along Mandal’s cheek and, then graced it around her face, teasing her lover with it.

Mandal’s blue eyes blinked, her breathing increased, and Claire felt as if fire was spooling out of the center of her crazed orbs. Then she smiled, almost like a little girl might, then reached back and wound her fingers into the Pilar’s black, drenched, long hair streaming down her face in charcoal rivulets.

For Clare it was like watching a ballet. The blonde rolled alongside of Pilar and they embraced, legs tangled together, spooning like children, then twisting, turning until swelling tummies were pressed against one another.

Everything looked spontaneous, yet choreographed as they kissed, deep, rippling tongues exploring each other’s mouths, touching, fingering one another’s faces as if panic driven, passion driven, sweat mingling. Mandal in a death grip, tangled her fingers in Pilar’s sweat-soaked hair.

Again, never had Clare seen anything so traumatic concerning sex, pleasure, mania and desire.

Then slowly, Pilar took the half-meter dildo, lowered it and plunged it inside the white girl’s vagina.

Clare gasped - Mandal winced, her body bucked as a gush of air exploded out of her blood-red, swollen lips. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, she bit her lips, drawing blood. She moaned and ran her fingers into the black, wet hair splayed everywhere, ripping at it.

Mandals lips trembled and began to chatter again - all of it seemed orchestrated to perfection. Pilar scissored her legs so that her brown, shaved vagina was just inches away from the opposite end of the knob. In a single movement, she drove the end of the dildo into her own vagina, slamming her hips so both women were impaled. Between their whimpers and moans and grunts, the women rode the giant dildo, as first one and, then the other thrust them self onto the enormous dildo.

Clare’s eyes remained open in disbelief as she watched so much brown and white skin and sweat mingling and humping together. Mandal shrieked and grabbed two fists full of Pilar’s black hair, frantically peering into her lovers eyes. Pilar looked demented in her ride towards sexual madness. Then as Mandal hit her orgasm, she crushed her lips against the Hispanics lips, weeping as Pilar moaned, her body vibrating and she climaxed, too.

Pilar instantly seemed to come apart. She crawled on top of her lover, her onyx hair a shredded tapestry covering both girls, as her sweat tinted face fell within the cleft of the white girl’s long neck. She wept and trembled as Mandal held her, arms and hands wrapped around her child-like body.

Then minutes passed.

Thinking that it would be impossible for the two savages to have any passion left, let along energy, Clare gasped.

Straddling Mandal, Pilar slowly rose as Clare watched sweat pour down her copper colored body. Pilar reached forward, laid her fingers upon Mandals small breasts. She took her forefingers and thumbs and, then violently pinched Mandals breasts.

“OOOOOOOOH.” Mandal groaned in pain and pleasure.

Like a child, Mandal reached her arms towards her lover. Pilar seemed to fall into a trance, as then she fell into Mandals arms. Mandal held her hard, as Pilar lifted, and then poured her lips against Mandals.

Clare could almost feel the heat emanating from their soaked bodies as the girls began to grind their vaginas together.

Groaning, moaning, begging, crying, the twins seemed to become unhinged in passion as Clare heard their breaths bellowing out of their lungs.

Then to Clare’s shock, both females bodies seemed to go stark, free frame, then explode in unison in a climax that literally shook the floor they we’re so violent and out of control.

At the very moment Clare thought there could be no more madness, Pilar sat up and leered at Mandal. Mandal’s eyes were filled with insanity, and her teeth again-chattered. Instantly, Pilar viciously slapped Mandal in the face.

“Whack.”

Mandals face violently snapped to the side and, then just as quickly centered back to Pilar’s black eyes.

She smiled at Pilar, pursed her lips into an “O” and whispered. “I love you so.”

“Whack, whack,whack.”

In progression, Pilar slapped Mandals face, sending perspiration flying into the candle lit night.

Mandal, centered eyes lovingly looking at Pilar, and with blood gathering on her lips, smiled, reached forward and lovingly touched Pilar’s face with her fingers.

“You are so good to me. I love you. Please, never leave me my darling...Never.”

Clare slammed her hands to her mouth, as then Pilar fell into Mandals arms and began to weep as Mandal petted the streamer of drenched black hair falling down her back and butt.

And, then Clare gulped, for Mandal’s blue eyes suddenly stared straight at her. Clare then knew that Mandal had known that she had been there all along.

Something passed between them and she smiled at her. Clare’s hand went to her mouth again as they locked eyes. She’d known Clare was there from the beginning, which was now clear. Stunned, appalled, enthralled, and above all confused Claire was crushed from the beauty of the two lovers encapsulated within each other’s pain.

Almost paralyzed in fear and panic, Clare could not break her gaze away from Mandal. Her mind was on fire, as then she thought she heard her name being called.

“Clare.”

Mandal smiled at her and on rote, Clare insanely smiled back as then:

“Clare, come.”

Clare thought she was hearing voices. A black-hand touched her bare wrist and turned her. It was Oba, a warm and knowing look was in her eyes. She was naked, her body was so black, it looked almost blue.

“Come, my dear, come with me.”

Clare was hypnotized, almost brain comatose as Oba led her near the fire, where the flames were curling like waves in the pit. She shushed the Sheppard’s. They were beautiful in their obedience as each one stood, then moved into Mandals room, where Clare was sure they’d be comfortable with other wild animals like them.

Oba sat Clare down cross-legged on a great black bear pelt. She sat in front of Clare and touched her face, looking deep into her blue eyes.

She whispered, “They’re beautiful together do you not think, my darling?”

Clare couldn’t get what had just happened out of her mind, it was impossible to comprehend. She looked at Oba, who was staring at her lips, which trembled as well as her hands. Oba must have noticed and reached forward and clutched Clare’s hands within her black, aquiline fingers.

Clare stuttered, “I-I.-I’ve never seen anything so savage, so, carnal-be-beautiful, I-I-I’m confused. I-I...”

Clare’s lowered her chin. The white strap from her sheer slip had fallen from her shoulder and exposed one of her small breasts. She did nothing to cover it. She was embarrassed by the thoughts running through her head. She wasn’t a lesbian, nor a whore, yet, this was not who she was, or was it?

Oba remained silent - simply staring at her, white English Clare. She reached out, touched Clare’s face. There were tears trickling down her face. She’d been weeping and was completely unaware of it until that moment.

Oba touched a tear, then another. Clare raised her white fingers and touched the patterned scars etched into Oba’s cheeks. They were dramatic, sexual.

Clare was overwhelmed when, without asking, Oba slipped the other thin strap from her shoulder, exposing both breasts. She was wracked with so many different emotions, sex and confusion being at the top of the list, along with shards of shame for the few moments she hadn’t thought of her daughters.

Oba nudged towards her, wrapping her slender black fingers gently around Clare’s neck and, then exerting the slightest amount of pressure on it. Clare did not resist the pressure. Clare was totally and completely exhausted from the last months of stress and worry. The last day had not helped that matter, especially the last hour and half.

She had no willpower or defenses left. Yet, even if she did, she doubted if, at that moment, she’d have pulled away.

Oba edged forward, leaning close enough for Clare to smell the sweetness of her breath. Her tongue was pink, her teeth white. She was a Somali with soft full tribal lips, fuller than full, and Claire was enraptured by her elegance. She gripped Clare’s face in her hands, closer now and pressed her lips to Clare’s, kissing her deeply, simply lips to lips.

Clare moaned. She’d never felt anything so kind or erotic, so sexual. There’d never been a man who’d fucked her and had ever kissed her as she was being kissed then. She felt Oba’s tongue, mingling with hers, searching. Clare’s tongue found hers. The taste of her saliva was so sweet and so arousing - it was like the honey of life giving energy.

Her vagina reacted, tightening, and becoming moist as her hands reached out and wrapping around Oba’s waist then fell to her naked rump.

Clare gasped, for she’d never felt skin like that before, satin soft, a texture she couldn’t describe. It wasn’t like the coarseness of a man’s, it was something else, and she couldn’t keep her fingers from caressing it.

They kissed and time moved on. How much, she didn’t know as Oba’s hands moved along her back, her butt, her ribcage, coming to rest on her breasts, which she squeezed hard, creating a wave of pain. Clare moaned, replicating the one she’d witnessed only minutes ago when she’d been a voyeur, and they’d begun to awaken her heart.

Oba broke away from her, just inches and looked into her blue eyes. There was a look of love in those amazing eyes, passion she thought as she felt her breath on her lips. Then she whispered as Clare caught the puff of breath escaping her mouth, “Are you fine, Clare?”

She swallowed, deeply.

No I am not fine, I’m fucked up, crazy, everything I ever thought I was is being vaporized, but I don’t care.

She didn’t say those words. She wanted what she’d seen in that room - with creatures like those rupturing their souls against each other. She wanted to feel something like that with an amazing sexually brilliant human being and she wanted to drown in that moment.

Oba’s skin was black, darker than jet - it glimmered in the fire flames. Claire wanted to feel her skin again, taste her vagina, kiss it, delve within the mysteries of it, make it liquefy and weep as hers was doing then.

She wanted all of it as she whispered, “Yes, please, make love to me.”

“She could not believe those words were spilling from her lips.

“Ah, love. It is an elusive word, Clare. But we shall be beautiful together.”

Clare couldn’t understand Oba’s words. She wondered if in a possessive, artificial world, were there people really capable of loving each other, no chains attached, simply because they could, or had chosen to do so.

Oba touched her face, leaned in, and tenderly kissed Clare and felt her body tremble then whispered, “Yes, darling, I thought so. I have been waiting for this for some time. You’re stunning, you know. Come, lay here, darling.”

Oba took her hand, turned her, and laid her on the black fur of a once a magnificent and violent creature, much she thought, as the African goddess placing her prone on it.

Clare was slender, but nothing remotely similar to those odd women. An English white woman, white as English sleet and as she’s silhouetted against the black bears skin, she suddenly felt calm and beautiful.

No man, ever, had looked at her as the African woman did. Her eyes sent tiny shivers and tingles down through the veins of blood into Clare’s loins. It was something she didn’t understand - desire and being desired by someone so erotic, exotic and beautiful as Oba. It stunned Clare.

She slipped Clare’s sheer gown from her body. She was naked then, white against black. Oba was on her knees staring at her. Oba’s full lips parted, white teeth, a pink tongue whetting those lips, as she straddled Clare, gently, tenderly, her wet vagina pressed against her own.

She was slow, delving within Clare’s mind with those black eyes, not like a rutting dog that wanted her for no other reason than a vessel for its semen.

She bent and Clare felt her breasts against hers, as her face descended. Her lips parted, grazing against Oba’s own, pressing more firmly and, then her tongue found Clare’s. It was something she couldn’t have known existed, a woman’s tongue, lips and breath. Everything was so tepid, soft, silken, and above all else, filled with heat, breath, saliva, tongues and they kissed for some time.

Her blood rushed everywhere throughout her body, brain, breasts, stomach, and vagina. Oba’s breathing increase, as mouth to mouth they seemed to connect at a level Clare thought not possible.

She bit Clare’s lips who felt a cut of pain. Her body jerked and jutted as the pain finger prints sent shutters through her body as Oba straightened and placed those black fingers upon her breasts.

Oba smiled, a tiny smile, as did Clare.

Clare felt no embarrassed in the slightest for she was crazed. She felt somehow complete, for she knew that this was where she belonged, there and then.

Her eyes glazed along Oba’s heaving tummy, her own expanded of its own accord.

She reached forward and tenderly touched Oba’s breasts. Her head tilted back, she moaned - moaned from Clare’s touch, her mind loving her, Clare, making love with a creature so magnificent who’d chosen to love her, as Clare loved her.

Even if it was a singular water drop held in time, Clare felt love. She was so naïve, there might not be any love at all involved in what they were doing. She didn’t know, but allowed herself to wish for it, for the first time. She was a fool.

Slowly Oba’s face leveled and she gazed at Clare, touched her face. The lovely black woman slithered down her body until her face was just a moment from Clare’s vagina and its demanding lips. Slowly, she parted Clare’s thighs. Her black fingers against Clare’s white skin - obviously she was fixated, mesmerized about that - she was exposed to her black lover, fantasy and dreams and passion wracked her as Oba’s warm breath pulsated along the center core of who she was as a woman.

Clare was no longer in control of her body as Oba’s tongue entered her - revolved along the inside of her. Clare’s butt rose and every muscle reacted to her touch. Every nerve in her mind sparked, as her tongue then her teeth kissed and bit her clitoris. Her arousal soared. Suddenly, Oba’s fingers were inside her, deep, searching out what she knew, what she understood of the inner center of Clare’s core.

Her tongue and teeth continued, breaking Clare, recreating her, as her fingers dug into the bear hide. She moaned, an orgasm approaching. She’s going insane as so much of the stress that had destroyed her seemed to vaporize.

Time seemed irrelevant, yet Clare knew a great deal of it passed, more than she could understand. After so many orgasms she became limp, exhausted. It was a first time for her being in such an artful lover’s arms. Oba took her, laced Clare’s legs around her dark skinned waist and simply held her spent body. Their torsos pressed against each other’s. She whispered that it was only a moment, a lovely moment, and Clare must return upstairs and sleep. Important and dire matters were still before them in the morning.

Clare didn’t want to leave her beautiful black lover, but she finally agreed. Oba led her to her room, laid her between the sheets as if she was a child and placed the down comforter along her naked body. Oba kissed her then and whispered sweet things to her before she vanished from the room. Bathed in moonlight, Claire heard wolves howling at the moon and elk bleating from some distant part of the world she’d somehow stumbled into.

Satiated, liberated, Clare’s eyes closed and she didn’t feel another moment of her life-time pain. Nor did she think of tomorrow or her daughters. She simply couldn’t as her eyes pressed together and she fell in to beautiful dreams.

DAWN broke and Clare awoke, remembered, as she pressed her fingers everywhere against her body, making sure it was her body that had experienced the night before.

She dressed in winter gear then walked down stairs. Again Armida and Beto were in the kitchen cooking magnificent food and brewing pots of coffee. The aromas were everywhere. As she approached and said her good mornings, she asked where everyone was in her very best Spanish. Armida looked worried, tired, but she nodded toward the front door. Clare thanked her and walked across the room, exiting through the carved pine double-doors.

Stalling on the porch, Clare saw Pilar sitting off to the side, guns again belted across her broad shoulders. She was smoking. Her steely gaze seared into Clare’s eyes. Clare smiled, but got nothing in response. A curl of smoke spiraled out of her elfin nose. She turned her gaze away from Clare.

Clare shuddered and walked down the slate steps. Seeing Mandal and Oba dressed in their rugged winter clothes and standing at the beginning of the slate walk, she hesitated, just watching them.

They were gazing across the river, past the pastures where the thick forest abutted it. It was just starting to snow again, enormous flakes fluttering from the grey sky. Clare could see pain and worry on the blonde’s face. The three black Sheppard’s waited, primed, taut and seemed to be guarding her.

Then, they alerted, as great dogs tend to do.

Mandal jerked her eyes toward Oba, then at the river where a lone man on horseback heading toward them. A mule laden with something monstrous and black was knee deep and crossing the river. The dogs bolted, barked and ran like thoroughbreds toward the horseman who had just exited the river. The horse seemed to limp now that it was on dry land, but headed obediently toward his home.

Instantly, Mandal placed her fingers to her lips and whistled. The dogs stopped, barked a few more times, then turned and ran back to her. Steam and saliva flew from their snouts. The Sheppard’s were excited, but well-trained and obeyed when Mandal commanded them to sit on their haunches next to her. Oba took Mandal’s hand and watched Mal slowly move toward them.

Clare turned and saw Beto and Armida on the porch behind her - caution and fear as well as relief on their brown faces.

Clare gasped as Mal, exhausted and clearly injured judging by the amount of blood on his shirt and face, stalled in front of his friends, lovers, whatever they were.

Behind him was a great Grizzly bear, gutted and blood-soaked, then roped to the back of the mule. Mandal, as well as Oba, did nothing when Mal smiled up at them and Clare saw those chipped teeth again.

Then he seemed to just slide off the mare. As his bloodied boots hit the ground, he slumped to gloved hands and knees in the dirt. Head bent, Claire thought he looked near death.

Beto and Armida rushed from the porch, Pilar simply sat and smoked. When Mandal and Oba reached him, they fell to their knees, touching him, whispering to him and petting him. Yet it seemed almost if they didn’t want to intrude on his moment.

Two other Hispanic men rushed from the barn. With Beto help, they took both the mare and the mule carrying the dead Grizzly by their reigns and led them away.

Clare kept waiting for someone to do something, but no one did. Armida stood at her side. Clare looked at her and whispered. “Why isn’t anyone helping him?”

She stared at her quizzically then whispered in broken English. “He is Mal that is why.”

Again, the perfect answer filled her with confusion. Then, somehow, within his character and madness Clare assumed, Mal stood. Clare gasped, for she’d never seen a face such as his. It was covered with slashes and blood as was the rest of him. Yet, his blue eyes were filled with life, fire - and Clare assumed some kind of humble pride few men had or ever would have.

He seemed ready then to be cared for. He wove his arm around his woman’s waist and Clare saw such intensity in Mandal’s face and eyes and above all, unequivocal love. Tears streamed down Clare’s cheeks. She saw in Mandal’s face there was the kind of love a woman had when she respects a man for everything he was and everything he was ever going to be.

Unbuckling his holster he handed it to Oba, who nodded, draped it over her shoulder. His twelve-inch Bowie knife was still at his side, covered in blood. Bowed, bent, he was still a tall man, clearly in anguish, and his weathered face showed every ounce of it as they moved down the slate. They passed her as if she was invisible and continued into the house, Armida tagging close behind.

Clare turned, walked to the door where she met Pilar. The woman glared at her, was silent, her fingers twitched on her handgun. Clare’s blood froze from the look in her eyes alone. This was no frail naked reed she’d seen before. This was a killer. Clare swallowed her fear and allowed the woman to pass.

Once inside, Clare saw Mal sitting on a wooden chair while Armida pulled off the matted, bloodied jacket then his woodsmen shifts from his magnificent chest. Though the obvious pain from his clothes being torn away would have crippled any other man, Clare saw not a single wince or recognition on his face.

Clare pushed her gasps back into her throat, as she saw three claw wounds cut shallow into his chest. Mandal was standing behind him, her hands on his bare shoulders. Oba watched. Pilar sat silently in a shadowy corner, watching just watching, obviously a soldier having seen war wounds before.

Using a bowl of steaming soapy water, Armida washed the wound on his chest and face clean. Then Beto appeared in the doorway and moved to a shelf where a bottle of tequila was located. Beto handed the bottle to Mal. He drank a gulp, then another then one more.

He was no fool, he knew what was about to happen. Wounds cleansed, he blew Clare’s eyes wide open when he poured the tequila on the slashes across his chest. The yellow liquid spilled down and washed the blood onto his leather pants. He didn’t even blink as his cuts sizzled and bubbled from the searing of the alcohol.

His eyes closed, he seemed to weave and, for a moment, Clare thought he was going to lose consciousness. Mandal leaned in, pressed her white fingers to his chest and whispered something in his ear. His unshaven, lacerated face straightened then he reached back and wrapped his bare blood-stained fingers into her blonde hair. He brought his lips to her cheek and kissed her.

It was a moment so strikingly erotic and poignant, Clare felt like her insides were mummifying. The moment passed. Mandal straightened and left her hand on his broad shoulders. He looked at Armida and grinned, showing those chipped teeth again. Claire hoped she’d learn how that happened.

He casually said, “Well, let’s do it, let’s begin.”

Armida nodded. From a small medicine kit, she withdrew a needle and some cat gut. Without hesitation, she bent, drove the needle through his skin and began sewing him up. There was no anesthesia for that man. He never moved, never blinked, but he did plug from that bottle of tequila many times as she stitched him up like a Hispanic sewing machine - both his face and his chest.

After Armida had finished, Mal moved to his bed where his blonde woman awaited him. Clare imagined they slept or did whatever wild animals do. Pilar followed after them but merely sat at their door like a statue of human violence, never blinking, never moving, as her eyes scanned everywhere, for what Clare could not possibly guess.

When the dawn broke the following morning, together they formed a plan. He was, after all, their spiritual leader, this Mal. Unselfishly and courageously, he began the plan to save Clare’s daughters as well as herself.

It would be the beginning of a journey into darkness and the obtuse violence and deaths of so many human beings, and her life would never be the same again.

THE END