When Sayjak came to the Circle Shannibal, the noise was so great that the lobes of his ears shook as if buffeted by a wind, but when he looked to see what great throng made the noise, he saw only one. A mighty figure, larger than himself in his prime, covered with coarse brown fur like a coconut husk over back and shoulders, legs and arms. Breasts (pendulous, full, shaking with the pounding dance) and buttocks (rounded, flushed crimson in invitation) were free of hair. Altogether, Sayjak had never encountered so desirable a female. His dick stood straight in salute.
Something, though, was wrong about the head. He dropped from the trees, took his machete into his right hand, advancing even as he sought to puzzle out the strangeness. The female continued her pounding dance, moving, though she must be aware of him, to keep her face away from him. As this brought her backside to his greater attention, he did not protest. Indeed, he felt that there was an invitation.
Dropping the machete, he bounded up the slope of the Circle, knuckles brushing the ground. The female did not cease from her drumming. In a single leap he was upon her, thrust into her, one hand groping her breasts, the other grabbing a liberal handful of her hair lest she try to escape. She kept up her thudding on the drum—foot, foot, hand, hand, foot, foot, hand, hand—giving an odd rhythm to his ride.
He increased the violence of his thrusts, pinching hard at one nipple to show his displeasure at her lack of attention. Then she ceased drumming, pressing back against him with gratifying—indeed, frightening— enthusiasm and strength. He jerked at her hair, reining her in, and shockingly, the head came off in his hand.
His arm wrenched back at the unexpected lack of resistance and the head dangled before him. From lips as full as when he had severed her head from her body, Big Betsy smiled at him. Sayjak screamed and pitched the head away from him. It stopped in mid-arc, corrected its course, swooped back, and reattached itself to the neck stump. Big Betsy looked back at him, over her shoulder, coyly wriggling her rump.
“Come on, shrivel dick, can’t you finish what you were doing?”
Sayjak indeed felt his dick shrivel, but Big Betsy’s challenge was too much for him to ignore. With an effort of will as powerful as he had brought to the many battles for his life, he concentrated only on her charms. He slapped her face so that the human eyes with their sardonic wit were turned away, struck her several times more for good measure, and when he heard her scream felt himself to be in good form again.
“I take your head again,” he growled, when he had finished, pushing her face into the dirt as a reminder of who was Boss of Bosses.
Big Betsy rolled onto her back, submissive in posture, her breasts wealed from his attentions, but her teeth-bared smile and narrowed eyes full of challenge.
“Boss of Bosses, they call you, eh?”
“That’s me. Boss of Bosses.”
“Like old Karak?”
“Like Karak, only better, meaner. Karak never kill so many bounties—scared away the eeksies. Only Sayjak do that.”
“Only because you stole my machete,” she taunted.
“I twist your head off your neck,” he said as a reminder.
She did not seem cowed. For a long moment she studied him from Big Betsy’s eyes. They were blue, he noticed.
“What if I give you a real fight?”
“Huh? You and me?”
“No, you and your people. Big fight. Hearts to eat, livers, too. Reason to dance, boast, shout about how great is Sayjak, Boss of Bosses, better than Karak.”
“The People don’t need nothing. Nobody give us any trouble. Why should we fight?”
“You afraid of a big fight? You scared?”
“Sayjak isn’t afraid! Not of nothing!” he shouted, but he only told a half-truth.
He was afraid of this she with her human head and her body like the most perfect of the shes of the People (though maybe a bit too big in the tits), a body that already his traitor dick was beginning to desire again. Perhaps he could leap her from the top, screw her like humans do. It would not be as satisfying as feeling himself slap against her buttocks, but…
Big Betsy smiled a smile with too many teeth and parted her legs as if she divined his thought.
“You afraid,” she taunted.
“Am not!” he growled, and he leapt on her, struggling with the awkwardness of the unfamiliar position, feeling the rich softness of her breasts before he levered himself onto his arms. She welcomed him inside her and as he beat against her, she spoke, her voice husky, rich as loam or blood.
“Sayjak, I say unless you take this fight, you are a coward. Fear will wither your loins and your teeth will fall from your gums. A younger male will defeat you and, laughing, drag your liver in bloody gobbets out through your nostrils. The People will fall into tiny tribes, hunted and terrified. The bounties will string your favorite shes’ ears about their necks.”
Sayjak rode harder, willing himself not to hear her. He wanted to break her teeth, force her to swallow her curse, but he could not raise a hand and maintain his balance between her open thighs. A lust more powerful than any he had ever known forced him to thrust on and on, unwilling rapist.
Beneath him, Big Betsy moved like an earthquake: rippling, squeezing, clawing at his back and shoulders. She sunk her teeth into his earlobe until the blood ran, splashing over her face, her throat, between her breasts and matting his fur.
“Coward,” she whispered.
And Sayjak knew that he was beaten. A perverse defeat, for even as he resigned to her command, he shot himself into her, taking her, claiming her, as he had never claimed another.
Of sex and of violence, Sayjak dreamed.
A long-range cruiser landed on the roof of Castle Donnerjack promptly at noon two days before the Elishite celebration was to be held in Central Park. The driver, a taciturn android who could be trusted never to speak of his mission, bent his lips into an expression of perfect nonhearing as Dack presented Jay Donnerjack his overnight bag, an eft stick, and much advice.
“Now, remember, Master Jay, you will arrive in New York with time enough to rest. Accustomed as you are to virt travel, don’t overlook the effects of jet lag… I remember your poor mother, but that’s neither here nor there. Obey the instructions of whomever Paracelsus sends to advise you.”
“I understand, Dack.”
Jay would have stepped into the cruiser, but Dack placed a restraining hand on his arm.
“Listen to the weather report and dress appropriately, young sir. New York summers are very changeable, so don’t forget a sweater if you plan to be out after dark. You…”
“Yes, Dack.” Jay touched the robot on his arm. “I’ll be careful, really. Watch out for Dubhe for me, will you?”
Dack glanced to where Dubhe stood. The spidery black monkey looked truly miserable as he hung back in the doorway. He understood why he could not accompany Jay, but he was unhappy about having his friend and protector depart. He scrubbed something suspiciously like a tear from the corner of one eye.
“Have fun, Jay,” he called.
“I will. See you in a couple of days.”
Dack finally let him board the cruiser. “I will take care of Dubhe for you. Be careful.”
Jay muttered further reassurances until he was in his seat and the door sealed shut. He pressed his head against the window and waved until the castle, then all the island called Eilean a’Tempull Dubh, was swallowed in the mist. Then he leaned back against the headrest and tried not to show too much of his excitement. He was out—out in the Verite—on his own.