“A Kapitany”, Chapter 27

Not so much a warning for this chapter. I’ve had a lot of fun writing this book, especially these later chapters. I began “A Kapitany” in 2007, but deserted this novel after Chapter 14. BDSM is an enormous field of study and frankly? Other work got in the way. However, with the support of friends and readers in this lifestyle, I was encouraged to finish this book. The theme has changed over the course of writing this book and I feel on more solid ground now. I hope to publish this in the spring, or perhaps early summmer. Thank you John Taurus and others who are reading and giving advice. Their experience in this world is a great help in writing this novel. There is a sex scene i have eliminated towards the end of this chapter. Don’t want to raise any hackles.

Lady Nyo

“Soffia, I need a favor, darling. Yes, I know, your Vadas only calls when he needs a favor. Soffia, listen to me. I must come to Budapest.”

Vadas grimaced and pulled at his cigarette. Soffia could be a hard ass and right now she was being just that. He shifted the phone on his shoulder and stretched his legs.

“I have several things to do in Budapest. What I need is you to come here and stay with Elizabeth. No, she is much better, she is walking around. Yes, she is better, but I don’t want to leave her alone right now. I still don’t know where Miklos is, and I don’t want him showing up here when I am gone. No, I have men posted to watch, but I don’t want to alarm her.”

Vadas held the phone from his ear. Soffia was full of grievances this morning. He wasn’t in a mood to listen.

“No, darling, I haven’t told her yet you are coming. I thought I should ask first. Yes, I know, Soffia, I take great advantage of you. I will make it up. What? You pick. You know your Vadas will buy what you desire. I always have, darling.”

Vadas blew smoke towards the ceiling. “Listen, Soffia, Elizabeth has agreed to marry. Yes, I am speaking the truth. No, I didn’t burn her passport. No, I didn’t break her arm, funny lady.”

He rolled his eyes. Soffia was chattering on. “Look, you can help with planning the wedding. What? Yes, it will be a wedding. A big wedding. You will be maid of honor or whatever they call the woman next to the bride. Where? Some church in Eger. You take her around and show things. You can buy the dress, and another one for you. Yes, like last time. I trust you, Soffia. She will be a pretty bride. You both will be pretty brides. What? I’ll marry you off to one of my men, ok? You will like living in the countryside. No, I am teasing, Soffia. I know you are too sophisticated for these men around here.”

A few more minutes and Vadas got what he wanted. Soffia was coming out by car and would stay with Elizabeth for a few days. This would give him the time to go to Paris, see his lawyers and visit the old aunties. They were his only living relatives. It was crucial he at least visit and invite them in person. They held some important purse strings.

At lunch Vadas asked Elizabeth what should be done with the frescos.

“For now? Nothing, Vadas. First secure the roof. Anything done before that would be pointless. Then fix the plaster in the ceilings. It’s rather scary lying under that ceiling in the bed. It could all give in at any moment. But the frescos should not be touched. They are too valuable and historic for any hands besides professional conservators. And that would cost a lot of money.”

Elizabeth pushed around her salad. She still wasn’t eating much.

“Probably the damp in the house doesn’t help. Fix the windows in the rooms where there are frescos. Where there aren’t, board them up properly. They will be costly to fix anyway. Those sashes have to be custom made.”

Vadas smiled over his coffee. “You have been thinking, no? You speak good sense, Elizabeth. Now, I have a plan. You do that stuff on the internet, you know, press those buttons, and find the people who can fix the roof first. You can go into Eger and ask. I would start there first.”

Elizabeth looked doubtful. “Vadas, do you remember I don’t speak Hungarian? They would laugh at me first, and then throw me out.”

“Well, I have a solution. I have asked Soffia to come up for a couple of days. Now, listen to me, Elizabeth. I have to go to Budapest for a couple of days, on business only and no you can’t come. I will be racing all over and you will not be able to keep up. Plus, I have to call upon my old aunties and invite them to the wedding. You and Soffia can plan the wedding, you two girls. This is woman stuff, and it best left in your capable hands. Four capable hands.”

Elizabeth still looked doubtful. In fact, she looked upset. Vadas guessed what was worrying her.

“Listen, Elizabeth. Soffia has promised to be good. She has promised not to get you under her or whatever she does. Ok? No hanky panky from her. Plus, she is Hungarian and can help arrange the workmen. It will be fun. You won’t even miss me and I will be back before you do.”
Elizabeth said nothing. She continued to push her food around the plate.

Vadas sat back and watched. “Do you remember, Elizabeth, when I told you I would feed you? That you would eat from my hand only? Do I have to do that now? You are going to look like a scarecrow at your wedding. What man wants to sleep with a woman who is skin and bones? The winter, Elizabeth, is hard in these hills.”

Vadas had no trouble with his own appetite. He cut up his meat and held out his fork. “You come here, Elizabeth. You eat this. Then you eat another mouthful.”

Elizabeth looked at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Vadas, I’m scared.”

“What? You scared of meat?”

“You know, you must know. What if Miklos comes back when you are gone? What if he comes here? Soffia is no defense against him. You know that.”

Vadas sat back and patted his knee. “You come here Elizabeth and I will explain something.”

Elizabeth knew his behavior made her look like a child, a ‘good girl’ in his terms. But she was scared and the news he was going away put her on edge.

She sat on his lap and Vadas wrapped his arms around her. He had this habit of humming off key when she was close by, and Elizabeth found it strangely comforting.

“Now look, Elizabeth. You and Soffia will be safe. I have men here you won’t see. But anyone who approaches by foot or car will be known. These men are hunters and they know this particular prey. And you are wrong about Soffia. I would rather go up against two men than Soffia. She is a good shot, too. I will give her a gun. Hell, you can have a gun, too. Ok? Dry your tears and eat this good food.”

“Vadas, I can handle a gun. I have before.”

“What? You know how to shoot? I will sleep with one eye open from now on. Eat another piece of meat.”

Just to see if she could handle a gun, Vadas took her out behind the lodge where there was a meadow. He set up some bottles as targets and loaded a large pistol. Standing behind her with his hands around hers, he told her to gently squeeze the trigger. She missed.

“Ok, we do this again. You hold the gun steady, Elizabeth. You are jerking when it went off.”

“Vadas. Let me do this without your hands all over. Let me try, please.”

Vadas backed off and Elizabeth considered the target. She closed one eye and aimed carefully. The bottle exploded.

“Good girl! That was beginner’s luck. You try again.” Elizabeth hit the bottle but the gun was heavy. It wasn’t a light pistol, but a heavy European model. The sound scared her.

“Enough, Vadas. My wrist hurts. I have shot a gun before. I don’t use pistols, so this was hard. I have my own shotgun.”

“What? You have a shotgun? What, a lady’s gun? Maybe a small gauge? Something for mice?”

Elizabeth laughed. “No, Vadas, I have a 12 gauge for bird hunting. I have another, a breech loader, I use with skeet.”

“Oh, skeet don’t taste good, Elizabeth.” Vadas laughed and shook his head.

“Each day I learn something new about you. This is good, Elizabeth. By the time we are married I will know all your secrets.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Don’t bet on it, Vadas. I have lived a long life. I have many secrets.”

Vadas took the gun and put it in his vest pocket. He put his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and they went back to the lodge.

That evening Elizabeth asked him. “So when are you leaving and when is Soffia coming?”

Vadas looked up from his paper. “Are you pushing me out the door? Well, Soffia is coming tomorrow and I thought I would hang around until she got here. Then I can read her the riot act again.” Vadas went back to his paper.

When Soffia arrived, Vadas brought her into his study and closed the door. They were in there for a while and Elizabeth decided to take a walk. She would see if she could spy these men lingering about. Vadas said they would be invisible, but she wanted to see for herself. When she came back in the lodge, Vadas and Soffia were by the fire drinking whisky.

“Ah, Elizabeth darling! You look good! So much better than those first few days in hospital.”

“Hello, Soffia.” Elizabeth went and kissed her on both cheeks. “It’s good to see you again.” She sat down on a small sofa. Vadas held out his whisky to her and she shook her head.

“Vadas has given me a list of things we can do and things we can’t do,” Soffia said brightly. “But we can spend his money and that is the best thing.”
Vadas sighed. “Always you women spend my money. That is constant.”

He took a deep pull on his drink. “Now Elizabeth, I have explained to Soffia something. You two go up to the house, but always take one of my men. Better to take two. One inside and one outside watching. Soffia knows who, so she leads. You go into Eger, Soffia will drive, and you will be safe there. But I have given specific orders to Soffia and you are to obey, ok?”

Elizabeth looked at Soffia. She was met by a big grin. It was clear to Elizabeth Soffia had her own plans.

Vadas must have caught something. He clucked his tongue at her. “You remember Rule Number One, Soffia. You don’t forget it.”

That night Soffia slept in Elizabeth’s bedroom. Vadas was working on some papers and came upstairs late. Elizabeth had gone to bed and was just falling asleep. She tried to stay awake until he came up, but the day’s activities and Soffia coming had worn her out. Vadas undressed by a small lamp and came in bed.

“Elizabeth, I know you are awake. I can tell by your breathing. Now listen. Soffia has her orders. She will be good company for you. I will be gone three, maybe five days, but I will be back before you miss me.”

“Ok, Vadas”, she said with a yawn. “Soffia has her orders, I hear you.” Sitting up, she asked. “Vadas, listen to me. You made a promise about Miklos. Are you going after him? Is this why you are leaving now?”

“Elizabeth. You don’t worry about what I am doing. I’m seeing lawyers, old aunties and wine clients. You will learn I have business that doesn’t concern you. Now, you be a good girl and behave with Soffia. At least tell me you will behave.” Vadas switched off the little lamp.

Sliding down the bed he pulled Elizabeth towards him. He began kissing her neck and worked his way down to her breast.

“You are warm and soft. You eat more and the bed will be warmer this winter.” He had an erection and pulled one of her legs over his hip.

*******

“Elizabeth”, Vadas murmured, almost asleep. “How come you never ask me for anything? You know I will give it.”

Elizabeth, half asleep, was wrapped in his arms under a blanket. The heat from his body made the blanket unnecessary. She wondered what she should say.

“I don’t need anything, Vadas. You are generous enough. What do I have to want?”

“Soffia always gets something when she asks. You know I have a soft spot for women. I can’t say no. You want a car? I will buy you a nice Mercedes. I will give you a driver so you don’t get lost.

“Vadas, go to sleep. I want nothing. Perhaps when we marry we can bring my Aunt Irene over for the wedding?”

“Of course, that would be nice. You know you can ask me for anything, Elizabeth. A husband takes care of his wife.”

“I’m not your wife yet, Vadas. I will be expensive enough when I am. Think of the cost of all those sheep and a trained sheep dog. You will howl at the price.”

Vadas laughed, a deep rumbling sound in the room. “I am thinking of roast lamb right now, with a good bottle of wine.”

“Vadas, go to sleep. You are always thinking of your stomach.”

Vadas fell asleep, snoring loudly. Elizabeth fell asleep but not before she thought of what he said. She really didn’t have anything to want for, except her safety from Miklos. She knew Vadas would not listen to her. She knew he would continue to go after Miklos. As long as she stuck close to his side, she would be safe. If he could do this, Vadas could do anything. She wanted for nothing, really. Vadas always paid.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2007-2013

“A Kapitany”, Chapter 26….Again with a WARNING

This is a novel of bdsm, violence, love and also bad language. You have been warned.

In writing this chapter, I came across the Hungarian Labor Camp, Recsk, that was used very near Eger from 1950-1963. This was a Stalinist prison camp that came into Hungary on the heels of WWII and the Nazis leaving Hungary. The brutality of Stalin was a continuation of Hitler. There were ‘only’ 1500 people in this camp, but many never survived. It is hardly ever talked about in Hungary, in part because of the threats by the Soviet government. However, that is slowly changing and people are holding memorials to the victims.

The De La Motte House (from “The Great Country Houses of Hungary) built around 1773, was a visual inspiration. The influence is obviously French and apparently this was not that unusual for Hungary in the 18th century. Some aristocrats, and others from the French Revolution moved to Budiapest and the Hungarian countryside. The workmen and architect came from Eger, which is only 12 kilometers from Eger. The house had many frescos (based on Roman mythology) that have been carefully restorred. It is now a place for tourists and weddings, etc.

The famous “Bull’s Blood”, a Hungarian wine, comes from this region.

Lady Nyo

A Kapitany, Chapter 26

Both of them slept late, Vadas waking with a mild hangover. He fell into his bed without thinking of Elizabeth sleeping there. He was too tired to move. The drink and smoke of last night did him in.

In the morning Elizabeth got up before Vadas. She washed in the cold water from a pitcher on a table near a window. Vadas watched her from the bed, playing possum. He liked these moments when he could observe her. It was an intimacy, different from the usual stuff.

This morning Elizabeth moved carefully from the bed half way across the room. She couldn’t pour water into the bowl because of her wrist but dabbed at her face. She removed the Velcro cast and plunged her arm into the pitcher. Vadas wondered if he should rise and pour water for her. He decided against it, mostly because he was too comfortable. He needed more sleep after last night. Watching her was a nice way to begin the day.

Elizabeth pulled her nightgown over her head. She struggled free and threw it into a chair. Naked, she moved to look out a window. The windows were deep and she had to raise herself on toes to see the morning outside. Vadas saw the marks from Alexandra’s caning and the bruises of Miklos’ usage. She was a small woman, and since Miklos raped her, she had lost weight. She became quiet, withdrawn. It began to worry Vadas. Already he could tell she wasn’t eating enough or sleeping well. He heard her turning over in the middle of the night, crying out in pain.

In all his years playing the Dom, he never did what Miklos dared. Some had begged for pain, and that he could give. But there was a tipping point. There were times the woman demanded things of him he didn’t want to do. Choking them until they fainted. Then having to revive them, and quickly. Vadas had done these things. He knew there would come a time he would slip up, something would happen. He didn’t want to chance it now. The risks and thrills weren’t worth it. Perhaps he was growing old, soft, whatever happened to men. He didn’t know. He did know Elizabeth, probably by her innocence, had turned his sexual desires a bit more wholesome. He laughed to himself. Just the usual fucking and sucking. He enjoyed the simple passion of this woman. He was over the extreme. At least, for now. He could continue to tie her up, play with her, flog her, scare her. He liked to scare her; it fed into his power. He hadn’t made her beg, but that would come. Elizabeth was a curious woman. He could work with that.

She would learn her place in the marriage. She would come to know his. She wasn’t used to Hungarian men, but give her a few years. She would learn. That was if he could get her to marry. He was aroused, his cock swelling slightly under the covers. His thoughts and the sight of a fragile- looking Elizabeth were doing the trick. She made him feel young, and God knew he was far from that. No, perhaps it wasn’t so much sex. Perhaps it was just Elizabeth. He had a woman, one to care for. Perhaps that was all he ever wanted. Since Marta died, he hadn’t known many with real intimacy. He went through the motions, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Vadas watched her put on panties and a long skirt. She couldn’t put on a bra, couldn’t reach behind her back, but pulled a loose grey sweater over her head. She bent over and brushed her long hair, braiding it into one loose braid. Vadas smiled. He remembered his mother doing her hair like that. He was very young, but it was one of the things he remembered of her.

The morning sun was not encouraging. Pale, barely breaking through the clouds. It was misting outside, a good day to stay by a low fire. They drank their coffee and Elizabeth pulled a shawl over her shoulders in the hall. She saw Vadas put a gun in his hunting vest and take a handful of ammo from a drawer.

Vadas saw her expression in the mirror over the table. She looked confused.

“Don’t worry, Elizabeth. This is just a precaution. I haven’t been up there in years. There might be raccoons or skunks in the house.” Vadas gave her a broad smile.

“Vadas, you don’t shoot a skunk in the house. Are you crazy? That smell will never go away. You will have to pull it down or you will not be able to go near it for years.”

Vadas laughed. “Ok, then no shooting skunks. What about trespassers?”

“No, you don’t shoot them, either. You order them gone and then you call the police.”

“Ah! So you know Hungarian police, now?” Vadas laughed. The police here didn’t function like those in Budapest. They were slow to respond, and when they did, they wanted bribes on the spot. Not much had changed since the previous regime. Corruption was corruption, inbred in people with some small authority.

They drove to the main road in an old, open Jeep. Vadas turned off to a private, overgrown road. It was at an incline. They climbed a rutty road at least three hundred feet. The gravel of the drive had not been raked for years, now mostly covered in leaves. Twice he had to stop and remove limbs.

Before them was a high stone mortared surround with a large wrought iron gate. There were unicorns on top of the two main pillars, missing their horns.

Vadas got out and unlocked a small gate at one side. Elizabeth went through the gate and passed trees and bushes not trimmed in years. These trees and shrubs had grown up and covered the first floor windows. Even with this neglect, the house was a beauty.

Vadas could see from her expression she was impressed. He had not come up here in years. There were too many sad memories of the short life with Marta.

Elizabeth turned to him, her eyes wide. “This is a chateau! You didn’t tell me it would be so grand.” Elizabeth turned back to the house. There was definitely some French influence in the design.

“Well, I don’t know you would call it a chateau in Hungary, but it is an old house. Come, I have the key.”

Elizabeth counted eight windows on both the first and second floors. There was a small balcony in the middle on the second floor, and double wooden doors at the entrance. Just then the sun peeked out and Elizabeth saw the buttery yellow of the building light up. All over central Europe this color, Schonbrunn, was used. It was a color enriching with age.

“Oh, Vadas, it’s beautiful!”

“Wait until you see the inside, Elizabeth. Perhaps you will have ideas what can be restored?”

He unlocked the front door and Elizabeth passed under his arm into the wide and dark hallway. Vadas turned on his flashlight and told her to stay where she was. He would open the interior shutters and the dusty drapes.

Her eyes were slow to adjust to the darkness, even with the open door behind her. When Vadas came back with his flashlight, he aimed it at the ceiling, fully twenty feet above her. There were frescos of some Roman mythology. As he cast his light around the room, she saw faded frescos on the walls.

“Oh, Vadas! You grew up in this house? What a marvelous childhood you must have had.”

“Good and bad, Elizabeth, like most. Come, we go through this door first. There are a number of reception rooms.”

With the shutters opened and the heavy drapes drawn back, Elizabeth could see the interior. First was a large rectangular room banked with windows on the long side. The floor was parquet made up of dark stars on a lighter background. Frescos on these walls, too, but much faded. Some of the walls looked like the plaster had been gouged out. Elizabeth walked over and touched a wall gently.

“During the war, my parents moved outside of Paris. This house was looted, by soldiers mostly. Some locals joined in the looting. Very few family pieces were recovered after the war, so when they came back, they made do what they could find. We never really knew who destroyed some of these frescos, but we think it was not the soldiers. The Nazis were brutal, but they didn’t usually destroy property like this. They bombed Budapest pretty flat in 1944, so maybe I’m wrong. They went after my father’s laborers from the vineyards. Many were sent to Germany to the forced labor camps. The grapes? They were untended for years before my father could work them. He survived a few years after Recsk in the Matra Hills east of here.”

“What was Recsk, Vadas?”

Vadas looked up at the ceiling as if the answer was floating there. “Recsk, Elizabeth, was a labor camp. This was during Stalin’s time. Officially it was opened in 1950, but it held prisoners after the end of the war. My father was a broken man when he was released. He had worked in a mine all those years. He was considered lucky. He came back. I was too young to take over and by then the Soviets had Hungary in their fist. I spent my early years in Paris with my mother.”

“So no one lived here since the war?”

“Oh, we lived here, came back later right after the war, but our living conditions were greatly changed. Before we had a household staff, laborers for the vines, we had forests to sell timber. After the war? We had nothing except this house tumbling down around our ears.”

These memories had pain for him. “There were times we almost starved. We broke up what furniture we had to warm a room. If it wasn’t for Zoltan’s family and a few others, we would have starved to death.” Vadas laughed. “Zoltan’s father hunted deer on our land and brought us meat. I think our woods fed the whole of Eger after the war. The deer disappeared and we ate what we could find, which wasn’t much. My mother dug up her flower garden and planted cabbage like a peasant woman.”

Vadas moved through the rooms, pointing out the elaborate fireplaces. Some of the marble was missing, and the mantels had been shored up with rough timber. Mirrors had been bashed in, and windows were boarded up, the sashes missing. It was hard to see everything, but the house needed a lot of restoration. For a chateau, it was small, but big enough.

He showed her the first floor, and then led her upstairs to the second. The staircase was a double marble construction, and had wrought iron railings. The central hall was crowned with a fresco on the barreled ceiling. There wasn’t enough light for Elizabeth to make out the theme, but it was from some mythology, probably Roman as in the lower rooms.

They walked through different bedrooms with small closets, which would have been a room for an attending servant. There were no frescos in these rooms, but they did have windows that looked out to the dark mountains. Elizabeth wondered if these were part of the chain of the Matras mountains, where the prison camp Recsk once was.

The landscape outside from the second story view was breathtaking. Elizabeth saw rolling hills, forests, a river in the distance, and what seemed to be once a garden beneath where they were standing. Perhaps this was the flower garden where Vadas’ mother planted cabbage.

Except for the cellar and kitchens, they explored as much as Elizabeth had energy for. She felt tired and asked Vadas if she could lie down somewhere for a few minutes. She hadn’t this much activity since she visited the National Museum, where she had walked for hours. Vadas led her back to the central bedroom, a room at one time of great decoration. The white marble fireplace was rococo in design, though parts of it were missing. There were particular flourishes of Hungarian taste, with what looked like gargoyles flanking each side. They didn’t look French.
Everything in the room had been covered with heavy white sheets. What seemed to be a wardrobe, or armoire, against a long wall, was shrouded with sheeting. A table and individual chairs were covered. The bed was covered, the headboard and footboard, though there was no covering for the plain mattress. It looked old and stained. Elizabeth looked up, and there in the plaster, were great streaks, water markings where the rain had come through the slate roofs. She moved to a window, one of four in the room, reaching from a low ledge almost to the high ceiling. Outside, before her, stretched a landscape of incredible beauty with those rolling hills into the distance.

Vadas watched her. He wanted to see her response to the house. She turned to him and smiled.

“It is more than I thought it would be. It is so beautiful, Vadas, I haven’t the words. But there is so much sadness in the history of this house.”

“Good, I thought you would like it. And yes, there was much sadness. Now, come lie down, I will shake out this dusty sheet. At least the mattress is dry.”

The bed looked to be carved walnut, in the style of Louis XVI. There were no blankets so Vadas smoothed the sheet over the bed. He lay down and patted the mattress. Elizabeth lay next to him, her head on his shoulder. She pulled her shawl around them. Both of them looked up at the stained ceiling. Some plaster decoration had long ago fallen and lathe was exposed in sections of the ceiling.

“What do you think of the house, even with damaged ceilings?”

“I know I can’t marry you now. If I did, you would just think I was marrying you for your house.”

“Women marry for worse reasons, Elizabeth.”

“I will marry only for love, Vadas,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Yes, I will marry you.”

Vadas put his arms around her and placed his chin on top of her head. He looked out the window at the distant mountains and felt peace. It was to be short lived.

“I will marry you, Vadas, on one condition.”

“I’m listening, Elizabeth. What is this condition?”

Elizabeth drew her breath. “That you promise you will not go after Miklos. Or Alexandra.”

Vadas sat up and reached for a cigarette in his vest.

“Do you understand what you are asking, Elizabeth? He has violated the woman he knew was going to be my wife, and in doing so he fucked me over as he did you. How would it look to the men I know, men I work with, if I just walked away? You ask too much, Elizabeth.”
She heard the frustration and anger in his voice. She knew this lay beyond anything Vadas could deem reasonable. His pride, his ego, his manhood had been defiled. She was the one physically injured, but he, in typical male fashion, was the insulted.

“I ask this, Vadas, for us. Not for me, nor for you, but for us. You wanted a new life, a fresh start, then let’s take it. What is Miklos to us if we have a different life together? He has no part in it, darling.”

Vadas puffed on his cigarette. There was no way he would stop going after Miklos. This woman asked too much. How could he face the men he called friends all these years? How could he face Zoltan? How could he walk as a man among these men? They were friends, but he was still boss. No, she didn’t understand. He was made a cuckold by Miklos, and the world would see it. This was not how men settled things. Miklos must be found and brought to ground. Alexandra, too, but she was not as important. Miklos would pay with his life. Elizabeth would be revenged and so would he.

Vadas puffed hard on his cigarette, blowing smoke like a dragon. He was visibly upset. However, she had said she would marry. That was one concession he won. This other stuff he would work around. She didn’t have to know everything. A man kept some secrets for the sake of his dignity.

********

Vadas watched Elizabeth asleep in his arms. He needed her to climax, to scream in passion. He needed to reclaim her with this small act. Miklos had taken so much from him. Now, with this short hour of love making, he had her back under him. It was a beginning, as Elizabeth said. A small beginning, but it helped. He looked at the woman in his arms. She was only weak physically. She surprised him. This marriage might work out. He felt she was his, and in wonder, realized he had become something of hers. It was a strange feeling but had some truth to it. Perhaps this was how love began.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2007, 2013

“A Kapitany”, Chapter 23 with a WARNING.

Don’t read this chapter if you have a problem with Violence, Male to Male Violence, BDSM, Sex,….

Vadas entered the suite and looked for Elizabeth. She was not in bed. In fact, the bed was still made. No one had slept there. He pressed the numbers of the hotel safe in the closet. Her passport was still there. She hadn’t left. So where was she?

He called Zoltan on his cell, but there was no answer. He passed his hand through his hair, and pulled at his lips. He went down to the reception, but no one had seen her enter.

Vadas punched some numbers. He needed to gather men and go look for Zoltan and Elizabeth. Zoltan always answered his cell so this was strange. Actually, it was alarming, considering the conversation with Miklos. He didn’t put it past Miklos to pull something. He was a bit too curious about Elizabeth during their meeting. This nagged Vadas as he came back to Budapest at dawn.

Four of Vadas’ men came in two cars: Andor, Sami, Peti, Markus, all from Eger. They were the men Vadas trusted the most. These men had been tromping through the woods up by Miklos’ the day before. Now they were going back to his house. They didn’t know what they would find, and didn’t know what else to do. Near Esztergom, on a heavily forested road, they found the Mercedes. It had been pushed far off the road and into a gully. Only the sharp eyes of one of them saw the car.

“Vadas, there’s the car.”

“Oh, God,” mummured Vadas. “Let’s get it open.”

They slipped down the bank and surrounded the car. Andor looked in the back seat.

“No one is here. They must have had an accident and walked until they were picked up. But why haven’t they called, Vadas?”

“This is no accident Andor. Pop the trunk.”

Zoltan was lying in blood. He was shot somewhere in the torso and barely alive.

“Oh Jesus,” muttered Vadas. Others crossed themselves. Zoltan was well known to all of them.

“Sami, you and Peti take him to hospital in Esztergom. Tell them you found him on the road, but don’t be specific where. Check his pockets and remove any identification. You know what to do.”

Vadas sat down on the bank. He was shocked to see Zoltan. He also was relieved they hadn’t found Elizabeth in the same condition. The others stood around, nervously smoking.

“Ok, we know this was no accident. Zoltan wasn’t the target, Elizabeth was. So, who would want to take her? Only one I can think of is Miklos. This was done under his orders.” Vadas cursed quietly. “ I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight.”

“Vadas.” Markus broke the silence. “I know one of Miklos’ men. He lives in Esztergom somewhere, but I bet he’s in a bar. This was serious business last night. He probably needs a drink right now.”

They tried to push the car further in the gully, but the front wheels had sunk into the soft soil. They piled into the remaining car and drove fast back to Esztergom. There were numerous bars in this old city and they entered three before they found Miklos’ man.

He was hunched over a drink at the end of the counter. It was early in the morning, not a time for drinking. He was almost alone except for the bartender and a old man asleep in the corner. He didn’t look up until they approached him. Then he tried to bolt and Markus tripped him.

“Out. And be quiet about it, Barna.”

Barna’s eyes were wild with fear. He didn’t recognize Vadas, but he did Markus.

They hustled him out into the piss smelling alley behind the bar.

“Ok, Barna, tell us where the woman is. Be quick about it.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I don’t know any woman.”

“Ok, you want to play hard ball? Fine with us. Hold him”, said Vadas.

Vadas loosened Barna’s belt and pulled down his pants, exposing Barna’s genitals. Barna’s eyes got wide at the sight of Vadas’ knife. Grabbing his cock, Vadas started to cut Barna at the top of it by his belly. Barna started to scream, while Andor put his hand over his mouth, silencing him. His eyes were pleading with Vadas not to do this.

Vadas spoke quietly. “Here’s how it goes, Barna. Where did you take the woman? You got one last chance to answer before I cut your cock off and stuff it down your throat. Now, look me in the eyes and tell the truth. That’s if you ever want to fuck a woman again.”

Andor removed his hand and Barna started to blabber. “I didn’t do it, I didn’t take the woman.”

“Ok, Barna, say goodbye to your dick”. Vadas started to slice at the root of his cock, blood spurting over his hand. Barna was yelling for him to stop. He would tell him what he knew.

“Miklos Farhas ordered her taken. I didn’t shoot your man, someone else did. But they drove the woman back to Farhas’ house, but not to the house.”

“You are not making sense, man. And you are pissing me off.” Vadas grabbed the terrified man by the shirt front, pulling him up close.

“Better I end your worthless life right now with a stick between the ribs. Your choice, Barna.”

“Listen to me. There is a road above the big house. It was up there she was taken. It’s a small stone house, maybe once a summer house, I don’t know. But she was knocked out by a rag over her face. They took her up there.”

“Do any of you know what this bastard is talking about? Have you seen this house?”

“We can find it, Vadas. We can get her back.”

Vadas turned his attention to Barna. “You get to keep your limp cock, but you will lose something. Just so you never to go up against me again.”

Vadas grabbed Barna’s right hand and chopped off a finger. Andor held his arms and Markus slapped his hand over Barna’s eyes. Vadas shoved the finger into Barna’s mouth. Barna spit it out, weeping.

Vadas grabbed Barna’s jaw and stuck his knife in Barna’s nose. “If I ever see you again, Barna, you will be losing more than your cock.”

They left the weeping, terrified man collapsed on the ground. It was a bad day for Barna. He didn’t smell so good, either.

“A Kapitany”, Chapter 2 (“The Master” in Hungarian)

Armand Assante, the model for Vadas Dohenhy in “A Kapitany”

WARNING: IF YOU ARE OFFENDED BY EROTICA, SEXUAL PORTRAYALS, DO NOT READ. 

 

I probably will have reason to regret this, but so what.  Life is made up of lots of regrets.  Luckily other things balance it out.

In 2007 I started the above novel.  It was a strange one, being of a definite bdsm nature, and I was totally out of the loop.  I had no experience or knowledge about this hidden (to me) world. I was a member of an erotica writing site and figured I could always ask questions.  Frankly, I didn’t know what questions to ask.  I did learn that you have to be very careful where  you ask for advice. That all advice isn’t equal and some of it downright dangerous.

But over the year I did learn something, enough to fashion what information I picked up into a novel.  I stopped writing around Chapter 18, then rather queered by the whole topic, but the other day, reading over it, I decided what the hell:  it’s a good story and I will finish it.

The picture at top is of the American actor, Armand Assante.  The main male character, Vadas Dohenhy in “A Kapitany” is  physically modeled after Assante.  Sometimes a physical nudge will create a story, and in this case, it did.  I have only seen two movies of Assante, but the physical movements and the face fit what I envisioned with Vadas.  This name in Hungarian means “The Hunter”, and Vadas fits this description. (Actually today, I was told by someone who speaks Hungarian far better than I do,  that “Vadas” means something more like ‘Warren”, whereas Vadasz is “Hunter”…Be that it may, I’ll holding onto Vadas)  He had turned 60, was a successful art thief, lived in Paris and Budapest and was bored.  He was, in bdsm parlance, a “Dom”. 

Some of this novel has been serialized on a site in England.  It also has been referenced in Dan Holloway’s novel in England.  I am going to float a chapter here and if there is any further interest, perhaps a few more.  I am going to finish it this summer and publish it.  The story intrigues me and I think now I can tackle it.  Perhaps it’s the pollen, the Spring fever, an interest in erotica again, I don’t know.  But I do know it’s a good story.  But it comes with a warning:  Don’t read if you are easily offended with sexual portrayals.  I have cut this chapter short because the sex becomes explicit further in the chapter.  I’m in enough trouble with family members due to the pointed nose of one female (probably more) relative and I am sure she will be clucking her thin lips when she reads this.  On the other hand, perhaps she will loosen up.  Could happen.

Lady Nyo

 

Part of Chapter Two, “A Kapitany” 

The night before I was dismissed with a kiss on the forehead.  His car and driver took me home, but before leaving, Vadas Dohenhy told me I was to return here in two night’s time.  He didn’t ask me, it was more of a command.  His car would call for me and we were to dine in his suite.

I wondered at my lack of response to him.  What kept me from acting offended by his behavior? What kind of man demanded such stuff? At first, I thought it was the shock of being handled in such a fashion, but then again, I didn’t have a clue.

Perhaps that I was going to do exactly as he ordered said more about me.  But at that moment, I was deeply intrigued, and more than a little aroused at his control of the field.

The sexual handling played into some deep secrets, then again there was something not quite ‘right’ about the whole scene. I knew I was over my head, feet not touching the bottom, and at this point I was willing to let Vadas Dohenhy pull me around the water.  He was something new and different. I was ready for a change.

Precisely at seven I was picked up by his driver, a hard-looking man who made no attempts at small talk.  I was nervous, and sucked at my bottom lip until I had to reapply lipstick before getting out of the car.  Knocking at Vadas’ door, he opened it almost immediately, but was talking on his cellphone in rapid Hungarian as he pulled me into the room.  Still occupied, he stripped me of my jacket and taking my elbow, led me to the sofa, gesturing me to sit.  He turned and walked to the window, where he continued in rapid- fire Hungarian, too fast for me to pick up anything except “egam” and “nem”.  Yes and no. 

“Excuse me, Elizabeth, that was unexpected but important.”  He had flipped the phone shut, threw it on his desk.  His pronunciation of “Elizabeth” was very Hungarian, more like “A-liss-a-bet” to my ears.  I made a mental note to ask how he had learned my name.

Without further comment, he turned to the console and poured two glasses of  wine.  Crossing the room, he handed me a glass and sat down on the sofa.

“This is a good Tokay.  You are familiar with our national wine?”  He sipped from his glass, his eyes on me.

The only times I had tasted Tokay, I found it coy, too sweet.  “I am, a bit.  But those times did not like it at all.”

“Ah! Then you had a bad Tokay, too common.  Perhaps a blended dessert Tokay.”

This, my Elizabeth, is the famous “Essence”.  It is fabled and rarest of all, from the first run of the Aszu grapes.  It is very sweet, but not like sugar.  It is like honeyed velvet.”

I raised the glass to swallow, and Vadas spoke sharply, startling me.

“No, no, Elizabeth!” He put out his hand to stop me.  “First, smell the wine, let it get into your nose.  Breathe deeply the grapes. Smell the warm sun, the cool rain. Smell the soil of this region of Hungary, at the foothills of the mountains. Think of the black soil that supports the growth of these beautiful, black grapes.  You know the Essence will restore the dead to the living.”

Vadas was smiling but something in his manner told me he believed it all.

I took a deep sniff of the wine, its heady scent rising up the glass into my nose.  It was a strong, warm smell, and I could only think of how it must taste.  I sipped a bit and let it sit in my mouth.  It was warm and sweet and broad, as it swept my mouth like a piece of velvet.  I looked up at him, my eyes showing my surprise.

“Ah! You see?  It is the essence of life, of beauty, of seduction!”  Vadas face was excited, I supposed, by the poetry of his words.   I could agree and took another sip of the Tokay, now completely warming my mouth.   It was, as he said, a very seductive wine.

“Do you like music, Elizabeth?”  His voice cut into my thoughts of the wine, now slipping down my throat.

“Very much, Vadas.  My father played French horn.  I grew up with a lot of German music.  He played in an orchestra before I was born.”

“Ah! Then you know Strauss?” Vadas eyes gleamed as mine mellowed with the wine.

“Yes, especially “The Last Four Songs” and his very last, “Malven”.  Also some of his lieder.”  I didn’t think it right to mention I had worked to death “Going to Sleep” the third of the “ Last Four”. That was, after all, a lifetime away.

Vadas eyes registered his surprise at my words.  “Those are pretty sophisticated pieces of music for an American woman.  You do know that Strauss was in the Nazi Party?”

I did, but thought Vadas’ question might reflect that he was a Jew. “I think many musicians and artists joined because of the pressure, and they were after all, artists. Elisabeth Schwarzkopf  was one.”

“Ah! Betty Blackhead!”  Vadas chuckled and I laughed, thinking that a particularly American joke.

“It took a long while to pry her clamshell open.” Vadas continued.  “I don’t believe she admitted her membership until only a few years before her death, and by then, who would touch her?”  Vadas’ eyes shone, his chest heaving with gentle laughter.

“Would you like to listen to “Elisabeth”, Elizabeth?  I nodded my assent, delighted he would have this music available.

Vadas placed his wine glass on a side table and walked to his desk.  Picking up a large remote, he aimed it at the console, and pressed some buttons. A door opened and within moments the first strains of  “Spring” sounded and by the time the fourth song started, I knew this was a big mistake.  How foolish of me!  Those glorious suspended strains of music cut to my soul and so much buried sadness came bubbling to the surface.  Schwarzkopf’s ability, only possible in a German singer singing German music, of creating the absolute lyricism of linking word to word in such a weave tore at my heart.  Tears had collected in my eyes I knew would spill down my face and wash away my makeup. I took a hurried sip of my wine to hide the turmoil that must be showing and the knot in my throat grew with the glory of the wine in my mouth.  Too fast to hide, tears spilled over lower lids and I felt Vadas lean over and put his hand on my chin, turning my now-wet face to his.

“Elizabeth, Elizabeth, why so sad?  What memory is attached to this music?”

*Ah, Vadas, I thought, do not show me any mercy! That will only encourage my weeping. Take me in your arms and bite my lips with your teeth, detour the pain of my heart to some other place! *

My cheeks were wet, mascara staining my skin.   I must look like a raccoon to Vadas.  He moved closer, but the bastard did not turn off the music. Ah, he was cruel and knew I was putty.  He did pull out a white handkerchief and gently wiped my cheeks, blotting up the mascara running like black blood from my bottom lids.  He even held it to my nose, but I wrenched it from his hand with an attempt at some dignity.  Blowing strongly, I tried to regain some composure.

“I am sorry, Vadas.  Perhaps I should leave.  This music is hard on the memories.”

“No, no, Elizabeth.  Do not leave. I have invited you to dinner, and you understand how we Hungarians feel about food refused.”

I laughed.  Yes, I did know.  It was a gross insult, and something I had learned in my childhood.

“Good, you laugh and it is like the sun comes out at midnight!”  Vadas chuckled and came closer. I lifted up my head towards him and felt his arms encircle me, pulling me to him.  His eyes searched mine, an unexpected tender expression on his face and I closed my eyes with a sigh. His lips brushed mine and then press down in earnest.  Vadas of the long kisses!  I was relaxing into his embrace when there was a knock at the door.  It was room service with our dinner.

Vadas broke off his kiss, and looked at me regretfully.  If there was one time in my life that I could have gone without food, this was it.

Room service left after arranging covered platters on the large table that was obviously used for purposes other than eating.  Stacks of folders and loose papers were moved by Vadas from the table and then he held out my chair to sit.  He poured more wine, this time taking another bottle of Tokay from the wine cooler.  I was curious as to what food Vadas had ordered and surprised when he removed my cover and I had a large salad.  A lovely salad, but still a salad.  Vadas though had a large steak, potatoes and vegetables.  I looked pointed at his plate and then at mine and raised my eyes to him. 

“Ah! Women should not eat meat. It is too heavy for their systems.  Better they dine on light foods, maybe with a little fish, a little fowl,  but never meat.”  He was serious!

I smiled and started to eat my salad, watching him cut his steak.   With a laugh, he held out a piece to me and insisted on placing it in my mouth.

“I will feed you like a baby bird, but only from my hands will you eat meat. Understand? Men eat meat, it is good for the blood, but too much taints a woman’s nature.” 

I had no choice, but there was a nice piece of salmon under another cover.

Vadas enjoyed his steak, talking between swallows.  “You remember I told you I make the choices now?  You did agree to my words as I remember.”

“Yes, Vadas, as long as you don’t attempt to starve me.”

“Ah, Elizabeth, you will not starve in my presence.  A man takes care of a woman, whether his or another’s.”  His wit did not interrupt his attention to his food. He had a good appetite.

“Here, you don’t drink enough wine.  This is a different Tokay, but in America they always serve it too cold.  We will let it warm up, breathe, and finish off this bottle of Essence.”

He would get me drunk, and then starve me!  I laughed, for the wine was very good and went well with the salad.  He told me to drink only water with the salmon.   The next bottle of Tokay would be for our dessert.

Dinner over, he proposed we dance a bit, as they do in Hungary after a meal.  He played around with the remote, and some music came from the console. I was not familiar with this, but it was slow music, and rather nice.  Vadas reached out his hand and pulled me up to him, and led me to the middle of the floor where we could dance.  He was much taller, but more so, a large man, built solid.  There was something powerful about Vadas that went beyond his stature.  Perhaps it was his confidence, his ability to control the situation.  I was not used to such a man, and frankly, was a bit unsettled by his behavior.  It was strikingly different and alien.

He held me lightly, not crushing me to his body, but respectfully like a man would in public.  Every once in a while he would pull back and look at me, smile, and just the feel of his body, close enough for me to be very aware of his masculinity, was alluring.  He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to bed me, and I had toned down my expectations. This seemed to be what he wanted– a long, slow seduction.

A few more dances and I had to excuse myself.  When I returned, Vadas was sitting on the sofa, and he patted the seat beside him.  I started to sit down, when he pulled me over into his lap, cradling me in his arms.  He busied himself with unbuttoning my blouse, and laying both sides open he saw my black lace bra.

“Ah, Elizabeth, Elizabeth , what am I going to do to you?”

I thought those rather strange words from Vadas.  “What am I going to do with you” would have made more sense, but then again, Vadas was rather strange.

“You have beautiful Hungarian breasts, Elizabeth, large and shapely.”

I laughed, lying in his lap like a child, half exposed.   “Is everything Hungarian good, Vadas?”

“No, not everything.  Bureaucrats, government, police, most laws that don’t let me do what I want.  But I am looking at half- Hungarian breasts, and they are beautiful enough.”

“You are a romantic, Vadas.”

“Don’t confuse your American ideas of romanticism with mine, my dear Elizabeth.  You would be rather surprised.”

There was a little threat in those words that should have made me uneasy, but the Tokay interfered with my senses. Regardless how much Vadas drank of the wine, his remained clear.  He unzipped my skirt from the side, and pulled it down my legs, leaving me dressed only in my underwear and stockings.  I must have made an impression, for his dark eyes dilated and he sucked in his breath.  He pinched my nipples through the lace of the bra and then stroked my crotch with his strong fingers.  I was getting very aroused. Suddenly Vadas picked me up in his arms and set me vertical to his lap, my legs straddling him, my breasts at his mouth.  With a flick of his hand, he released the hook and pulled my bra from my shoulders.  He took one breast in his mouth and sucked and swirled his tongue around my nipple.  I threw back my head and groaned, grinding my hips into his lap.

Suddenly Vadas threw me across his lap, with my buttocks in the air, and slapped me hard with his left hand. I screamed out, yet he ignored my cries and continued to slap hard on my rump.  He stopped and stuck his hand between the cloth of my panties and into my flesh. 

“So, Elizabeth, you must like this rough play.  You are wet like a river. Now, dear Elizabeth, I want you to kneel before me. I want you to excite yourself with your hands.”

Vadas pushed me off his lap, I rolling onto the carpet beneath his feet. Looking up at him with great anger, my hair obstructing my face, I addressed him as sharply as I was able.

“No, I will not do that, and you will not treat me like a child.  I am a woman, you remember that, not a child to be spanked.”  I rose to my knees, my fists clenched tightly, for at that moment, I could have flown at him and pummeled him with all my strength.

He was smiling down at me, but his eyes were hard. “Elizabeth, perhaps you forget what we agreed.”  His voice was very low, and I strained to catch what he was saying.

Vadas rose from the sofa and stood over me.  “Stand up, Elizabeth.”  He extended his hand to help me rise. As I stood, Vadas pulled me into his arms, holding me where my feet could not touch ground.  I knew he appeared powerful, but holding me to him, my entire body pressed against his, made me realize that I was not in control of the situation.  Vadas was, enjoying my almost naked body against his, even my struggling to be released.

“Vadas, put me down, right now!  I demand you put me down!”

“Ah! You demand I do your bidding?  Well, I am the man and you are the woman, and I have the upper hand.  And will continue to have.  You, Elizabeth, remember our agreement.”

I was ticklish, and Vadas realized this.  Holding me to him with one powerful arm, he poked at my ribs until I was squirming and laughing in spite of my anger.  Suddenly, Vadas threw me on the sofa and I realized from my position that he had an erection.  I struggled to raise myself on my arms, looking at him through hair that now covered my face.  I was aroused, too, with our struggle, and glad to see it had moved Vadas in the same way.  He seemed less forbidding now, only a man.

Vadas saw were my eyes fell, gave a grin and lay down on top of me, his erection poking me where it was most desired.  Supporting his upper body with his arms, he attempted to sweep my hair out of my face.

“Elizabeth, you are such a little slut, but I can’t resist you.  You don’t know the rules yet, and I, who do, violate them this one time.  You bring my bull’s blood up.”

I laughed underneath him, my chest and belly heaving.  “Bulls Blood” was a Hungarian table wine, common, not elegant like the fabled “Essence”.  It was the difference between pennies and pounds.

Vadas kissed me tenderly, stood up, extending his hand to me.  I rose, and in one smooth gesture, Vadas had me in his arms, this time carrying me towards two closed doors.  Without dropping me, we entered his bedroom.  In the middle was a large poster bed, rather old fashioned in taste.  Vadas dropped me on the side of the bed and I looked up at him, my eyes studying his figure.  With a smile, Vadas started to unbutton his dress shirt.  I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, stopping him with my hand.  Sitting there, with him close by the side of the bed, I reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, kissing his bare stomach.  I slipped my arms around his torso, and stretched to lay my head on his chest, comforting myself with this intimacy.  Vadas had a hairy chest, something I was not used to. It felt strange to my face, tickled my nose. I breathed in his scented skin. Vadas threw off his shirt, his torso broad, a man of substance, not a boy before me, but a man in all the glory of his masculinity.

Part of Chapter Two, “Az Kapitany”

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted 2007-2011

Why We Write.

Well, I can think of a lot of reasons.  Perhaps it’s different for different people, but I think there are some very strong threads that pull us together.  Perhaps our impulses here aren’t so different after all.

I have been thinking of this for a while, but very recently, in fact, during the last few days, it has come up in a sharper  sense amongst some very good writer friends.

I have a very dear friend who has received a contract to publish  in an anthology.  This anthology is of erotica.  I think I understand his  confusion and concern.  Publishing erotica can bring some problems to those who don’t kn0w  you are writing in such a genre.  In this case, my friend’s friends don’t know that he is  a writer.

I am amazed at this, because this man is one of the most wonderful and creative and polished  writers I have come across.  To know him is to be up close to real brilliance.  I would give a finger, maybe two….to be able to write with his creativity, depth and imagination.

The polish on his stories, poems is a product of a writer who is so exacting, so dedicated to the story , well, it’s awesome.

He reads this blog, and our emails back and forth haven’t yet convinced him of this good opportunity.  He is worried…well, he’s a worrier.  I want to beat him.

It’s not uncommon to begin to write as a form of self-therapy.  Diaries and extended letters to friends can be of this nature.  At some point, we stop the pity party, or a concentrated examination of our personal life, and look around.  The world brings us topics and wonder straight to our laps.

I started writing my first novel…”The Heart of the Maze” in 1990.  I started it the very week we adopted our son.  I have no idea why this happened, but I think I was in some emotional shock.  Having a toddler at 40 certainly would feed into this shock.  Never having been around children, but being handed the responsibility of another life threw me into something I still can’t understand. Thankfully my husband took over, and for maybe 5 months he and our son were inseparable.  I snapped out of it, and became the mother, but I don’t know yet what was going on there.  Perhaps this writing impulse was stronger than the new mother bond.  I really don’t know.

I do know that after those first months, I didn’t go back to that novel for 5 years.  I finally realized my son was the center of our life, and the writing could be put on hold.  I didn’t go back to writing ‘seriously’ until  the fall of 2006.  And I did finally finish that first novel.  What I will do with it is for the future.

This issue of writing as therapy is an interesting one.  A few years ago, I was coming out of a bad patch.  I had been under the influence of a man who was a writer, but  not interested or encouraging in what I was writing.  I thought that strange, because we were both writers, right?  I was very stupid.  He had a different agenda, which I bought into, and then found  it was  personally destructive.   Had I ‘stayed the course’ ,  I probably would have stopped writing altogether.

The world gives us such promise!  If we only look outward, up from our own navels, we will find more than we can handle.

I published “A Seasoning of Lust” because I  survived all that had happened.  That first book was a kitchen sink of poetry, short story, flashers.  I threw it together just to feel alive….in one of the only ways I knew.   In fact, I did more than survive.  With this first book, I regained my feet.   I wrote a lot more where before I thought I could do nothing right.  That was the net result of his ‘influence’ yet I would break through this  particular hell and find a world rich in words and imagination.  I reclaimed myself from this  cultural gulag and  went on to publish “The Zar Tales”.

Bill Penrose (the writer who formats my books) is encouraging me to finish “Tin Hinan”, after “White Cranes”.  I  found leaving  all that shit behind,  falling into writing, and especially poetry, has given me all the future work I could desire.

As we joke:  Writing is a restorative to the soul.

I believe it.  I find a sense of empowerment in writing  I can sling in the face of life’s troubles, whether they come in the form of pain, death or nasty wankers.

Writing can give you discernment in dealing with people.  Having friends like Bill Penrose, Nick Nicholson, Katie Troutman, all fine writers, is important.  They are heart bound friends who encourage and inspire.  They are serious writers who  can be depended upon to give their opinions and have been there in the darkness writers face.  They are my tribe.

I meet ( online, and in person) a lot of  writers.  I can make friends, but I am more cautious now.  I have a sense of myself and a purpose that goes far beyond what I had before.  And this is just the beginning.

I hope my dear friend forgives my fierceness, but I won’t back down.  I see such amazing promise in his abilities here, and I want him to start publishing.

It will open a world to him that will embrace and support him in ways he has yet to find.

Lady Nyo

–

A FEW SEASONAL HAIKU

The clouds flee the sky,

Bitter north winds push them far.

My heart follows now.

–

Fallen leaves crackle.

Sparrows add the treble notes.

Seasonal music.

–

The cold moon shines down

Upon hollow dried grasses.

Earth prepares to sleep.

–

The frost at morning

Makes the birds plump their feathers

Squirrels add chatter.

–

The air grow colder.

Soon wool will not be enough.

Come inside- stay warm!

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010

Hard Lessons and Belly Dance

I’ve been thinking about something for the past week. It wasn’t something that appeared fully formed in my mind. I went through stages before coming to an understanding.

Peeling the onion time….

Last weekend I was invited to a new bdsm club, to sign copies of my book and to ‘demonstrate’ something. That ‘something’ was an invitation to dance on the back of one of the owners of this new club.

I really wasn’t thinking clearly, or very far, when I agreed to do this. The book signing was ok….since I write erotica, that part wasn’t ‘uncomfortable’…There was a bit of ‘rope work’ done that night as we observed, and at one time, I was influenced in this issue by a man who was pretty heavy into bdsm and also was a shibari/rope worker. The influence of this man kicked in enough to write the “Shibari Series” which is in the new book, “A Seasoning of Lust” just released by lulu.com.

As  the evening wore on, I was getting more uncomfortable and doubtful where the belly dance fit….or IF it fit. Early in the evening, around 11pm…my husband looked at me and saw that “Teela” was a bit weirded out by the whole scene. It was fine if you are ‘into’ the bdsm scene, but we weren’t. I was there for a different purpose, and one of those purposes was coming into question.

We left.

It took a couple of days to clarify what the problem was. (There were a number of problems with this particular scene, but that is not important for this entry.)

It’s this. I am a bellydancer, and recently I am also a teacher of new students. I haven’t been in it very long, only 5 years this April, but damn….this discipline has grown deeply inside me, and has transformed much of me. It’s become something rather spiritual. It has also made me (or should!) become more aware of what I am doing and what ‘public face’ in the doing I present.

I take Belly Dancing seriously. Enough to drag my butt to classes, even travel to cold Montreal , 1200 miles away to study with Audra Simmons. I will, and have, traveled to different places around the South, mostly, to study with great teachers. I perform at venues, restaurants, etc…and I take it seriously.

Belly Dance has opened a whole world for me. I am not a young woman, and entered it in middle age. Tant pis! Any woman can train her body and MIND over a course of years and become a dancer…at least it is not a rigid discipline like ballet. It feeds the mind, the senses (others, too!) and the body. It can become a whole new world and a very different one at that. I see now how it has changed me in what I would call ‘spiritual’ ways.

Perhaps it is the circles, the infinity movements, the oh so beautiful! motions of the body, how we enter a particular world of the mind…..and many times, when we are really in the ‘zone’….a trance.

We leave our bodies in a way, they are just vehicles, beautiful and vigorous vehicles, and we ascend to ‘somewhere’ else. Belly dancers are ‘never’ off.

Recently, I was asked if I was ‘ever still’? What a strange question!

Belly dancers are always moving something of their bodies, we are always dancing, even walking we have a particular step, an infinity curve of the hips, a ‘mindful’ carriage. A constant ‘flow’ of a physical manifestation of energy from one region of the body to the other. We train ourselves to do this. We are always listening to some internal music, some thoughts as to possible movements, and we live them out. It becomes and IS…a second nature.

In a word: “No.” We will be still enough in our graves.

Right now, I am sitting here typing,  listening to “The Kabila Project”…(and this particular piece has what sounds to me African drumming and Flamenco music (THANK YOU, AUDRA!) and though my legs are tucked under my chair…my breasts and shoulders are doing little circles, infinity movements,(figure 8s), shakes…. HOW CAN ANYONE BE “STILL” WITH MUSIC IN THE AIR??

Even a cold, dead man would move to this music….maybe his cold, dead cock, I don’t know, but SOMETHING would come alive.

I have a friend, Mac in NYC, who understands woman and dance. His wife is a performer. He knows how it can transform a performer, how a woman can transcend the ‘here and now’…how she can be ‘enhanced’ by her serious movements. How she can enhance those who watch her. He understands the power of music and movement. He is a shibari expert and I want to bind “Teela”and let her dance in his ropes.

How can you bind a belly dancer and not EXPECT something of dance to pop out??

Why would you squander that chance?

Even the hemp rope….would stand aside…and should, and deep subspace can be set aside for the essence of a belly dance. At least I hope so. Mac? But in PRIVATE, Please~!

And that brings me full circle to last Saturday night. Dancing (as a bellydancer) on a man’s back just isn’t the proper thing to do. Regardless how much he begs.

Where is the honor and glory of Being a dancer in doing this? There isn’t any.

We must be mindful of our traditions, what ‘face’ we are putting on this discipline, and we don’t need anything ‘else’ or alien to confuse us or the public. We have a fine, historic and deeply spiritual tradition to draw from, to display to the world, and we don’t have to make it into something that is ‘weird’.

The costumes sometimes are weird enough.

Teela and Lady Nyo today…the same woman and Still not still.

BDSM Haiku and “Quiet Birds”

Poetry fits the rain today, and my mood.

Lady Nyo

HAIKU

1.

A woman in heat

Lover’s delay makes her burn

Strong force of nature.

2.

The pale flame flickers

Hooded lust enters the room

Restrained, she trembles.

3.

Trickle of warm blood

Courses slowly down her breast,

The pain yet unfelt.

4.

Low, uttered whisper

“Mercy”. There is none within

There is none without.

5.

Caress of the whip

Slid down from shoulder to hip

A moan escapes lips.

QUIET BIRDS!

Quiet birds!
I have not changed you into metaphors yet.
Your chatter adds crystallized chaos
to last night’s tokaji droning upon the brain.
My eyes open with reluctance to splinters of light
challenging soft membranes.

The smell of black coffee cuts
Into the reality I am no longer young.
Nights like last should be wrapped in tissue
locked deep in a trunk, to find when I am past temptations
and have room only for memories and regrets.

Quiet, birds.
The day looks promising.
I await a new flock of metaphors with black polished feathers
to land on my shoulders and weigh me down
with colorful daydreams, peacock words, Bird of Paradise thoughts!

For some reason this morning, words, whole paragraphs,
circle my head, flap off in a thunder of wings,
the laughter of rude crows in my ears.
They leave bird dropping, a few cracked seeds to begin my penitence;
starvation wages for a poor poet, left to a flightless life.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

With thanks to George Szirtes, for the words: “Quiet Birds, I haven’t changed you into metaphors yet.”

DEVIL’S REVENGE…chapter 3

Apparently some of you out there have been reading “Devil’s Revenge”….and some have privately written to me to post more.  There is a little bit of interest in this story.

I warn you, it’s rough and not yet rewritten, and I have learned something in the previous two years from the writing, but I have no energy right now to rewrite….and it’s a funny story, so I will post it in pieces here until the tide changes and the pikes come out.

Lady Nyo

“DEVIL’S REVENGE”

Chapter 3

Stretching like a cat, I awoke slowly.  Suddenly I smelled the strong scent of wood smoke and bounced upright in bed.  Looking around, I saw the fireplace and realized where I was.  Damn, it was happening again!  The Demon was playing fast and loose with my atoms, zapping me from my own comfortable bed and century.  How in hell does he do this?  Hah! Like he would tell me, but at least this time I wasn’t sick to my stomach.

The Demon had a name, Garrett Cortelyou, and was the hero of a novel I wrote sixteen years ago.   Cocksure of his charms, arrogance fed into his seduction and I found he was a danger to my decorum and decency.  Compounding the situation he was devilishly attractive and exuded an unearthly charisma.    He was master of a particular brand of sexual magic and his appetite knew no bounds.   He delighted in corrupting me, shocking me with his…. techniques.  I would call him a libertine.  He had little concern I was married and I forgot I was when he was near.  There was a certain charm in his humor and he was an entertaining devil.  Sexual encounters with him were addictive and probably dangerous. But this could not continue – I was losing control of myself.  He was a sharp-eyed critic and petards my writing with his presence and demands.

Here I was, early morning by the light in the room, and again, in a strange bed.   I had to pee, and knew from past visits where the chamber closet was.  It was cold in the room, the fire was dying down and I hurried across the floor. The sound of a pee in a china pot is quite intimate, as water with our modern toilets muffles sound.  Leaving the closet,  I stumbled over my feet in surprise.  There, sitting in a chair, was my Demon.

“I thought we agreed you would refer to me as your “Demon Lover”?  Garrett was eating a large slice of currant bread, the Dutch escapes me now –

“Kretenbroad”, he said, dusting the crumbs off his chest as he chewed.

“Thank you, the Dutch eluded me.”

“Anna makes good kretenbroad..  I think I will marry her.” He grinned at me and snapped  his fingers, making a dish of tea appear on the table for me.

“You could do worse.”  According to the first novel, Anna was the spinster niece of Daniel Griggs, the manservant who lived in this house for thirty years.

“Much more. Get your facts straight.”

“Garrett, what gives you leave to invade my bedroom at all times of the morning?”

Still chewing his bread, he gave a devilish grin.  “I like celestial music in the morning.”

“What are you talking about? What music?”   He could be so silly and confounded me many times.

“The music a woman makes when she pees in a chamber pot,” he said grinning broadly.

“You are a nasty demon.”  I was getting impatient with his antics.  He took great liberties.

“ Come drink your tea before it cools, “ he said, dusting the crumbs to the floor.

I sat down in my nightgown, and picked up the ‘dish’ of tea.  It really was a bowl with two handles, but every time he conjured up tea for me, it was good.

“Of course it is, I made and stirred it with my –“

“Don’t tell me, Garrett, I won’t be able to drink.”  He really was nasty this morning, and his visits were always backed with a purpose.

“Always backed”?  That’s more garbled English.  Write it in Dutch.”

“All right, Demon!” I was getting irritated.  “”Why are you here?” (Better I ask why I am here…) I was struggling with the book, trying to finish and every time we were together in this room, there was a setback in my writing, or a detour, or something strange and distracting.

“Oh? You see me as a distraction? I can be more dangerous than that.”  He burped loudly.  He had the table manners of a goat.

“Bahhh”.  He grinned crazily, and for whatever reason he appeared this morning, I was heading for trouble.

“First, give me your hand, and be more tender towards me.”  He extended his hand across the table, and gave me a sweet smile.  For some reason, he did this each visit. I never trusted him, especially when he was extending his paw.

“ ‘Hand’.”  He nodded to himself.  “And call me  ‘Lover’.  I miss that from you.”

I had to smile.  He was such an insecure devil.

“I am not. It’s just that you are a bad writer.” He lunged across the table and grabbed my hand.  “And still not fast on your feet.”

A current like water flowed from his hand to mine.  I was knocked back at the intensity of his touch.  He had done this before but something was different today.

“You fed me. See, Betsy, I was starving, and your cooking restored my strength.”  He grinned and would not let go of my hand.  “Anna made me stronger, too…and I thank thee for her.”    Anna was a good Dutch cook apparently.

“I don’t think I want to fokken her, though.”  He couldn’t resist.  “Nope, don’t want to do that at all.” He finally looked serious.  “ I read what you wrote…and again, you should stick to what you know.” He smiled at me, yanking my hand towards him.

“What in hell are you talking about?”  He rubbed the front of his breeches, and leered.

“Sex?” Is that the word you can’t think of?  You have to use sign language?”

“Ha…funny! Especially coming from a woman who obviously doesn’t know a thing about fellatio.”

I sat up, and thought back to what I wrote. “What was wrong with it?”

“See the sentence above the last.”

“Now you are going stupid.  Of course I know about it, I’ve been married for years.”

“Then your husband doesn’t know much.”   He had me there.

“I will teach you something useful –the devil leered again-  and make you an better writer.”  He grinned, and the current between us grew stronger.  My hand felt like it was melting into his, the heat fusing our flesh together.

“That’s what good …(the devil burped) …sex  is supposed to feel like.”

Garrett was a cock-sure devil, ( “damn right”) and most of his suggestions for the novel were on target.  He had lived in those years, the early part of the 19th century, and knew the social customs of the period.  I could only rely on my spotty research for these things.

“Hold still.  I will put something nice in your mouth, sweet woman.”  Ah, God…his mind was always fixated on lust.

“It effects better parts of me too, but you keep your knees together too much.  Ah, seduction of women writers is hard work.”

“You’ve used that line before, Garrett.  Now, who is original.”  My little joke didn’t please and he pulled me over the table and into his lap.  It happened so fast I couldn’t resist him.

“Give your highwayman a kiss, sweet Bessie.”  When he was in this mood, there was no denying the demon.

“Oh!” I said., sitting upright on his knee.   “That’s one of my favorite poems.  “The Highwayman”.  I thought it the most romantic poem I ever read when I was twelve.”

“Doesn’t turn out too nice, both of them dead.  That musket beneath her breast….” He shook his head and burped again.  His stomach at least was all too human.

I lay my head on his shoulder.  He could be a sweet devil, and evoked tender emotions from me he didn’t deserve.  He thought it a good time, when I was docile in his arms (“won’t last long”- I heard him think!) to pick me up and walk to the bed.  He lay down besides me, and placed my head on his shoulder.

“You are rather sweet this morning, my Demon Lover.” His temper was usually like mercury.  I think we were coming to terms.

“Well, we have, my darling.  I have chased away all the competition and you have me at ball and cock.”

I had to laugh here.  I was still married, and older than him by decades.

“I was born in 1790. Beat that.”

I thought I was robbing the cradle.  He was such a beautiful creation, but still, just a figment of my imagination.

“You really need to expand your horizons, sweeting.  There are so many parts to the universe and you just occupy one. You limit yourself by what you believe.”

I never accepted the stories of ghosts, haunts or spirits, but lying by his side, I was beginning to wonder.  He appeared flesh and blood enough this morning, especially as he grabbed my hand and placed it on his half mast cock swelling under his breeches.

“Good. You learn something.  Am I real enough for you now?   Let me show you something else.”  He passed his hand quickly from the top to the bottom of my nightgown and it melted away like smoke.

“Ah!  The first time I have seen you naked. You wear too many clothes. Let’s see what I’ve caught.”  He pushed my hair back from my breast, and stroked a nipple.

“You have pink nipples…very pretty!  And you are pink elsewhere, I see.”  I lay in his arms and blushed at his words.  He took my hand and placed it in his shirt, next to his heart.  He always wore a heavy linen shirt and I had become enchanted by his smell of  wood  smoke and probably brimstone.

“Very funny, sweet woman.  Now unclench those knees and let me make love to you.”

“Wasn’t it you who told me the portal to a woman’s soul is her mouth?”  I was teasing, trying to distract his limited mind.

He turned on his side and smiled tenderly down at me.  “You use my own words against me? You show courage. You also forget I am a nasty demon.”

“Not so nasty.  And getting better.”  His behavior had turned my mood from irritation to affection.  Conditions were changing between us and he was softening with a gentler touch.

“I have no softness, and don’t bet on it.”  He stroked my thigh and squeezed a breast.  I tried the same trick on his clothes, passing my hand down the length of him, and he laughed.

“It will take many decades, sweetheart, for you to learn that trick.”

“Not even levitating a chamber pot?”

“You would have more luck just throwing it.”

He was a handful, this Demon.   It was hard work keeping in stride with his wit.  He could have written a much better book, but then again, he likes best being the sharp-eyed critic.

Copyrighted, 2007
Jane Kohut-Bartels

Athene responds with an interesting comment to “Role of Slavery”

Thank you, Athene, for your permission to use your comment and sorry that this damn wordpress.com is so wanky in formatting! I can’t control this stuff.

Lady Nyo

“Devil’s Revenge”…used to be “Another Story”

Two years ago this month I started a novel. I was a new writer and didn’t know squat about writing….still struggle with it, but I have learned much in those two years.

I also ‘fell’ into an interest that I had no idea existed. Well, a couple of them actually. What I was told later was BDSM, and also the mythology of Demons and Devils.

This book wrote itself…not an especially ‘good’ thing, but I realized that after a long time, I was suddenly getting in touch with some latent sexual issues, and even the issue of sex itself. There was a long dead period for me.

I have decided to rewrite this book, as it has caught my interest again, and I can do better now. In this book , I explored the issues of ass-rape, time warps, bondage, all these sexual things I didn’t know had names or were part of someone’s life. Apparently, many people.

Betsy is a 21st. century writer, who is trapped in a time warp, with a Devil who insists on living (for now) in the early 19th century. Garrett Cortelyou is actually a very old devil, and has his hooves in early Celtic times, in Wales. He is a produce of a powerful union between a mortal woman and a seriously potent Demon, but who his parentage was, is not known. However, he has the ‘respect’ and patronage of Abigor, close to the throne in Hell. Betsy has been raped by Obadiah (another devil) in previous chapters and she is in the middle of a tug of war between Garrett and Obadiah. Each devil strikes at the other through Betsy.

Lady Nyo

ANOTHER STORY, Part 14

Oh! I am writing at a furious pace! I am trying to finish this book. Actually, I am trying to kill off a character, Obadiah, but today, I could kill them all, especially Garrett Cortelyou.. Now I’m told what has just happened has nothing to do with me. But! Had I not delayed, procrastinated, and plain farted around, perhaps things would be different.

It is a pretty morning and I am sitting at the little table before a bright fire. It is winter, an endless winter, and I have been told to stay in this house. Perhaps I am a prisoner of this room. Fearful enough, I stay indoors. I can see the distant fields from my window and I see a hawk fly high up in the sky. I have watched this bird for a while now. It’s questionable that this hawk is only a bird of prey. Garrett, the resident Demon, thinks it might be another, the Demon Arachula, an evil spirit of the air. It watches the lay of the land, and hunts its prey in the woods by the house.

I am writing fast, with frequent pauses to read what I scribble. I hear a very faint sound of bells, a tinkling of brass somewhere in the distance. It could be outside, like the clinking together of milk cans, or the sound of sleigh bells, but there is no snow on the ground. It grows closer, and suddenly, the Demon appears in the room. He is grinning like a Cheshire cat, and has something behind his back.

“Goedemorgen to you”, he says grinning broadly. He speaks excellent Dutch. He sits down in his usual chair and I hear the sound of something clinking together. He pulls up his hand, and there are my zils.

“How did you get my zils? My Turkish zils?” He’s wearing my finger cymbals on four fingers of one hand. Suddenly I know where he’s been!

“You Bastard! Still up to your old tricks! What else have you stolen from my bedside?” I can’t believe the nerve of this demon!

“You know demons are thieves. It’s a failing among us. We are like magpies and crows. Can’t resist the shine.” He sounds my zils with a clap of his hand, and holds them out of my reach.

He tells me he visits in the night and apparently last night he was there. He claims he is bored and appears at my bedside, where he watches me snore. I think he is lonely. I have already told him my husband keeps a shotgun in the corner, but he doesn’t care.

“I have found something else”, he says, pulling out my coin scarf from his sleeve.

“Insufferable monster!” I can’t believe this, but then, what should I expect? .

“I like your underclothes, too, but only the silk ones. I will bring some for you here, though I think you will freeze. I like the sweet smell of woman in them.” He grins at me, detestable devil!.

So he goes through my drawers and clothes…

“Oh, I do much more, sweetheart. Helps me know who I’m consorting with.”

“Devil! Is their any decency left in your nature?”

He laughs, his voice sounding like a bass fiddle tuned low. “Ah, darling! The short answer is — “no”. And before you go at me for my nature, how come this is the first time I find you dance in a harem. Makes a devil wonder what he has bought.”

I sit there and think. Since he reads my mind when he wants, I have learned to parse my thoughts when near him. At times it works but he has a way of getting what he wants for he’s tricky…

“Oh you ignorant devil! What would you know about such things? They are two worlds apart. Nothing alike.”

“Well, dance for me, and let me judge.”

Hah! That is one thing that I would not do. I’m not married to him, it’s part of a code, but I won’t tell him ‘the rules’.

“Tell me what? Think of me as a Pasha, and let me tie this scarf around your pretty hips.”

I sit there wondering how I am going to avoid dancing for him. He gets what he pleases, but I am learning ways around his whims. Perhaps I can interest him the in the history of this dance and he—

“No, you can come here now and dance. I know more than you think.”

He usually achieves what he wants. Through persuasion or magic, he gets what he’s after.

In a twinkling of an eye, I was parked between his legs, the coin scarf around my hips. He pulled my skirt low and patiently placed my zils on my fingers like I was a child.

“How can I dance? I need music for that.” He snapped his fingers, and faintly I heard the sound of a slow piece of music. I recognized the song, it was Turkish. Hynotic with its Karsilama scales, I hear it and my body couldn’t stay still. I sigh, he has played me again.

“Then put your hands around me and you can feel the movements of my hips.” Most men would like that…

Dancing in such a constricted space was very much like the Eygptian style. Such dancers made very little rotations with hips and torso. In fact, the torso remains above the pelvis, barely moving. The arms are more pronounced, but the shimmies were generally the same. Just more restricted. The Turkish style, the one that I studied and loved the most, was danced with broader and more joyous movements. The torso leans back and tilts the pelvis forward. Turkish dancing is based on the Romany, or gypsy styles, and since I am half Hungarian, this style suits my blood. The music is developed from the Ottoman rakkas, similar to the raggis of India. The drumming feels like the beat of blood coursing through my veins.

The music swells with a beat that follows a rhythm of 9/8, and other pieces of the body come into motion. Where he is holding me, I can only move slightly, with hips in figure eights and a kick of the hip on the upbeat. I can do the ‘snake arms’ movement, which is lovely viewed from the back, as it is led by the elbows upward and a flip of the hand at the apex of the movement above the head.

Ah! The music swells, and I have to step out of his arms. I have just learned to use the zils, and it gives such structure to the arms. It was hard at first to isolate the different parts of the torso, all in movement at different parts of the beats, and then to gracefully, with beautiful, lyrical movements, try to move the arms as a frame for the body. The zils helped because they extended the flow of the beat.

I am dancing to myself, not a dance of seduction for he who watches me silently, carried as I am by the music. I am seducing myself, making love only to me. I make the birth movements of the downward hip fling, with the pelvis flung to the sky, and I make the ‘habibi’ movement, which is a rotation of the torso forward and around, with the pelvis straight. It is a movement to be made on the head of a cock by a woman deeply aroused. I am fully possessed, my eyes closed, my blood beats a counterbeat to the rakka. He has somehow picked the music used by the Turkish badladi, the form I love best. I can drop to my feet, not on my toes now, and can use my heels in another counter rhythm. Ah, primal, sensual movements that bring forth the evening wind in the desert, the sounds of hunting hawks above, hooded hawks on dark arms below, the trickle of precious water, and the smell of woodsmoke!

Somehow I make my way back to him, drawn by the pulse of the dance, the piercing, haunting sound of the desert flute. Finding myself between his legs I place my hands on his chest, palms gently on his warm skin like a blessing of love.

The music stops and I am glossy with sweat. My hair is in tangles over my breasts, my breath drawn in pants. He is silent, more silent than I have ever known him to be, and stone-still. Dazed, he pulls me to him, breaking he spell of the music. He breathes my scent deeply and picks me up in his arms. He moves to the window with me as his prize.

I am exhausted and limp in his arms and we look out over the landscape. He is smiling at something and there is an expression I have not seen before. He is looking at the hawk, the hawk who hovers over the field and his face is defiant!. Ah! He is challenging the shade of Obadiah out there in the trees. He is showing what he now possesses. Obadiah will have to kill him to take me.

Nothing can match the intensity of his expression. Here in its fierceness is the stare of the lion. He will fight for what is now his and he will kill with an appetite honed through the ages. All the gloss of the 21th century drops from my mind as I see his rapture in his challenge. Men or Demons, like wolves, have a heart beat that stretches back to the hunt. They glory in its primitive urges. They glory in the gore they will spill.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2006, 2008