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  He clung to her like a limpet, her own weight bearing her down onto his rigid penis, his strength of grip preventing her from levering herself off. His penis was now solidly inside her, thrusting up, feeling as stiff as a flagpole. Every time her muscles were forced to relax, she sagged a little deeper upon it, and was penetrated a little more and every time she gathered herself for a fresh effort, she found that she had that much further to rise.

  At last she collapsed, panting and exhausted, onto his muscular chest, then impelled by a feeling of humiliation in that position, she summoned her failing strength for a last effort. Panting she threw herself this way and that, rolling over, her long legs threshing, but her clinging burden only followed her, chuckling, sometimes on top sometimes below, until she fetched up solidly against the hut wall, this time underneath him.

  She subsided at last with a groan of helplessness, pinned into a corner. Grunting pleasurably, his lust only sharpened by the delay in her conquest, the cripple began to drive into her again, using all his incredible muscularity of waist and hips. His shortened torso became a lever lifting and thrusting, with his arms as the hinge. Meg was already well penetrated and in six or seven quick thrusts he had buried himself to his balls in her softly resistant sheath. A moment or two to catch his breath and then he began to fuck her hard with long, deep, strokes.

  It was both noisy and vigorous but it didn’t last long. Meg held herself rigid and perhaps the extended battle to counter and the subdue his prize had built up too much excitement, for he came, sparsely and evidently prematurely after a mere dozen or so thrusts.

  In evident chagrin, he cursed and spat. Helpless underneath his weight, Meg could only groan with obvious relief. She was still half-dazed and had hardly credited her defeat. Surely a healthy full-grown woman should be a match for a legless cripple! She felt she would be better prepared if he tried that again.

  Seeing her expression, her captor levered his torso back from her, using his long arms like human spider, cursing steadily under his breath. Meg started to sit up, but if she had thought he would accept his disappointment, she was about to learn another lesson.

  He moved fast, one massive fist yanking her with him, rolling her over and sending her sprawling face down. Before she could reorganize herself his other hand had unshipped the broad and heavy belt like a weightlifter’s cinch that formed part of his securing harness. Meg had hardly grasped his intentions, held in an iron grip with her arm doubled up between her shoulder blades and his dead weight pinning down her head and shoulders. From under his black eyebrows dark glittering eyes were fixed upon the squirming pink rounds of her upturned bottom. The belt was short thick and heavy; gripped in his fist by the buckle end it left the flat tongue free for business. He used it upon her unprotected behind and at once restored her painfully to full awareness of her position.

  It was wholly unaccustomed treatment. Meg jerked her head up her blonde curls flying, her legs kicked wildly at nothing. She greeted each stroke of the belt with a piercing shriek that must have aroused the whole village. She humped desperately upwards, knees driving at the dirt floor and only succeeded in making herself an easier target.

  “Hah! Achaa!” The brute grunted in satisfaction at her reaction. He balanced skilfully upon her back and shoulders, pinning her down and using every ounce of his weight to best advantage. As the blows multiplied, Meg’s shrieks took on a piteous note, her kicks declining in power and direction.

  “Achaa! Good! Good!” He dropped the belt then with powerful wrists and expert balance, threw his squirming and disheartened victim over onto her back again. Meg squealed as her well-flogged rump hit the hard earth floor and again on a rising note as her legs were parted, knees doubled back and thighs spread wide by his thrusting torso and muscular arms. This time she recognised her inevitable fate. The weals the belt had left on her behind were stretched by this treatment into fresh striations of pain that served to demoralise her further.

  The brute seemed as demonstrably rampant as when he had started. She had been given a harsh lesson in the consequences of resistance and surely she could only expect more of the same if he found her unsatisfactory a second time. So by inexorable logic, Meg found herself compelled to submit to a renewed assault.

  “Hai! Achaa!” He accepted this admission of his victory over her with an ignominious assumption of its inevitability.

  This time, despite Meg’s reluctant humiliated co-operation and her abuser’s solidity of penetration, her rape seemed to go on forever. Going up and down above her, the plunging brute grunted incomprehensible exhortations. The effect of the rough floor grinding under Meg’s wounded bottom served her as an added incentive to do her best to help him on to success. Panicking at the growing ferocity of his tone, she spread herself to the limit and arched herself upwards. Her heels, which had been waving high in the air above the man’s head, widening with each stroke, buckled slowly at the knees, the heels coming rather uncertainly at first, to rest in the small of his back. In a few more strokes though, she was desperately thumping his buttocks with them in time to each downward thrust.

  Soon both parties became more urgent, though from very different motives, creating between them nevertheless a noisy collaboration of lust and encouragement. When at last the amputated rapist rammed his last fast strokes into his shapely female victim, pumping victoriously into her, both of them gave tongue in the uninhibited expression of their quite contradictory reactions!

  In the light of dawn, the village roosters crowed in competition with the jungle fowl. The first shaft of the rising sun piercing the treetops, penetrated to the recesses of the cripple’s hovel. The first early rising villager, yawning and scratching, peered in at the doorway and went off to report to his fellows that the half-man and his new prize were still at it.

  Dark heads soon fringed the doorway of the hut, anonymous against the light. From beyond them came the sound of feminine giggles.

  The legless creature was mounted solidly upon his wheeled platform with his long arms and strong fingers spread wide, his dark torso rippling with muscle and gleaming with sweat, oily black locks tumbling over broad shoulders. Erect in both senses, he had Meg flat on her face before him, her hindquarters propped up over the front edge of the trolley. Worked by the thrust of his powerful arms, he was using the trolley as the wheels of a human battering ram.

  It surged rhythmically back and forth with a steady, squeak-squeak between Meg’s splayed thighs and under her up-curved belly. At each impact on the forward roll, her reddened bottom rose up before his dark torso, any forward motion of her own being blocked by the inertia of her grounded upper half. At each subsequent withdrawal a finger’s length of swollen big-veined cock slid greasily into view. Meg’s disheartened gasps rose and fell too, in synchronization alike with the cripple’s preoccupied grunting, and the steady squeaking of the wheels.

  The mutilated bandit had sensed the audience in the doorway and grunted ever harder, twisting his torso this way and that, varying the angle of his thrusts on the earth floor, drawing more demonstrative groans and wriggles from his over-stressed victim. Meg rolled her head this way and that, chin to the earth, her hair spilling in dusty tangles on the floor all about her. Her little gasps and explosions of breath raised brief puffs of dust. On either side of the surging trolley her legs extended, toes seeking for a grip and raising her fractionally to meet the surges of the human ram. Each time, slipping on the scrabbled earth, she collapsed as a helpless recipient before the thrusting male flesh.

  Meg’s ears had become filled by a rumbling roar, not just from her pulse, but as if it arose from the earth beneath. Her senses reeled. Blinded by tendrils of damp hair, deafened by thudding drum beats, helpless recipient of thrusting sensation, she clung with clawing nails to solid earth that seemed almost to dissolve under her …

  “Ahhh … ooohhh …”

  Her wail was totally submerged as the roar overwhelmed it. Everything had gone dark. The masculine bellowing of her abuser no longer made itself heard. Only feeling was left. She could be sure at least that the man was still thrusting hard into her. The earth heaved. The hut shook. The audience had fled, shrieking.

  Meg braced herself frantically, clinging to the earth with toes and fingernails. Closer to the earth with his trolley for ballast, the cripple still drove into her with short urgent thrusts as if it was his last chance.

  Things outside the hut crashed and collapsed, roared and thrashed. Meg shrieked in fright as half of the roof parted from the walls and fell in, burying the pair of them beneath the wreckage, still steadily fucking.

  The end came. Some sense of reality slowly returned. The outside was suddenly all around them, the sky black and roaring above their heads. Rain began to pour down, curiously warm on naked flesh, but stinging Meg’s belt-wealed bottom. Wet and muddy, she stirred herself at last and tried to wriggle free from the bottom of the pile. The legless man grunted angrily as if anticipating escape, his big hands still gripping her, keeping her under control. He dragged them both clear, throwing off wet thatch and broken poles, and into the relative shelter of the still intact portion of the hut.

  The forecast Catastrophe had begun and they were to huddle there for days.

  Meg stood, as usual, in the doorway of the Chief’s house, waiting submissively to be mounted. She was stooping slightly, stark naked except for the straps of her harness. Swarming up by means of the handholds on the side posts, her master swung from the lintel by his powerful arms and settled into the saddle that was suspended from her shoulders, feeling like a familiar growth. It was a familiarity due to long usage. She only grunted a little at the added weight and then responding
to the tap of his riding switch on her bare flank, stepped out obediently, naked, into the sunlight.

  Meg’s submission by now was total. She was still waiting for rescue, of course, but she felt she had done her part merely by surviving. Sooner or later, she vaguely supposed, the world must return to stability and civilised values reinstate themselves. Then surely she would be rescued. Until such time she served as her master’s human mare, his customary mount.

  She moved with him automatically with long legged strides. The half-man, not a lightweight despite it, balanced with accustomed ease, making them seem almost a hybrid unity to the multitude of eyes that received them.

  Meg met their gaze without surprise or more than a quiver of shame, long ranks of men drawn up in order on the bare parade ground, armed with spears, bows, shields, swords and axes, antique weapons that seemed to suffice these days. Behind the militia a subordinate rabble of women and children and a few old men and cripples kept up an admiring ululation of encouragement of their men folk. As the riding switch tapped again, Meg obediently lengthened her stride, approached the ranks and turned to pass down their front.

  She had been broken-in to this service as a riding beast during the previous year. Her master’s obvious handicap had frequently tempted her into rebellion during that time and she been ruthlessly disciplined. For her master’s part, the same circumstance seemed to make the half-man more fiercely determined to conquer her by his own hand. Once, in the beginning, she had run away into the jungle, despite being kept naked to inhibit such an attempt. She had been quickly hunted down, though. The gang that the cripple commanded were mostly jungle hunters by origin, skilful setters of traps and patient trackers.

  It had been a long time of hard living as a captive, but she had been the valued property of the chief and his band had been well fitted to survive the wild swings of weather, hurricanes, thunderstorms, earthquakes and unseasonable rains. There had always been something to be had from the jungle; the carrion eaters survived especially well, vultures, kites and jackals, though Meg had eaten her share of frogs, bats and grubs.

  At first she had served her leg-less owner solely as a concubine. However, it had very quickly been obvious to him that she would be as useful on her feet as upon her back, so she was turned into a draught animal, her wrists fastened to a heavy leather belt which also had an iron ring stitched into a loop at the back.

  By means of a rawhide rope from the ring to his wheeled trolley, she was made to draw her master to and fro about the wretched hamlet, guided and encouraged with a long whip. With his mobility so much enhanced, Meg’s owner became ambitious. He was able to establish himself as unquestioned chief of the robber band. He ensured the survival of his followers in the starving land by swelling its numbers with displaced refugees from the lower country and leading them to raid the resources of less well organised survivors. Meg had been fitted with the saddle to be used to carry her master upon these raids. With a chain choker to keep her under control and the riding switch to stimulate her efforts, she had been witness in this role to so many horrors as to make her humiliating condition feel a guarantee of safety.

  Her master was addressing the troops now. She stood motionless before the ranks of men, hard soled, bare feet firmly planted, his stentorian tones rolling over her head with loquacity quite incomprehensible to her. Since her attempt to escape she had been kept chained up when not needed for either of her functions, so that she had little knowledge of events in the outer world, if indeed it still existed in the sense that she had known. The small children who brought her food, tended her harness and led her to and fro for her master’s service, knew no other language than their own and until she learned to recognise the sounds, their commands were expanded by pushes, gestures and self-important whacks with the harness straps.

  The speech ended with wild acclamations. Meg trembled a little before so much fierce masculine energy, confident that her master could keep them under control, but conscious of her femininity on display. Stark naked still, her harness glinted and glittered with gold and silver studs. An emerald and silver stud ornamented one aquiline nostril in the local fashion. Gilt chains restrained the use of her arms and hands; her ankles were loaded with silver bangles dangling small silver bells. Spanning her naked hips, a swathe of gilt chain hung in a heavy curve front and rear, emphasising their fullness, while leaving exposed the two round bare bottom cheeks and between sturdily rounded thighs a plucked and hairless vulva, tinted pink. Women were in short supply amongst the survivors and were an eagerly sought-for prize. Her master had prospered as his sway extended and Meg, his human mare, as an ostentatious appurtenance to his glory, was suitably bedecked from his loot.

  Alert and obedient to his wordlessly tapped command, she moved smartly off again while the parade dissolved behind them. Directed by her rider she headed downhill towards the new temple site, moving with long easy strides, the tiny silver bells on her nipples and ankles bouncing and tinkling as she went. The riding switch could bite as well as tap if she got it wrong, it had taken a lot of practice to be able to judge her master’s every touch, but she had been given plenty of that. The mobility conferred upon him by Meg’s humiliating utilisation meant that her hyperactive master was now able to be here, there and everywhere.

  Currently his main interest was in his re-building of the temple of Annagaruyah, this time in a lowland setting. He had chosen a site where water was available for the irrigation works now necessary for farming in the drier climate. His followers were to settle the abandoned land under the patronage of the goddess, building village communities and gathering in by dribs and drabs other despairing survivors who became willing subscribers to the renewed glory and power of the Goddess.

  Over the ensuing months Annagaruyah was gradually re-instituted. Dead trees were felled and cleared, stone and brick brought from abandoned buildings. A central earthen mound was crowned by a white plastered stupa, which did not attempt to disguise its original inspiration as an erect male phallus. A new temple had been built at the foot of the tower, a large, thatched and barn-like hall, its plastered walls decorated with erotic murals painted in gaudy colours. Precinct walls were built around the cleared space, of plastered mud brick, a quick and easy material in the drier climate, while against the inside of the walls wooden huts housed the temple attendants. The only tree to survive was an ancient peepul tree, which had marvellously been showing renewed green shoots when building began.

  The first great festival drew in a great crowd of the Chief’s followers, relaxing for a few hours from their anxious labours to restore and replant barren fields with whatever seed they had salvaged or looted on their raids. Some had brought their families and were camped about the exterior courtyard with little cooking fires, unwilling to leave their women unguarded, for women were in short supply, despite the yield from the raids. More men than women had survived and so most of the crowd were male. Beneath the shade of the peepul tree a small group of mostly elderly or crippled hangers-on had settled, emaciated beggars who subsisted as fortune tellers and sellers of lucky charms and amulets. At the approach of sunset the few lingering women sightseers were cleared from the main temple in anticipation of the most significant event.

  The hour came and a small band of musicians struck up with gongs, flutes, drums and cymbals. The worshippers, all men now, began to troop into the dark interior, chanting in deep hypnotic tones. Settling themselves in rows in the dim red light, they faced towards the focus of the temple where the image of the goddess stood upon a raised platform, female, glossily black and red-fanged, dancing upon a male corpse, a hideous image combining death and sex.

  The Founder was present too, in his customary station on these occasions, a balcony at the rear from which he could keep the whole performance under his eye, Meg crouching by his side and conveniently to hand.

  Below them in the body of the hall, shaven headed boys passed up and down the ranks of squatting worshippers carrying brass ewers, filling the clay cups that, by a lingering custom, reason long abandoned, the participants would use once and then afterwards smash. Wine came from the spouts, infused with spices and traditional drugs, ancient aphrodisiacs to stimulate desire and loosen the mind, slackening inhibitions. Gradually, as the ewers went back and forth, the devotees began to sway and weave with staring eyes reflecting the red light. The throbbing music, the heady scents, the wavering light making the image of the goddess seeming to loom and gesture, the figures on the walls to flex and posture, all built up the tension until it seemed almost tangible.