Is this true about men?

And not the mythical Gorean kind, but men? Our modern man?

Or has all this been leached  from mankind?

Just a question that has been privately raised.

“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.”

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

“DEVIL’S REVENGE”…..I am posting this chapter because I am lost in reading this weekend…

I am reading the “Goddesses in Everywoman” book by Dr. Bolen, but I also started reading William Manchester’s “The Last Lion” about Winston Churchill late last night.

This last book is just about one of the very best history/bios I have ever read.  It is so absorbing, so exciting I couldn’t put it down, even knowing that it jumped ahead in the queue.  Pure self indulgence here. But then again, life can be so, and at times, should be.

This is a chapter from a novel.  I penned this work two years ago. It is very rough, so I warn any readers.  However, it has a certain charm.  It’s set in the 1820’s in post Colonial New Jersey, where I grew up.  I swear I know these characters, and actually they are local historical characters and I know where they are buried. I have played on their graves. Garrett Cortelyou was a Revolutionary War soldier and built my house in Belle Mead, New Jersey.

This time around Garrett Cortelyou is a Devil. He appears around 38 but is very old. He’s a Devil kicked out of Hell for some reason. Betsy is a 21st century writer, in fact was writing a novel, “Heart of the Maze” set in the 1820’s, wakes up in the bed and house of her novel. Garrett lives there and is able to read Betsy’s mind.  She is picking up some of his traits…a cross pollination and is beginning to morph into his world.

Lady Nyo

DEVIL’S REVENGE, Chapter 4

Bleary with sleep, a dull pain in my head, I opened both eyes carefully.  That wine last night, it must be the reason  why my stomach hurts.   I am playing with fire if I continue to …  Oh Crap!  I’m back here again!  I sigh with disgust, my legs tangled in the sheets.  This bedroom has become my new dungeon and looking out of the east window, is the dungeon master.  I turn over and stare at him.

“Good Morning”.   This time he said it in English instead of the Dutch but didn’t turn from the window.

“Ah, Garrett, how long have you been there?”  I yawned, rubbed my eyes and pulled my mobcap off.  His commanding me here, both body and soul, was becoming routine.

“Not long”, he said, continuing to stare out the window.   I looked at his figure illuminated by the sharp morning light.  He was a pretty (“handsome” I heard him think!) man, broad in the shoulders, his back narrowing down to full buttocks. Wearing the usual shirt of gentlemen and farmers, a heavy white linen cut full at the sleeves, his waistcoat was sleeveless, made of dark plum colored wool, and reached to his hips.  The breeches were cut from heavy twill and his boots were brown leather, scuffed about the ankles.  He had walked in deep mud somewhere for the bottom of his boots were covered with muck.

“Get up, I want to do something different today.”  Ah, this was a change; he usually wanted sex first thing in the morning.

“Oh, that for later—more important  things first.”  He finally turned from the window, hands on his hips, and looked at me with dour expression.

“Van Doren down the road  has a litter of pups.  Daniel said they’re old enough to take from the bitch.  I want the whole litter.  I’ll train them as gun dogs and hunt them next fall”.

Oh God, he probably will want to stable them here where it’s warm…

“My guess is you haven’t been paying attention here.  This house is  haunted,”  he said softly, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“What do you mean, ‘haunted’?”  I shivered a little though the bed was quite warm.

“Those dogs will be flesh and blood, as you are, but invisible.  No one would feed them.”

“So, I could go downstairs to Daniel and Anna and they wouldn’t see me?”

“Hell, I could stick you on the end of my –“

“Garrett!”

“– and walk you around the house, and they still wouldn’t notice.   They may wonder why John Thomas was saluting the wind, but you would be air.”

I had to laugh.   He had a way of describing things. Vulgar, but comical.

“What time is it, Garrett?”  I yawned and stretched my arms over my head, not wanting to move from the warmth of the bed.

“Time you get your pink butt up and come with me.”  He went to the wardrobe and started tossing clothes.   Out came some petticoats, woolen stockings and a heavy linen chemise.  He rummaged around the hooks and drew out a green woolen dress.

“Can I use the chamberpot first, please?”  I slipped to the side of the bed, my feet getting cold from the draughts on the floor.

“Do you need any help with that?”,  he asked, half turning around to me.

“I need you to leave the room so I can get dressed.”

“Won’t happen. I happen to like seeing you struggle into your clothes.  Makes me horny.”

“Everything makes you horny, Devil.”

He grinned, his foul lust a tease and a torment.  I peed as fast as I could, knowing he would not leave me in peace.

The clothes were thrown on the table by the fire.  “Come here, be my angel and let me dress you.” He was sitting there with his legs spread.

“Are you a crazy man?  I can very well do it myself.”  He had some nerve this morning.

“Have it your way.”  He snapped his fingers and my nightgown fell to the floor.  I was naked, the room cold, and he still a damn devil!

“Garrett!  Stop screwing around!  I’m freezing.”  It was one thing to be naked  by candlelight,  another to be standing in the sharp eastern glare of early morning.  This type of light magnifies all imperfections.  I heard him mumble something….

“Love casts a glamour on things.” He was still reading my thoughts, I see.  His words surprised me, for they were tender and human.

“Put you leg up on my knee and I’ll pull your stocking up.”  I balanced myself on one leg, and put an arm on his shoulder.  I could smell the sharp smell of brimstone.

“Very funny.  Now, the other one.”  He couldn’t resist running his hand up my inner thigh.  I slapped at him and jumped back.

He held out the heavy linen shift, and pulled it over my head and opened two petticoats for me to step into.

“What about my bloomers and stays?”

“I like you without them.  Easier to get to the nicest parts.”

Oh, he was a nasty demon this morning, but he did get me dressed.  He seemed to know his way around the hooking and lacing of tapes, and all were in place. I wondered what shoes to wear.

“Oh…must not forget these.”  He snapped his fingers, and a big pair of Dutch wooden shoes appeared at my feet.  I stared at them and started to laugh.

“You write about Dutch farms and farmers, yet you don’t know the muck they produce.  Guess women writers from your century float over the shit.  We’ll probably cross over a couple of pigsties in the going.”

Lovely.  Just what I wanted to do with my morning.

“You’ll enjoy the fresh air.  And I want those dogs, so let’s get going.  It’ll give you something real to write in your book.”

He walked to the door, and I gingerly went after him.  He muttered a low curse, and picked me up over his shoulder like a sack of flour . A wooden  shoe fell off my foot and tumbled down the stairs, sounding like thunder as it bounced to the hall floor.   He dropped me on my feet and led me to the front steps.   A two seater  rig and a black horse were standing outside.  Of course! A black horse, something a devil would ride.

“Would you be quiet?  The horse might have feelings on the matter.”

I laughed at him.  He was entertaining this morning!

He helped me into the rig and walking to the head of the horse, whispered to him.  He grabbed up the reins and the horse trotted to the main road, turned left and moved out smartly on the highroad.

I held onto my bonnet, which was falling back with each jounce of the rig. The horse seemed to skim over the dirt, getting faster and faster.   “You really want those dogs!”,  I said with a laugh.

My Demon grinned at me as he shook the reins, and the horse fairly flew down the road.

The air was fresh and brisk for it was early winter.  The fields were dun-colored  but the cloudless sky was a crisp blue.   I could see trails of smoke rising from distant houses across the far hills.  At least the scenery looked normal with cows huddled under trees and along fences. I thought of a piece of Handel I had heard the night before.   Written for harpsichord, last night played on piano.  The rhythm of the music mimicked the fast trotting of the black horse.  Suddenly I was hearing the music! I looked over at Garrett and saw him smile. The black leather of the rig surrounding us was our stereo and the horse’s speed matched the tempo of Handel….Ah! a good piece of magic!

We traveled for a mile then the horse turned to the left.  Down a short land was a large, white house.  Behind it were red barns. .  Garrett stopped the rig and helped me down in the cumbersome shoes.  He straddled the rig right over the mud and I looked at him with a grimace.  My shoes sank almost to the ankles.  He grinned and led us to the back of the house near the barns.

“Van Doren!” Garrett shouted.  “I’m here to see those dogs.”

A clang like a bell rang out, but it only was a piece of metal being dropped. It bounced around for a bit.    A rotund Dutch man came walking out the dark passageway his eyes blinking in the bright sunlight.

“Ah, young Cortelyou! Goedenmorgen to you!”  He wiped his hands on his trousers as he came toward us.  “So you here to purchase my pups?  Well, there’s others hearing of this fine litter, so it’s goot you come when you do.”    The joy of exchange among countrymen was both in the bargaining,… and the coin.  I was raised in the dutch countryside of New Jersey.  I had seen this exchange numerous times.

Van Doren looked to be in his sixties.  He was a hale and hearty man, with a halo of white hair standing up on his head.   He had a full white beard , bright blue eyes and a red nose that signaled he liked his ale too much.

“This is my Aunt Sophie from upcountry, Abraham.  She’s visiting Catherine for a month.”  His Aunt!  Do I appear that much older than he?  Well, at least I wasn’t  wasn’t  a ghost to van Doren.   He gave a slight nod and lead us into the barn.

“There’s four pups, but one of them’s  a runt.  All livers this time, with white chests.  They’ll be about 2 months out, I believe.  You wanting the whole litter?”

“I would, first I see them.”  It seemed to me men talk differently to each other.   Sharp, short sentences as if they were fearful of too many words.

“Dam’s my Lilly, and not a finer dog in the township.  The sire is Rumble from over Vieght’s way.”

“How did she take to Rumble?  He’s a brute of a dog, too tall to the withers for a  spaniel.”

“Aye, these are big water spaniels, all except for that runt, which probably won’t live.  I should bash her head in.  The others will grow better.”  Van Doren was silent a moment in thought.    “So, you thinking of breeding your own pack here?”

“When I see them, Abraham.”  Abraham walked to the back of the barn, and in a dark stall, a bitch lay in a corner, her pups in the straw.

“Hush, Lilly, some one to see you.”  ‘Lilly’ was a thin hound, small for a water spaniel.  The birthing must have been hard, for three of the pups were large.  The fourth lay next to her, hopefully asleep.

Abraham van Doren,  a farmer and used to all sorts of death, picked up the runt by the back feet and shook it to see if it breathed..  I uttered a cry and rushed toward his hands.

“Give her to me!  Don’t shake her like that.”  The Dutchman almost dropped the pup in surprise, but handed her over.  It was now awake and I held her to my breast, warming her with my cloak.  I looked defiantly at Garrett and saw him suppress a smile.

“Abraham…I’ll take all the pups, and if you throw in the runt for my ‘Auntie’ here, I’ll give you a shilling more.”

They settled on a price for the dogs. Picking up and old basket, Abraham van Doren dropped the pups in.   Lilly whined and struggled to her feet.

“Quiet now girl.” His voice was kindly. “You’ll get some meat with your porridge tonight.”

We left the dim barn, and reentered the sunlight.  My eyes blinked and finally adjusted.  A few more minutes with Abraham van Doren,  and I mounted the step to the rig.
Garrett placed the basket at my feet and taking the reins from the post, turned the black horse homeward.

“So…I hear I’m your ‘Auntie’?  Does incest play into this story?”  I looked at his profile, and saw him smiling.

“I told you about the glamour.  Convenient part of magic, that trick.  Can make people see whatever you want.”

“Oh.”  I couldn’t resist asking him.  “And how did I look to Abraham van Doren?”

“Oh, old enough to throw off any scent of scandal.  About Catherine’s age.”

“With all the wrinkles and fallen- in gums?”

“Yep…and bald under your cap and bonnet.”  He was laughing now, and turned his wicked eyes on me.

“Thanks a lot, Sweet Demon!”  I said with sharply.  “Now you can read my thoughts and alter my appearance?  Is there anything you can’t do to me?”

“I told you when you first sat on my knee, in this story I am pulling the strings.  You write the book, my good little ‘Auntie’,  and I direct the play.”  He gave a short laugh and turned silent for a moment. “I can make you do anything I want… except one thing.”

“And quickly tell me what that is!”, I said laughing.

Looking ahead at the road, he answered.  “I can’t make you love me.”

My heart flipped in my chest, and my eyes misted over.

Ah, Garrett, my sweet Demon.   I am glad you aren’t looking.   My face would betray me.  I would be totally lost.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

“The Zar Tale” …a Turkish Tale of a handsome devil.

(The Zar is a number of things in Middle Eastern and North African societies. One, it’s a ritual of extracting a Demon from the possessed, placating and restoring them into the original body. Two, a Zar is also a Demon or Djinn. Three, the Zar is a bonding or ritual dance among women. And four, the Zar is also a form of Hyperarousal Trance, distinct from meditative trances.)

The ZAR, a Turkish Tale

“Woman!” said Ahmed with anger. “We are married a year. You behave like a child! You don’t speak to my mother. I did not get married for this treatment. You are a terrible wife!”

Ahmed has a reason to be angry with Aya. She does not act the spouse he believed he deserved. He expected a paradise on earth, a wife pliable to his wishes and prepared to serve his wants. But Aya was young, only fifteen years old at the wedding. She came from across the mountain, from a village no different from where she was now. No village in this part of the country was much different, and the mountains bred people repeating the same traditions and habits.

Aya was very young. She was a daughter born in the middle of ten children, not noticed by many. Plus, she was only a shy girl, and not expected to shine. When a matchmaker came from Ahmed’s parents, Aya’s were relieved to marry her off. Both sets of parents, with the matchmaker in the middle, bargained for Aya much as her father bought sheep in the market. Aya was married and packed off to Ahmed’s parents, and that was the last Aya’s family saw of her that year.

Aya drooped. Deprived of the only people she knew and thrust into a family of strangers, she became even more timid. The excitement of the honeymoon had passed, and living with Ahmed in only a room apart from the large, noisy family was not much of a change. All brides have hope and expectations, and though she said nothing, Aya still was a bride.

Ahmed’s mother smelled trouble. She could tell by the scowl of her favorite son he was not happy. Peace on earth depended upon the contentment of men, and Ahmed’s mother had tradition to uphold. She knew the trouble gossip could cause, she had been the generator of much of it during her life. Soon Ahmed’s sadness would be common discussion around the well, and the family would lose face. Something had to be done.

Ahmed’s mother went and cornered her in the courtyard while she fed chickens.

“Aya, why the long face, my daughter?” Ahmed’s mother showed little attention to her daughter- in- law, for she did not understand her. She was quiet, which was proper for a good Muslim woman, but too quiet. She had grown listless and preoccupied with spending time on the roof looking over the dry and rocky countryside. Many times Ahmed’s mother caught her up there, a strange look in her eye, and seemingly deaf to her calls. At first she had hoped for a grandchild, but Ahmed was spending more time with the men and less with his wife. Surely the girl should be able to charm her new husband. She must not be trying! Ahmed said little but all in the house knew something was wrong.

Ahmed’s mother could get nothing from her. The silly bride bowed her head, and cast her eyes downward, looking at her dusty sandals. Well, the peace of her household was at stake, and if Ahmed was unhappy, Ahmed’s mother was prepared to do battle.

But not with the girl. That would be beneath Ahmed’s mother.

So in the time honored tradition, Ahmed’s mother made a formal visit to the local Sheikha. She would know what to do. Ahmed’s mother would at least have the satisfaction of doing her duty by her son. If the Sheikha, named Shakira, was successful, Ahmed’s mother and father would be able at least to keep all of the bride price. To return it, or even a part, would be a terrible burden. Anyway, most of the bride price was already spent.

Shakira met with Ahmed’s mother and told her to send the girl. She would find out the trouble between Ahmed and Aya. She would fix what was broken.

At the appointed time, Aya showed up with her mother- in- law and a very quiet Ahmed. Shakira of course knew the young bride on sight, her family name and that she was a new bride, but she had never reason to notice her. She sometimes saw her at the village well, washing clothes, or feeding the chickens outside the door of Ahmed’s house. But she didn’t seem remarkable to Shakira. Just a young bride, nothing special.

Aya was very young, with not much meat on her bones. She would not give much heat next to Ahmed when the winter winds blew down from the mountains and turned the air raw and bitter. Better had Ahmed’s parents find him a bride who would fill his bed and warm his feet with her flesh. One could see there was bigger problems than too- thin Aya. The girl looked haunted to Shakira’s eyes.

Sending Ahmed and his mother home, Shakira prepared to question young Aya. First she had her sit and served her the sweet tea they brewed in the village and drank on all occasions. Aya was quiet, which wasn’t out of line for a young Muslim girl, but she noticed that she kept her eyes cast on the floor. This was more than a normal shyness. The girl appeared deeply disturbed.

“Come, Aya. Do not be shy. You know why you are here. Your husband has made complaints about your behavior in the marriage. Is something wrong, my daughter?”

Aya sipped at her tea and shook her head, but did not raise her eyes to Shakira’s face.

The Sheikha Shakira could tell many things by the shine of the eyes, by the carriage of the head, by the shoulders, by the sheen of the skin. Although thin, Aya did not appear sick, just unhappy.

“Aya”. Shakira thought a direct approach would get some answers. “Does Ahmed do what a husband should? Do you know what a husband does for his wife?”

Aya blushed, and her hands shook as she put her small glass down.

“Tell me,” said Shakira with an encouraging smile. “Does Ahmed put off his own pleasure for yours?” The look on Aya’s face told Shakira that Ahmed did not.

Aya’s blush increased, giving her dusky skin a bloom of beauty.

“Tell me, Aya.” Shakira’s voice was gentle and low, a conspiracy brewing between two women against all men.

“Does Ahmed touch you in your holy woman’s place? You know after you are married, it is right and good that he should? He should use his male member and his fingers and even his tongue.” Shakira sat back and looked closely at Aya. Her hands shook and she didn’t pick up her glass.

Ah, thought Shakira. Another stupid man that doesn’t know how to stroke his wife into bliss! Allah punish these men who are so selfish!

Shakira thought a different approach would be more fruitful. “Aya, do you touch yourself down there in your holy place? Did you know God has given you a body with all the pleasures of paradise on earth? You can touch and stroke and push your fingers in there and have lovely feelings. Perhaps you need to show Ahmed how to arouse you? You are married a year, and if your husband doesn’t understand, perhaps you need to give him a push. Do you understand, daughter?

Suddenly Aya started shaking violently and a great sob escaped from her throat.

“Aaaiiiyee! It is like a man is already in there…in my holy place, and he strokes where Ahmed puts his flute. I try to resist him, it is a demon inside of me! but I am not strong enough. Ah, Mother Shakira, help me! I have thought many times as I go to the roof of the house I would throw myself over the edge!”

This burst of words shocked Shakira. She sat there blinking, watching the young girl sob out her shame and fear. Ah! Now she had something to work with!

A demon. In bed between an ignorant girl and an even more ignorant husband!
But! This was something most interesting, something Shakira encountered at times among women. From the narrowness of their lives, in their isolation from the cities and from the stupidity of the men, a demon popped up frequently in the lives of married women. And thank God only married women. They seemed to scorn the virgins, which was good, for if they didn’t, it would mean the murder of many young women by their fathers and brothers, thought Shakira.

These spirits were helpful to women as Shakira knew well. They could give a woman a certain liberty to sass their husbands. If a word popped out, she could blame it on the Zar, the demon. It was not her fault, and punishing her would do no good. Something just came over her and she didn’t know where it came from. It was the Zar’s fault. He needed to have his power ‘reduced’. He needed a good talking to, to be placated, given new marching orders.

Shakira thought about the demon. She knew she could never can purge a Zar, these troubling spirits, she would have to cajole, puzzle, confuse and ultimately, placate them. But! She would have to restore them with their powers reduced. No one wants a Zar wandering around scaring the children and chickens. It was bad enough they sat under the trees in the woods on the mountains and woe to anyone who cast their eyes on a bodiless Zar! Shakira knew that to be immediate possession. The Zar needed a human body. That was where Zars lived comfortably.

Ah! An excuse for a Zar ritual! Shakira rubbed her hands in glee. The price of the feast and the sacrifice was less important than the chance to get the women together for some fun. And Zars were fun in a life that was black- clad, dusty and under the thumb of Allah and the men.

On the day of the Zar ritual, Shakira placed a tray of nuts and fruit on an altar in the middle of the room. The drummers came in earlier and were sitting together talking, laughing and drinking tea. The ney player, a young man, was sitting apart from the drummers, all women now. Incense was heavy, and the smell of it was hypnotic even before the drummers started beating their rhythm.

Shakira spent some time with Aya, talking to her, helping her ease herself into the ritual soon to take place. Aya had suffered some nerves, thrown up, and then seemed resigned to her fate, though she remained pale.

More women straggled into the room, waddling like black crows in a field. They sat in a rough circle, breathing in the heady perfume wafting from the burning incense. Some were praying to themselves, others beginning chants, and the combined sounds were like a hive of bees in the sunshine, dipping into the honey. Shakira was trying not to slip into her own trance, but the warm weather and the sunshine conspired to lull her senses. She looked over at Aya sitting with her mother and mother-in-law. She was dressed in a white cotton gown, her hair loose down her back. The hair was the last place that Aya’s demon would hold on to as she tossed her head around and around, throwing him into the arms of Shakira. She wondered what this demon would be like. Would he be a hard one to cajole? Would he demand a price for his obedience? Would she be strong enough, without rallying her own demons, to take him on?

None of this could she know in advance. Allah Provide, she prayed to herself.

Then the drummers started their different rhythms. Each part of the body was capable of possession and a different rhythm beat out on the stretched goat skin drums would find them out. The rhythm would call out to the soul of the demon, and he would have to answer. It was heartbeat to heartbeat.

The first rhythm was the ayoub, ‘dum-tec-a dum-tec-a’ becoming more and more intense. Shakira could not help begin her own trance. It was a necessary part of the Zar ritual. She would catch the demon when he was tossed from Aya’s hair, wrestle him in her own arms and give him a good talking to!

Aya had risen, fear distorting her pale face as she walked around the room, her eyes like big dark moons. A blind man could see how frightened she was! Then, allowing herself to feel the rhythm that seeped into the blood of all there, she started to nod her head, back and forth, little nods at first, as if she were tentatively allowing the heartbeat of the drums to enter her body. Her eyes glazed and she started to change the gait of her walking, as if she was swaying to some internal rhythm set up as a counterpoint to what was heard by all others. Her hips started to jerk and her head rolled on her neck in little circles, hair flying in gentle waves around her. The ney player picked up the tempo a bit, the drums followed. Aya’s movements around the circle increased in speed. She started to whirl around as she walked, her face upwards to the ceiling, now her hair flying out like a whirling Dervish’s skirts. Faster and faster Aya twirled and jerked around the room, throwing her arms outward and upward. She uttered little shrieks, unheard with the general chanting and drumming and the shrill music of the ney.

Shakira knew that if there was a demon inside of Aya, he would soon appear. She swayed back and forth in her own trance, standing with her arms outward towards the spinning girl.

There! Something hit Shakira in her chest! Something solid and hard enough to almost knock the wind from her. Aya sank down in a heap, shuddering with spasms. Women moved to chant over her, and ever the drums and ney player increased their frenzied rhythms.

Shakira slipped into full trance and talked to the Demon standing there, hovering with a scowl, a male Demon of course! His aura was powerful, and he shimmered before her with a golden glimmer. Shakira saw him clearly in her mind’s eye, and saw how beautiful and arrogant this demon was.

“In the name of Allah, the One God! Demon. Tell me your name!”

Shakira spoke in the tongue of the tranced, unintelligible to the women around the room.

He scowled at her, but bidden he was commanded to answer.

“My name is Ali”, and his voice was sweet and seductive, in spite of the grimace.

Ah! Thought Shakira. What a lovely demon to possess a woman. His hair was black and lay in curls over his brow. His lips were full, the color of pomegranate seeds. His nose was like an arrow, straight and elegant. His eyes were two black and shimmering pools, his cheeks like halves of apples. Ah! Shakira was shaken by his beauty. She cleared her throat and her thoughts before speaking again to him.

“Demon. Listen to me. You disrupt the marriage of Ahmed and Aya. You must stop your demonic ways and let Ahmed have back his wife.”

“Ahmed is a fool and doesn’t know what to do with Aya. She is afraid of him, he plays his flute for himself, and ignores his wife.” Demon Ali’s voice was a low, honeyed growl, seeded with contempt.

“True, true enough, Demon. But you could help here. You could teach Aya things to please Ahmed and perhaps dense Ahmed will become a proper husband.”

“Why should I help Ahmed? What is Ahmed to me?” Demon Ali spat on the ground, a golden stream of honey.

“Ah Demon! You are too young or stupid yourself if you don’t think here. You could teach Aya where to place her hands on herself and Ahmed. You could take your own pleasure between them. How much more it would be if you brought them together as man and wife! You could tickle Aya’s womb and love chamber and she would toss her hips like a proper wife at Ahmed. You could stick your tongue on Aya’s button and make her think of love. You could torment both and what Demon isn’t happiest when he is tormenting two instead of one?”

The Demon Ali pulsated and quivered with her suggestions. Shakira could see he was considering her words.

(Demon Ali thought it over and could see her point of argument. If nothing else, he could torment Ahmed in some particularly pleasing way to demons. Perhaps he could be an irritant in more ways than one. Perhaps he could make Ahmed’s cock fall off–)

“I hear your thoughts, Demon. Consider the case. Either Aya acts the proper wife to Ahmed, or Ahmed sends her back to her parents. She will disgrace her family, they will suffer needlessly because of a silly and selfish devil.”

Shakira could tell that Ali the Demon was considering his choices. He glimmered and glowed and vibrated and fairly danced in the air. Shakira noticed too that his male member was vibrating along with the rest of him. An impressive piece of anatomy for any man or demon. Ah! Ali the Demon was wasted on that little fool Aya!

Shakira, a wise woman with quite a number of years of experience with Djinns, decided she would have compassion for this pretty demon standing before her in all his glory. Perhaps this alluring devil could entertain her, Shakira, and leave Aya alone. She had an eye for a good looking male, and knowing the nature of demons, she could take some pleasure for herself under her chador at times. Perhaps something mutually pleasing to both could be arranged. It was worth a thought.

“So, Demon…what will it be? Will you help Aya become a wife and be a good demon, or do I have to call forth stronger Spirits to make you think about your behavior? It is your choice.”

Ali the Demon sighed, and it was like a sweet wind blowing from the east up Shakira’s skirts. Her eyes widened, in spite of her trance, and a smile came over her face. The Demon slyly looked at Shakira from under the fringe of his black lashes. A smile exchanged between them…

A bargain was struck!

Ahmed and Aya became a happy couple. Yes, Ali the Demon still tickled Aya in her love passage, and sat smoking his hooka crosslegged up by her womb. Ahmed was pleased with Aya now as his wife, and eternally grateful to the Sheikha.

And as for Shakira, she and Ali the Demon enjoyed many hours under Shakira’s chador. He tickled Sharika around the ears, and she spread her legs when she was busy at her kitchen fire, preparing food or just standing at the window, watching her neighbors outside. Peace reigned in both households.

Blessings on the head of Sheikha Shakira!

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

I have posted another chapter of “Another Story”,

only because a couple of readers were interested in the first chapter I posted here, Chapter 10.

In rereading this very strange novel…I realize that it came at my very beginning interest in D/s and somewhere I had picked up some concepts of J. Norman’s Natural Order. This surprises me, because I only started to read Norman late last fall, a full year AFTER writing this novel. I wonder where I got these concepts then?

Well, no matter, I have not read this book in almost two years, and am surprised myself at the plot. I think this new year I will go back and rewrite and finish this book.

Jane

ANOTHER STORY, Part 11

I am standing at a window, here in this bedroom. I find myself more and more in his world, the world of my Demon Lover. I am not sure of the sequence of time, but it seems that every few days I appear back in this room. Today, I have been busy for a number of hours writing a chapter, one that I hope will bring me to the last one, the conclusion of the novel. I have been in starts and stops over it for the past month, and have had trouble forming my thoughts. Of course, there has been much to distract me. His presence in my ‘life’ , for I guess you could call this life, has been a major obstacle in finishing much. He is entertaining and charming, and brings much trouble to my existence. But all in all, it has been a fruitful time, for if I stumble in the writing, there is much to take up my imagination. I have found out numerous things about him. He is a jealous demon, who prates that he will chase away any competition, and has little regard for my earthly marriage. He already admits that he visits me, and not just in my dreams, but takes a seat next to my bed, and involves himself in my sleep. My patient husband sleeps deeply, and I am not sure that Garrett, the mortal name of my Demon, does not have his hand further in this. A dear friend from the ‘north country’ as my Demon calls him, already has caught his interest, and he has as much threatened me with some foul magic if I continue to converse with him. I will not bow to his threats, for I know that he has become fond of me, and fears my displeasure. He can be a bully but I know now that he needs much assurance from me, and that I give most willingly. I have grown as fond of him, as he seems to be of me, though he goes to great pains to hide it. Ah! The masculine vanity! Alive even in immortals!

I am standing at a window, looking out on a bleak landscape. The middle of winter, and there is fog swirling on the ground around a clump of trees in the midground distance. Or it looks like fog. But then again, it comes together like smoke and rises from a central point in the trees. How strange. It whirls and eddies and takes shape like smoke from a chimney. It holds my attention and I think that I could easily go out for a walk. I throw on my red cloak and go downstairs and out the front door. It is not a long walk to the stand of trees where I saw the smoke, and I feel a strange compulsion to follow. The trees are bare of all leaves, their black limbs are silhouetted against the gray, winter sky. I walk through them, feeling a sense of discovery, being pulled on by my curiosity. There, before me, is perhaps a low fire, though I can’t see any flame. The smoke is thick, and it seems to pour from the ground! As I look upwards, around the trees, there are blackbirds perched in the limbs. They are totally silent, which is strange for a flock of blackbirds. Suddenly the smoke parts, and there, sitting on a stump, about twenty feet from me, is Obadiah!

Oh! I can’t tell if he is an apparition, a ghost, or something else, but he sits there, his long legs stretched out before him, crossed one upon the other, and his arms crossed over his chest. He is not wearing a coat, but is dressed in a white, linen shirt, with a black stock wound around his neck. His face has no expression, but his eyes pierce me with their intensity, and I waver where I stand, not sure that I will faint or remain conscious. He smiles at me, and it is a mocking smile, devoid of any kindness. He is alluring, he is another presence, and I find myself drawn to him as in a trance. I should be afraid of him, considering what he has done to me, but for some reason, I am not. I am excited and unsettled at the same time, perhaps fear plays into these emotions, but curiosity and a perverse desire overcomes all else.

Suddenly! I am laid out on the ground, like I have been pushed down violently behind me. Obadiah disappears in a flash, and behind me is Garrett. He has a sword in his hand, and his face is terrible to see. He grabs me by the wrist and pulls me to my feet, where he scowls in my direction and drags me out of the glen at a fast pace. I don’t remember my feet even touching the ground, until we are back in my bedroom, and the next thing I hear him slamming the door.

“You damn little fool!” He is furious, and grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me hard. I feel like a rat caught by a terrier. My head is thrown back and forth by his violence and I think my neck will snap. He releases me fast and I fall to the floor. I lay there for a moment, aware that he is standing over me. I can still feel his wrath, like a thick fog in the air. I gasp with fear, and turn to look at him, still lying on the floor. He is standing over me, looking like he could easily kill me.

Then, just as fast, his anger disappeared from his face, and I heard him say, “Nay, get off the floor. You look like a kicked dog. I’ll not harm you more.” He extended his hand and pulled me to my feet, where he looked at me closely. I could tell he was still angry, but is trying his best to not act upon it.

However, I was now the one who is furious. How dare he shake me like a child! How dare he throw me to the ground! Without another thought, I raised my hand and strike him across the face. I saw his surprise, and then, to my horror, heard him utter a hollow laugh. He grabbed both of my wrists in his hands before I could think and pinned them behind me. He did not spare me any pain in the doing.

“So you want to play rough, do you?” He laughed again, and sitting down with me fast in a chair, up ended me across his lap and pulled up my skirts. He exposed my nakedness and beat me hard with his hand. I yelled loudly, and cursed him with all the names I could think of. He thrashed me, hitting my buttocks and also the tops of my legs. I screamed out until I thought I would go hoarse. I cried and pleaded with him, yet he did not spare me his blows. He threw me onto the bed, where I cried and sobbed mightily, more from fear than pain, but there certainly was enough of that! My butt was burning with his blows. I hated him thoroughly, for I had never been treated like this before. I cried until I stopped, and he didn’t offer a word of compassion or apology. When I finally uncovered my face from the pillows, I saw him sitting there, smoking his pipe, like nothing in the world had happened. I felt humiliated and belittled.

“Tell me,” he said between puffs. “Tell me what possessed you to leave this room and go into the woods.” His eyes glittered through the smoke and I knew that I had better take him seriously. Now that I knew he would not spare me his hands, I was afraid of him.

“Oh, my dear Betsy, I can smell your fear, but that is not what I am after. Tell me, now, why you went into the woods.”

I rose up from my stomach, and gingerly sat on the bed. My butt hurt! He was certainly strong with his hands! “I don’t know. I saw some smoke coming from the glen, and I thought that it was interesting. I felt curious.”

“Ah. Did you feel drawn to the woods?” He puffed more forcefully on his pipe.

“Well, the smoke drew me, but then, when I got down there, and near, I felt strangely drawn to the trees. The birds were all silent, I remember that clearly.”

“Looks like Obadiah has called upon other forces for his designs.” He puffed on his pipe. “Seems like he is getting a bit desperate.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is charming you and others to do his bidding. I don’t like it a bit. Makes me work harder, something I generally avoid. Looks like he’s ready for battle.” He spit on the floor and I grimaced at him.

“Who is he charming, you make no sense?” He made no earthly sense to me at all.

My Demon thought a bit before he answered me. “You asked me before about my world. Well, there are many worlds. I can frequent a number of them. This one, where I appear to you, is full of characters. I get lost in the numbers, can’t remember all the hierarchy. But it’s simple enough, or at least I’ll make it simple enough for you. Listen closely. Demons are intermediaries between gods and men. Most of us, what you call ‘demons’ were once men. We are not angels, though. Don’t think that we are. No, there are lots of shapes and shifts abounding. There are Fates, who alter destiny, there are what you know as poltergeists, who cause much mischief, there are the incubi and succubae that you have already experienced (here he tipped his pipe in my direction), there are familiars, who assist what you call witches.” He puffed on his pipe, and packed it down again with his thumb. “There are Demons formed from human semen.” Here he grinned broadly, the smoke swirling around his face, obscuring his eyes. “There are disguised Demons, which I fear is our friend Obadiah, makes it tricky in dealing with him. And there are Demons that instigate Witchcraft. I don’t know what we are dealing with at present, but we are about to find out. He grows more powerful.”

“Is he more powerful than you?” Oh! I have such fear here!

He grins around the stem of his pipe. “No, I’m still more powerful than he. But he grows. And he has enough tricks to harness Cheitan and Saalah to do his bidding.” He laughed a short, bitter laugh.

“And who are they?”

“They are some minor demons, spirits if you will. Not of much merit, but amenable to a bribe. Cheitan is the demon of Smoke and Saalah is a demon that intices women into the woods. All kinds of mischief can befall a maid in the woods. They are known as some of the ‘Devil’s Handmaids’”. He puffed on his pipe, sending up a plume of smoke to the ceiling. An example of “Cheitan”?

“And about your being in the woods, my dear lady. Very foolish of you. Had I not come at the moment I did, you would have suffered another rape by Obadiah. He seems to delight in taking his perverse pleasures with you. You can now thank me for saving you from an even more terrible attack than last time.”

I thought, what worse could he do to me than when he raped me? I shivered.

“Oh, there are plenty of tricks he could render upon your soft body, my darling,.” said my demon, reading my thoughts. “What he did the first time was just a first course for his appetite. You forget we demons have terrific appetites, especially for mortal women. Your flesh, especially those places between your soft, white thighs, are irresistible to us demons.” He leered at me. He is so nasty!

“And what bribe does he induce them to work for him?”

“Probably your blood, or a piece of your flesh. Or if he’s in a particularly generous mood, a piece of your ass. Of course, that would be after he has sated himself on your charms. He would turn you over to them, where they would use you until they were bored and would tear you to pieces.”

Oh, what a terrible mouth on him!

“You see, my darling woman, as long as Obadiah thinks that you are, ah, I think you call it “a free agent’ in your world? Well, as long as Obadiah thinks he can take you at will, even from under my nose, he will come back and try it again. There are only a few ways to discourage him from this behavior.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, it is not by my authority to tell you how to end your novel, but killing him off would help….for a while. That would be one way. There is another way, but you would not want to go down that path.” He laughed to himself, and puffed hard on his pipe, his eyes glittering with mischief.

“And what is that path, dear Demon?”

It seemed that the room darkened, or perhaps the sky outside did. But something changed noticeably. He still sat there but it seemed that he was whispering in my ear.

“A woman is much happier if she has a Master. Authority thrills a woman, my darling. Nothing but complete subjugation will finally satisfy her.” He smiled at me, and I shivered at his words. What a strange and alien a concept to me. To call him “master”!

“In the animal world, it’s nature’s decree the male shall dominate. And you are my little vixen, my little red fox.” He smiled around the stem of his pipe. “And I am very much the male, here.”

I would not dispute that statement! He was more ‘masculine’ than ten men, twenty. And very proud of it. No ‘metrosexual’ confusion for him.

“You know, sweet darling, I am thinking that Obadiah is nothing more than a very powerful incubus. Sexual relations with an incubus are decidedly unpleasant and an often painful affair. I think that you would agree with that.” He would get no argument from me….

“So, Demon, what are you saying that I should do?”

“Why don’t you refer to me as Demon Lover anymore?”

“So, Demon Lover, what should I do?”

“Look, Betsy, sweetwoman of mine, I think that you should come under my power completely, and let it be known.” He grinned broadly. Oh! This looked like fun for him!

“What is it you are saying I do?”

“Sex is a powerful thing in our worlds, as well as yours. I am suggesting that you become my consort, for as long as you inhabit my world. That could be a long time, it depends upon things.”

“What things, Demon?”

“Ah, that I have no competition in your heart and mind, that you submit to everything I say and do, and that I am Master of you and your body. That you obey me and submit to me in all things. Could you do this?”

“I don’t know. You know that I am married, and I have my friend in the ‘north country’ as you call him. Would I have to give them up for safety here?”

“Well, I can not trample upon your marriage vows, came long before me.”

“So did my friend, Garrett.”

“Ah, that is another complication. But I will look the other way if you please me in all other things.”

“Are you talking about whips and chains and things, Devil?”

He laughed at my words. “Why in Hell’s good name would I need such things? I’m talking about the natural roles of man and woman, or in this case, Demon and mortal woman. What could be clearer?”

“You have lost me. I don’t know anything of subjugation or submission. We modern women tend to avoid all such talk and behavior.”

“And are you any happier for it?” His eyes glittered through the smoke he exhaled.

He had me there. Relations in the twenty first century were confusing enough. Was there any real happiness between men and woman? There was a lot of anger, and sham, and moving about, exchanging partners and forming anew. There was a lot of unhappiness and divorces. The roles between women and men seemed to be mandated by some chaos that we danced to faster and faster. The ‘natural’ roles that seemed to work for past generations were lost to us now. Women were more like men, and men! God! They were like women! Most women I knew had more ‘friends’ that were homosexual, gays, than girlfriends. They were interchangeable. The roles and relations had become very confused. Perhaps he had a point here. Perhaps what he was proposing was a balancing of the roles. The strong man (or devil) and the soft, weaker, woman. Perhaps he was on to something.

“You promise not to hurt me?” I asked him coyly.

He shook his head at me in wonder, and laughed. “Are woman from your century so distanced from their natures that they don’t trust the masculine? Can you place your heart and body in my hands and know that I will protect you? What is it that men do in your domain? Do they not do this fundamental role?”

“Well, not without a lot of confusion, Garrett. They get mixed messages from all sorts of places. I don’t think that modern men know what to do with women.”

He laughed delightedly and gave me his opinion. “You fuck them good, and often, and they keep you entertained. It’s really an easy proposition. They lay down and spread their legs on demand, and you chase off all the wolves. What’s so hard about that?”

Ah, he is a trying and primitive Demon! He has the manners of a goat, but I have told him that before. It is an exchange that he is proposing here. My protection and security from Obadiah if I ‘cleave’ myself to him completely. He hasn’t given me much to go on yet, but I am interested enough in his ideas here. And he has allowed my marriage and my friendships (there are others he doesn’t know about!) and promises to wink at them.

In any case, I am way over my head here, and not before believing in anything supernatural or paranormal, I find myself at a disadvantage. He holds all the cards right now, and I am at his mercy. My fear of Obadiah and what he can do to me overcomes my disdain for my overpowering, vulgar, demon lover.

Hopefully, he will be a kind and generous ‘master.’ I think this is called “bargaining with the Devil?”.

jane kohut-bartels
copyrighted, 2006, 2008

“Another Story”….I have been asked to post

some chapters of a book I have written almost two years ago. Interest (a little) came about with the characters in “The Devil in Paris”, a four part short story I posted recently on ERWA. Those characters, John Garrett and Madame/Monsieur Gormosy, came from this novel, but John Garrett was Garrett Cortelyou in the original.

Cortelyou is a Dutch devil…his mother human and his father Demon. Betsy is a 21st. century writer zapped back in time to 1822. It isn’t clear what happened to her, but she woke up in the bed of the bedroom of the first novel…and she was the author of the first novel. Go figure..It gets more convoluted as it goes.

It generally isn’t a good thing to start a serialization not in the beginning, but I float this here to see the interest in the plot…which is hard to tell from what I have written or what transpires in the chapter. So it goes.

This is very rough, but it’s one of my first attempts to write…I can do better now.

ANOTHER STORY, Part 10

“Tell me, Demon”, I asked. Tell me more about your ‘world.’ You certainly have pushed your way into mine.”

“I wouldn’t say pushed, Madame Author,” he retorted. “I would say, more ‘pulled’ into your world, by the push of your ink.”

Perhaps. I was trying to make sense of what had happened to me since he first stepped from the page.

“Can’t you write “leaped” from the page? Sounds more manly.”

I laughed. This demon lover of mine (“Capitals, Please…as in “Demon Lover” he whispers to me…)

…This Demon Lover is always concerned about his masculine…’virtues’. Can you use the word ‘virtue’ with a devil? Well, he is very concerned about how he appears. This is a little vanity I have discovered. Makes him more ‘human’ to me.

“Don’t bet on it. You’ll lose your coin.”

“Then tell me, Garrett. By what other names have you been known?”

My Demon grinned across the table at me. “Pick a letter from the alphabet.”

“Stop being coy. Tell me about your world. What do you do with yourself when you are not here with me. That will do well for starters.”

“Well, ‘for starters’ as you put it, I could say that I bedevil other old maids or I could tell you that I danced in the street to the tune of my fiddle, or I was a gigolo, or it was ‘none of your business’ as you say to me. Pick.”

“Ah! So…I’m an old maid to you? I guess this is the end of the honeymoon.”

“Could be. We almost started a litter last time.” He grinned broadly at me

“You can start with that little event. What happened there? All I remember is being very heated.”

He grinned again. “You could certainly say that. I seem to have those effects on old maids.”

He is an insufferable bore! But I vaguely remember being….passionately aroused, out of my mind with lust, and then I remembered the sleep. He passed his hand down my face, and I floated into a darkness. There were stars above me, and little hills beneath. The hills were like little mole hills.

“That’s a nursery.” He smiled at me, and then laughed at my expression.

“The mole hills? What are you talking about.”

“Some dimension’s nursery, where the little monsters are cradled until they are let out upon some world.”

Lately I have discovered that my Demon Lover has knowledge about worlds and creatures that I don’t have a language for. Asked directly, and he will hem and haw. But every so often, he will slip up and tell me something actually interesting.

“You hurt my feelings, Betsy. Everything I have to say is interesting.” The Devil is reading my mind again. He does so at will.

“And besides, you are a virgin where the cosmos is concerned. I only tell you what you need to know.” He leaned towards me across the table between us. “Besides, it can be a very scary place. Good thing you have me around.”

He puffed on his long white clay pipe and I would have to say that his last statement could easily be qualified.

“Tell me, Garrett, if I was ‘breeding’ as you say, what would the baby look like at birth?” I was curious as any woman would be.

“If they were girls, they would have your breasts. If boys….my cock.” He grinned his nasty grin at me.

“No…I mean, would they be human looking? Would I be able to love this child?”

“Every other woman who has had my children loves them…Don’t know why you would be any different, Betsy.”

I didn’t expect this! Other children by him. Somewhere in the novel, I had remembered writing that he had two bastard children by a woman in Martinique, as Obadiah threw at Jennie, but then I had forgotten to follow up with this.

“You are slipping on a lot of things, sweet lady.”

“I guess it’s because I am now seen by you as an ‘old maid?’”

“You can be revived.” He had a nasty wit at times. He grinned at me and snapping his fingers, he produced out of the ether, two tankards of ale.

“Do you aim to get me drunk?” He knew that I couldn’t drink more than a glass of wine. A tankard would put me to sleep. He grinned again, reading my mind.

“Tell me…you must know more than you have let on. How did I become fertile?” This certainly was a worry for me, because I was beyond the age where a woman needs to carry around a pregnancy. I had never thought of ‘demon-control’ before.

He looked thoughtful for a minute, and puffed on his pipe. “ There are many ways and many carriers of mischief about. This could be what you call a succubus or it could be of another species altogether.”

“So, you have no control over what happened to me?” I was surprised if this was true.

“Oh no, I could make it happen myself, but it’s so early in the affair, sweetheart, and I wanted to have more fun before I loosed my seed up your womb.”” He laughed his wicked laugh. “Much more fun. Besides, I would be turned away from your charms when you got heavy with whatever was brewing in there. “ He took a swig of his ale and his eyes glittered across the rim of his tankard. “So it ever is with mortal woman.”

“Those mole hills you said were nurseries. What happens to the birthlings when they are born?”

“Think of spawns or swarms of fish. Most are eaten by other species, some by their own. Others end up ‘road-kill’.”

“Oh! That is too horrible!” I was shocked by his words.

“No so much if you saw them. It would take a particular mother to nurture one,…like a blind one.” He laughed as he swallowed his ale.

“Would our child appear like a monster?”

He put his ale down on the table and looked across at me. “Not if you loved it from birth.”

That was not exactly encouraging!

“Garrett…do you have shape shifters in your world?”

“Doesn’t every world have that? I think you call them transvestites in yours.”

I had to laugh at his words. Not exactly what I was asking, but I’ll take that as an answer from him. Ah…Witty Devil.

He knew much more than he would tell me. He held some of the secrets of the ages, I was sure. But he was a damn tricky Devil, and he made me work for it all. He was like peeling an onion. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get to his center. He was full of mystery, but then, most demons are. If anyone tells you that they are benign, or banal, don’t believe a word of it. They are charmers and tricksters and will keep you unbalanced.. My Demon was a handful, but ‘life’ as I was becoming to know, would be a lot duller without him. I had learned it was not just the human heart that was layered with complexities. If I was learning anything, it was that the Universe held infinite mysteries, some of them anxious to be known.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2008

THE ZAR, A Turkish Tale………

was the first story and  grew into “The Zar Tales”. I am rewriting this short story for inclusion in “A Seasoning of Lust”.

(The Zar is a number of things in Middle Eastern and North African societies. One, it’s a ritual of extracting a Demon from the possessed, placating and restoring them into the original body. Two, a Zar is also a Demon or Djinn. Three, the Zar is a bonding or ritual dance among women. And four, the Zar is also a form of Hyperarousal Trance, distinct from meditative trances.)

The ZAR, a Turkish Tale

“Woman!” said Ahmed with anger. “We are married a year. You behave like a child! You don’t speak to my mother. I did not get married for this treatment. You are a terrible wife!”

Ahmed has a reason to be angry with Aya. She does not act the spouse he believed he deserved. He expected a paradise on earth, a wife pliable to his wishes and prepared to serve his wants. But Aya was young, only fifteen years old at the wedding. She came from across the mountain, from a village no different from where she was now. No village in this part of the country was much different, and the mountains bred people repeating the same traditions and habits.

Aya was very young. She was a daughter born in the middle of ten children, not noticed by many. Plus, she was only a shy girl, and not expected to shine. When a matchmaker came from Ahmed’s parents, Aya’s were relieved to marry her off. Both sets of parents, with the matchmaker in the middle, bargained for Aya much as her father bought sheep in the market. Aya was married and packed off to Ahmed’s parents, and that was the last Aya’s family saw of her that year.

Aya drooped. Deprived of the only people she knew and thrust into a family of strangers, she became even more timid. The excitement of the honeymoon had passed, and living with Ahmed in only a room apart from the large, noisy family was not much of a change. All brides have hope and expectations, and though she said nothing, Aya still was a bride.

Ahmed’s mother smelled trouble. She could tell by the scowl of her favorite son he was not happy. Peace on earth depended upon the contentment of men, and Ahmed’s mother had tradition to uphold. She knew the trouble gossip could cause, she had been the generator of much of it during her life. Soon Ahmed’s sadness would be common discussion around the well, and the family would lose face. Something had to be done.

Ahmed’s mother went and cornered her in the courtyard while she fed chickens.

“Aya, why the long face, my daughter?” Ahmed’s mother showed little attention to her daughter- in- law, for she did not understand her. She was quiet, which was proper for a good Muslim woman, but too quiet. She had grown listless and preoccupied with spending time on the roof looking over the dry and rocky countryside. Many times Ahmed’s mother caught her up there, a strange look in her eye, and seemingly deaf to her calls. At first she had hoped for a grandchild, but Ahmed was spending more time with the men and less with his wife. Surely the girl should be able to charm her new husband. She must not be trying! Ahmed said little but all in the house knew something was wrong.

Ahmed’s mother could get nothing from her. The silly bride bowed her head, and cast her eyes downward, looking at her dusty sandals. Well, the peace of her household was at stake, and if Ahmed was unhappy, Ahmed’s mother was prepared to do battle.

But not with the girl. That would be beneath Ahmed’s mother.

So in the time honored tradition, Ahmed’s mother made a formal visit to the local Sheikha. She would know what to do. Ahmed’s mother would at least have the satisfaction of doing her duty by her son. If the Sheikha, named Shakira, was successful, Ahmed’s mother and father would be able at least to keep all of the bride price. To return it, or even a part, would be a terrible burden. Anyway, most of the bride price was already spent.

Shakira met with Ahmed’s mother and told her to send the girl. She would find out the trouble between Ahmed and Aya. She would fix what was broken.

At the appointed time, Aya showed up with her mother- in- law and a very quiet Ahmed. Shakira of course knew the young bride on sight, her family name and that she was a new bride, but she had never reason to notice her. She sometimes saw her at the village well, washing clothes, or feeding the chickens outside the door of Ahmed’s house. But she didn’t seem remarkable to Shakira. Just a young bride, nothing special.

Aya was very young, with not much meat on her bones. She would not give much heat next to Ahmed when the winter winds blew down from the mountains and turned the air raw and bitter. Better had Ahmed’s parents find him a bride who would fill his bed and warm his feet with her flesh. One could see there was bigger problems than too- thin Aya. The girl looked haunted to Shakira’s eyes.

Sending Ahmed and his mother home, Shakira prepared to question young Aya. First she had her sit and served her the sweet tea they brewed in the village and drank on all occasions. Aya was quiet, which wasn’t out of line for a young Muslim girl, but she noticed that she kept her eyes cast on the floor. This was more than a normal shyness. The girl appeared deeply disturbed.

“Come, Aya. Do not be shy. You know why you are here. Your husband has made complaints about your behavior in the marriage. Is something wrong, my daughter?”

Aya sipped at her tea and shook her head, but did not raise her eyes to Shakira’s face.

The Sheikha Shakira could tell many things by the shine of the eyes, by the carriage of the head, by the shoulders, by the sheen of the skin. Although thin, Aya did not appear sick, just unhappy.

“Aya”. Shakira thought a direct approach would get some answers. “Does Ahmed do what a husband should? Do you know what a husband does for his wife?”

Aya blushed, and her hands shook as she put her small glass down.

“Tell me,” said Shakira with an encouraging smile. “Does Ahmed put off his own pleasure for yours?” The look on Aya’s face told Shakira that Ahmed did not.

Aya’s blush increased, giving her dusky skin a bloom of beauty.

“Tell me, Aya.” Shakira’s voice was gentle and low, a conspiracy brewing between two women against all men.

“Does Ahmed touch you in your holy woman’s place? You know after you are married, it is right and good that he should? He should use his male member and his fingers and even his tongue.” Shakira sat back and looked closely at Aya. Her hands shook and she didn’t pick up her glass.

Ah, thought Shakira. Another stupid man that doesn’t know how to stroke his wife into bliss! Allah punish these men who are so selfish!

Shakira thought a different approach would be more fruitful. “Aya, do you touch yourself down there in your holy place? Did you know God has given you a body with all the pleasures of paradise on earth? You can touch and stroke and push your fingers in there and have lovely feelings. Perhaps you need to show Ahmed how to arouse you? You are married a year, and if your husband doesn’t understand, perhaps you need to give him a push. Do you understand, daughter?

Suddenly Aya started shaking violently and a great, wrenching sob escaped from her throat.

“Aaaiiiyee! It is like a man is already in there…in my holy place, and he strokes where Ahmed puts his flute. I try to resist him, it is a demon inside of me! but I am not strong enough. Ah, Mother Shakira, help me! I have thought many times as I go to the roof of the house I would throw myself over the edge!”

This burst of words shocked Shakira. She sat there blinking, watching the young girl sob out her shame and fear. Ah! Now she had something to work with!

A demon. In bed between an ignorant girl and an even more ignorant husband!
But! This was something most interesting, something Shakira encountered at times among women. From the narrowness of their lives, in their isolation from the cities and from the stupidity of the men, a demon popped up frequently in the lives of married women. And thank God only married women. They seemed to scorn the virgins, which was good, for if they didn’t, it would mean the murder of many young women by their fathers and brothers, thought Shakira.

These spirits were helpful to women as Shakira knew well. They could give a woman a certain liberty to sass their husbands. If a word popped out, she could blame it on the Zar, the demon. It was not her fault, and punishing her would do no good. Something just came over her and she didn’t know where it came from. It was the Zar’s fault. He needed to have his power ‘reduced’. He needed a good talking to, to be placated, given new marching orders.

Shakira thought about the demon. She knew she could never can purge a Zar, these troubling spirits, she would have to cajole, puzzle, confuse and ultimately, placate them. But! She would have to restore them with their powers reduced. No one wants a Zar wandering around scaring the children and chickens. It was bad enough they sat under the trees in the woods on the mountains and woe to anyone who cast their eyes on a bodiless Zar! Shakira knew that to be immediate possession. The Zar needed a human body. That was where Zars lived comfortably.

Ah! An excuse for a Zar ritual! Shakira rubbed her hands in glee. The price of the feast and the sacrifice was less important than the chance to get the women together for some fun. And Zars were fun in a life that was black- clad, dusty and under the thumb of Allah and the men.

On the day of the Zar ritual, Shakira placed a tray of nuts and fruit on an altar in the middle of the room. The drummers came in earlier and were sitting together talking, laughing and drinking tea. The ney player, a young man, was sitting apart from the drummers, all women now. Incense was heavy, and the smell of it was hypnotic even before the drummers started beating their rhythm.

Shakira spent some time with Aya, talking to her, helping her ease herself into the ritual soon to take place. Aya had suffered some nerves, thrown up, and then seemed resigned to her fate, though she remained pale.

More women straggled into the room, waddling like black crows in a field. They sat in a rough circle, breathing in the heady perfume wafting from the burning incense. Some were praying to themselves, others beginning chants, and the combined sounds were like a hive of bees in the sunshine, dipping into the honey. Shakira was trying not to slip into her own trance, but the warm weather and the sunshine conspired to lull her senses. She looked over at Aya sitting with her mother and mother-in-law. She was dressed in a white cotton gown, her hair loose down her back. The hair was the last place that Aya’s demon would hold on to as she tossed her head around and around, throwing him into the arms of Shakira. She wondered what this demon would be like. Would he be a hard one to cajole? Would he demand a price for his obedience? Would she be strong enough, without rallying her own demons, to take him on?

None of this could she know in advance. Allah Provide, she prayed to herself.

Then the drummers started their different rhythms. Each part of the body was capable of possession and a different rhythm beat out on the stretched goat skin drums would find them out. The rhythm would call out to the soul of the demon, and he would have to answer. It was heartbeat to heartbeat.

The first rhythm was the ayoub, ‘dum-tec-a dum-tec-a’ becoming more and more intense. Shakira could not help begin her own trance. It was a necessary part of the Zar ritual. She would catch the demon when he was tossed from Aya’s hair, wrestle him in her own arms and give him a good talking to!

Aya had risen, fear distorting her pale face as she walked around the room, her eyes like big dark moons. A blind man could see how frightened she was! Then, allowing herself to feel the rhythm that seeped into the blood of all there, she started to nod her head, back and forth, little nods at first, as if she were tentatively allowing the heartbeat of the drums to enter her body. Her eyes glazed and she started to change the gait of her walking, as if she was swaying to some internal rhythm set up as a counterpoint to what was heard by all others. Her hips started to jerk and her head rolled on her neck in little circles, hair flying in gentle waves around her. The ney player picked up the tempo a bit, the drums followed. Aya’s movements around the circle increased in speed. She started to whirl around as she walked, her face upwards to the ceiling, now her hair flying out like a whirling Dervish’s skirts. Faster and faster Aya twirled and jerked around the room, throwing her arms outward and upward. She uttered little shrieks, unheard with the general chanting and drumming and the shrill music of the ney.

Shakira knew that if there was a demon inside of Aya, he would soon appear. She swayed back and forth in her own trance, standing with her arms outward towards the spinning girl.

There! Something hit Shakira in her chest! Something solid and hard enough to almost knock the wind from her. Aya sank down in a heap, shuddering with spasms. Women moved to chant over her, and ever the drums and ney player increased their frenzied rhythms.

Shakira slipped into full trance and talked to the Demon standing there, hovering with a scowl, a male Demon of course! His aura was powerful, and he shimmered before her with a golden glimmer. Shakira saw him clearly in her mind’s eye, and saw how beautiful and arrogant this demon was.

“In the name of Allah, the One God! Demon. Tell me your name!”

Shakira spoke in the tongue of the tranced, unintelligible to the women around the room.

He scowled at her, but bidden he was commanded to answer.

“My name is Ali”, and his voice was sweet and seductive, in spite of the grimace.

Ah! Thought Shakira. What a lovely demon to possess a woman. His hair was black and lay in curls over his brow. His lips were full, the color of pomegranate seeds. His nose was like an arrow, straight and elegant. His eyes were two black and shimmering pools, his cheeks like halves of apples. Ah! Shakira was shaken by his beauty. She cleared her throat and her thoughts before speaking again to him.

“Demon. Listen to me. You disrupt the marriage of Ahmed and Aya. You must stop your demonic ways and let Ahmed have back his wife.”

“Ahmed is a fool and doesn’t know what to do with Aya. She is afraid of him, he plays his flute for himself, and ignores his wife.” Demon Ali’s voice was a low, honeyed growl, seeded with contempt.

“True, true enough, Demon. But you could help here. You could teach Aya things to please Ahmed and perhaps dense Ahmed will become a proper husband.”

“Why should I help Ahmed? What is Ahmed to me?” Demon Ali spat on the ground, a golden stream of honey.

“Ah Demon! You are too young or stupid yourself if you don’t think here. You could teach Aya where to place her hands on herself and Ahmed. You could take your own pleasure between them. How much more it would be if you brought them together as man and wife! You could tickle Aya’s womb and love chamber and she would toss her hips like a proper wife at Ahmed. You could stick your tongue on Aya’s button and make her think of love. You could torment both and what Demon isn’t happiest when he is tormenting two instead of one?”

The Demon Ali pulsated and quivered with her suggestions. Shakira could see he was considering her words.

(Demon Ali thought it over and could see her point of argument. If nothing else, he could torment Ahmed in some particularly pleasing way to demons. Perhaps he could be an irritant in more ways than one. Perhaps he could make Ahmed’s cock fall off–)

“I hear your thoughts, Demon. Consider the case. Either Aya acts the proper wife to Ahmed, or Ahmed sends her back to her parents. She will disgrace her family, they will suffer needlessly because of a silly and selfish devil.”

Shakira could tell that Ali the Demon was considering his choices. He glimmered and glowed and vibrated and fairly danced in the air. Shakira noticed too that his male member was vibrating along with the rest of him. An impressive piece of anatomy for any man or demon. Ah! Ali the Demon was wasted on that little fool Aya!

Shakira, a wise woman with quite a number of years of experience with Djinns, decided she would have compassion for this pretty demon standing before her in all his glory. Perhaps this alluring devil could entertain her, Shakira, and leave Aya alone. She had an eye for a good looking male, and knowing the nature of demons, she could take some pleasure for herself under her chador at times. Perhaps something mutually pleasing to both could be arranged. It was worth a thought.

“So, Demon…what will it be? Will you help Aya become a wife and be a good demon, or do I have to call forth stronger Spirits to make you think about your behavior? It is your choice.”

Ali the Demon sighed, and it was like a sweet wind blowing from the east up Shakira’s skirts. Her eyes widened, in spite of her trance, and a smile came over her face. The Demon slyly looked at Shakira from under the fringe of his black lashes. A smile exchanged between them…

A bargain was struck!

Ahmed and Aya became a happy couple. Yes, Ali the Demon still tickled Aya in her love passage, and sat smoking his hooka crosslegged up by her womb. Ahmed was pleased with Aya now as his wife, and eternally grateful to the Sheikha.

And as for Shakira, she and Ali the Demon enjoyed many hours under Shakira’s chador. He tickled Sharika around the ears, and she spread her legs when she was busy at her kitchen fire, preparing food or just standing at the window, watching her neighbors outside. Peace reigned in both households.

Blessings on the head of Sheikha Shakira!

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008