The Realm of Pleasure A Halloween Story
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The Realm Of The Fighting Ladies Pt. 01 free porn video
Chapter One
Rodrigo de Toledo brushed his eyes. He was lying in the small boat where he had jumped in the middle of the tempest that had broken the caravel’s masts the night before. He shivered at the memory of the huge waves pushing the men into the ocean, while the ship inclined dangerously and the thick curtain of rain made it impossible to see two yards ahead of one’s nose. The captain had feared that that the vessel would not resist the storm and ordered the crew into the boats. Rodrigo had seen men drowning as they tried to reach the nearest one. Now the sun was shining above the blue expansion, and he was alone, he wondered whether the caravel had wrecked. Had anybody else survived? And if so, where would they be?
Toledo was a well-built Portuguese, in his early thirties, with black hair and a short beard. His face was not yet wrinkled, but showed that a good part of his life had been spent under tropical climates. He had embarked in Lisbon to serve as doctor and chronicler of the trip. The caravel was bound to Africa, where it would embark slaves to sell in Brazil, there it would be loaded with tropical products and return to Portugal.
The triangular route, as it was called, was well established in that year of 1584. Europe was eager to buy sugar, daring men, seeking prestige and fortune, had begun to plant sugar cane and tobacco in Bahia and Pernambuco, the two most promising provinces of Brazil. But who would work in the fields? The local Indians were too lazy or too ferocious, and no European would leave his country to toil under the scorching sun of the tropics.
The Portuguese had long ago come into contact with the African coastal populations because of their project to reach India by sea. Black slaves were already cultivating sugar in the islands of Madeira and Azores, and soon the New World settlers realized that the only way to make their plantations profitable was to import manpower from Africa. Wars among the tribes assured a regular supply of prisoners, who could be traded for a handful of trinkets and sold in Brazil, providing the money with which to buy sugar and tobacco, which would then be brought to Portugal. If well organized, the complete cycle – Europe, Africa, Brazil and again Europe – could be very profitable.
The vessels and the sailors, however, faced big dangers. Winds could be unfavorable, currents could divert a vessel from its course, the slaves could mutiny, illness could appear, and unpredictable storms could break those tiny nutshells as if they were made of glass. Rodrigo de Toledo had made the trip several times, he had also spent two years on the African coast, where his craft was very necessary, and another two at Salvador, the center of the Portuguese administration in Brazil. He had not made fortune, his worldly possessions were composed of a certain amount of money for his old age, his books and instruments, and a few Negroes in Salvador. His previous travels had been uneventful, but this time the Atlantic had decided to show its power, and the result had been a tragedy.
Rodrigo leaned on his elbow and saw that he was approaching land – a small bay with white sand and lined with trees. He put his hand over his eyes and held his breath: some natives were pushing a canoe into the sea – the place was populated! Rodrigo thanked his good luck, for the worst nightmare of any seaman was solitude – it was almost impossible to survive alone in those latitudes. He took the oars and rowed decidedly towards the shore.
As his boat passed the surf line, the canoe reached it, there were three rowers in it. Rodrigo prayed silently, hoping that they were not cannibals: he had no intention of ending up as a meal for savages. He stood up and spoke in an African dialect:
‘Hey, there! I come in peace! Can you help me?’
To his surprise, two natives jumped into the sea and began to push his boat. In a few moments, they had reached firm land, he stepped out and knelt down, thanking the saints for being still alive. There were about a dozen natives on the shore, the young men pulled their canoe from the smooth waves, and all surrounded him. They wore a loincloth around their buttocks and under their crotches, their skin was pitch black, and some sported bracelets made of shells. Rodrigo stood up and said:
‘Thank you, good people! Who are you, and who rules this land?’
‘We Kimbundo tribe’, replied one of the lads, ‘and this, realm of Fighting Ladies. Who you?’
Rodrigo blinked. Fighting Ladies? As any Portuguese seaman, he had head stories about the Amazons, but they seemed so fantastic that he hadn’t given them any credit. Was it possible that they really existed, and that the storm had brought him to their kingdom?
‘I am from a distant land’, he said, walking slowly towards the trees that lined the shore some fifty yards from the sea. The first thing to do, he thought, was to neutralize any possible hostility from those savages. They seemed peaceful, but who knew? It was essential to establish as quick as possible some ascendance over them, in spite of having nothing to offer as a sign of good will except his clothes, which Rodrigo had no intention of parting with. The best course of action, he decided on the spot, was to behave friendly and ask them to do a few things. His throat was dry, he needed something to quench his thirst, but no source was in sight. That was a good occasion to run a first test:
‘Can any of you find me something to drink?’
The Negro who had spoken to him laughed.
‘You seated under coconut tree, stranger!’
He went past the white man and grabbed the trunk from behind. With his hands and feet, he climbed the tall tree and reached for the fruit on its top. He threw it down and with astounding speed came down again, he broke the nut against a stone and offered the Portuguese the two open halves.
Toledo had seen boys doing that in Brazil, but he was amazed at the agility of that young man. As he tilted the nut to absorb its liquid, he watched him with the corner of his eye. He was about twenty years old and his body transpired energy. He had pronouncedly African features, a square chest topped by broad shoulders, and muscled calves.
‘Thank you! How are you called?’ Rodrigo asked.
‘Kango. You?’
Even far away from his land, his Iberian sense of dignity prevented Rodrigo de Toledo from allowing a heathen Black to address him by his name. He said:
‘You can call me Master, Kango. Now tell me, what were you doing when you saw me?’
‘Catch fish.’
‘Kango, you say my name when you talk to me. Like this: Catch fish, Master.’
‘Catch fish, Master’, the African repeated obligingly.
‘What do you catch fish with?’
Kango took from inside his hide a short knife made of stone. Rodrigo stretched his hand and was given the weapon, he examined its edge – it was sharp, but not very well crafted. Could it be that those savages did not know metals? The simplicity of the knife suggested that they were more primitive than most tribes the Portuguese had made contact with. He decided not to press the issue further. Handing Kango his knife, he asked:
‘Is your village far from here?’
‘No. Behind the trees… Master.’
‘Very well, Kango! You learn fast! Can you take me there?’
Kango’s eyes glinted in pride at being praised. He called his group aside and conferred quickly with them. Rodrigo cocked his ear to grasp what was being said:
‘White man in village – it this good?’ one was asking.
‘He male from Fighting Ladies’ tribe’, a second said.
‘Impossible! Ladies send no male. Come with Talunga on horseback’, the first Negro objected.
‘If white man not from Ladies’ tribe, where he from?’
‘White man has name – Master. And he say, he come from distant land.’ Kango’s voice sounded a bit irritated. He had begun to like that man, who had distinguished him in front of a
ll, and was prepared to believe his story.
‘White man lying. No one cross sea in canoe.’
‘Better let white man go to village. He can die, and Fighting Ladies not happy’, another of the group retorted.
That idea seemed to scare the natives and they stopped talking. Kango turned to Rodrigo:
‘Master can come.’
The Portuguese sighed in relief. Whoever they were, those ladies seemed to inspire a healthy respect among the Kimbundo. But why had one of the Negroes supposed that he could be a member of their tribe? He made a mental note to discover about that later.
‘Good. But my boat has to be kept safe while I am at the village. Who volunteers to bring it here?’
Four of the men ran to the water line and carried it on their shoulders some thirty yards inland. Rodrigo was more assured now, the natives seemed not to object to his requests, and this was a good omen. He stood up, ready to walk to the village, but at that very moment one of the young men shouted:
‘Look! Big hut floating!’
All looked at the sea, and the Portuguese man’s heart jumped on his chest.
The same currents that had pushed his boat had also brought the caravel to that shore, its elegant form was appearing behind the small cap that closed the bay on the right side. Rodrigo feared that the ocean could carry the ship away, but it soon ran into shallow waters and stopped moving: it was stuck just in front of them.
The doctor took a quick decision.
‘That is the ship I came in! There was a storm and I had to board the boat. Perhaps other men are still on it, let us go and see. Kango and you’ – he pointed to a Negro that seemed the strongest of all – ‘will come with me. You, you and you, carry the boat back to the sea. And the others, take your canoe and follow us.’
Rodrigo was so excited that he hadn’t stopped to think: he was already acting as leader of the group. The natives were also curious to see what was in the big floating hut, so they did as they were told. The doctor stepped into his boat and stood at the back, while Kango and the other man took the oars. The Portuguese’s face opened into a broad grin as he watched the muscles rippling on their backs and the biceps standing out while they rowed in tandem. In the little time he had spent in that place, a silent hierarchy had already been established: the natives were doing the physical work and he was giving the orders. If the rest of their tribe proved equally docile, his time there would be a pleasant one.
They reached the caravel. Rodrigo shouted something in his language, but there was no reply: clearly, the entire crew had abandoned the ship. Would some have survived? That could not be decided now, though: there were more urgent tasks ahead. Rodrigo asked:
‘How will we climb to the deck? There is a rope ladder there, but one of you has to go and throw it for us.’
‘That easy!’ Kango said, happy to show himself off. ‘Nakumbu lift Kango on shoulder, Kango grab that’ – he pointed to the edge of a round opening – ‘and climb big hut wall like it tree.’ There were several of those openings lining the caravel: they served to provide air into the hold, which would host two or three hundred people during their two-month trip to Brazil.
‘Go ahead, then.’
Rodrigo watched as the African stretched his arms to reach the opening and lifted himself to it, he put his foot there and took hold, while his hands sought the opening on the row above. He had a lithe body, long, flexible limbs – and now he was showing a shapely pair of buttocks, for to have more freedom of movements he had untied his tide and was holding it between his teeth. The Portuguese caught himself having nasty thoughts. Brazilian planters sometimes took pleasure from a young Negro, he had never done that, but judging from the view the lad was offering him, it would not be a bad idea…
Kango made a last effort and jumped on the caravel’s deck. He found the ladder and threw it to the boat, Rodrigo told Nakumbu to go up and followed suit. As he had feared, there was nobody on the ship. The masts were broken, the sails gone, but except for that she was in a reasonable condition.
The men from the other canoe approached and climbed up. Rodrigo instructed his small squad to fetch all that that could be transported and to load both their canoe and his boat. There were barrels with wine, olive oil, dry meat and biscuits, boxes with the trinkets to trade for the slaves – mirrors, old clothes, tobacco rolls, and the like – and also some trunks with European goods to be sold in Brazil.
While the natives were rowing back to the shore, Rodrigo found the key to the room where the chains and collars were kept, and chose some, they could come in handy later, he thought. He locked the room again and waited for the Negroes to return. Five trips were necessary to empty the ship, a last inspection showed that they had taken everything that could be taken.
Once on the shore, Rodrigo talked again to the natives.
‘We have to take all this to the village’, he said. ‘You are strong lads and I am sure that you can help me with this. Kango, Nakumbu, take a box each, you, you and you’ – he pointed to three other men – ‘will carry those. The rest of you will form pairs and take some of the trunks. Later we will return to fetch what cannot be taken now.’
He spoke with more assurance now, and that seemed to work, for the natives took the boxes and trunks and put them on their shoulders. They set out for the village, Rodrigo carrying on his back the bag with the instruments, the books and the collars, he marched at the side of the line, under the thick foliage, listening to the sounds of the jungle and wondering what the good saints had in store for him.
It took them a good hour to reach the place. Their arrival was greeted with great curiosity, never had a foreigner reached that far. The boxes and trunks were laid down in a big central area surrounded by huts.
Rodrigo looked around. The Kimbundo were well built, both males and females had their breasts naked, and the children went around as God had made them. Some had bracelets made of shells like those he had seen on the arms of the young men, others had different ornaments, very simple but showing that they liked to embellish their bodies. All wore loincloths, tightly tied on the sides and going under their crotch. The Portuguese’s cock twitched under his pants at the sight of so much exposed skin, since he had left Brazil almost six months ago, he had had no contact with a woman.
An elderly man with a staff on his hand approached: he was clearly the chief of the tribe. Kango explained to him how they had found the man and that his name was ‘Master’, while the Portuguese opened a box and took out some mirrors. The kids peeked into the box, but none touched anything.
‘This is for you, noble chief’, he said, ‘and for your wives.’
The man glanced at the gifts and said in a dignified manner:
‘Kashimbo say, man named Master may stay. When Fighting Ladies come, they decide if he stay or go.’
Rodrigo nodded: he was very curious to know more about those Ladies, but that was not the moment to show ignorance.
‘Certainly, chief. I thank you for your hospitality, and hope to be useful to your tribe while I wait for the Ladies. Now I would like to rest. Where can I go?’
Kashimbo pointed to a hut on the far side of the village.
‘That hut not used. Master stay there.’
‘Very well, Kashimbo. One more thing: may I ask young Kango to stay with me? He could show me around and teach me about your ways.’
The chief turned to the younger man.
‘Kango want?’
‘Yes!’ His face beamed with joy: it was evident that he felt honored by the foreigner’s request.
Kashimbo took his mirrors and made a gesture of agreement. Rodrigo motioned for Kango to take his bag and moved into what was to become his home for the next.
.. days? Weeks? Months? He did not know.
The hut was furnished with some skins and stools made of rough wood. Rodrigo sat on one, there was one thing he had to ascertain before proceeding with what he had in mind.
‘Are you married, Kango?’
‘No.’
That was good news indeed. It was obvious to the Portuguese that he would spend quite some time in the realm of the Fighting Ladies, hence he would need someone to take care of his clothes, to cook or arrange for food, and in general to be at his disposal for whatever he needed. Kango seemed a capable lad, and his being single made the arrangement less complicated. He would have to be trained, though, and the sooner the training began the better.
‘Remember to call me by my name. Say, No, Master.’
‘No, Master.’
‘Good. Now come here, sit on your heels and tell me about the Fighting Ladies.’
The lad squatted by Rodrigo’s feet and began:
‘Fighting Ladies like Master, fair skinned. Kango never go to place of Fighting Ladies – Kimbundo cannot go more than one day’s march from village, Talunga will not allow.’
‘What do you mean, they are fair skinned? Have you ever seen one?’
‘Sure Kango see Fighting Ladies! Every year, after big rain, Ladies come and bring Talunga, pick strong Kimbundo men, fine women, they go work for them.’
The Portuguese blinked. Had he understood well? That lad was telling him that some kind of white Amazons ruled that land, this was plausible, for as warriors they could have submitted the tribes that occupied the area before them. These would pay tribute in the form of compulsory work – a tribe of bellicose females would not care to till the land or take care of sheep. All that was logical, but utterly extraordinary. And who were the Talunga?
‘You mentioned the Talunga. Who are these?’
The Negro’s expression changed into a grimace of fear.
‘Talunga very tall women, color of Kango. Talunga soldiers for Fighting Ladies. Long time ago, Talunga eat people, but the when Ladies come, they stop that.’ He shook his head in horror. ‘Before Ladies forbid that, Talunga come at night, fetch man, woman, child, sheep, anything, run with them, eat them. Kimbundo, Shanti, Pukari, all thank Fighting Ladies because they protect tribe from Talunga.’
‘But you said that the Talunga accompany the Fighting Ladies when they come to pick workers from your tribe. Why is this so?’
‘Talunga obey Fighting Ladies. They soldiers. Talunga walk on wide trail, let no Kimbundo go beyond it. When Fighting Ladies come, Talunga come too.’
‘I see’, said Rodrigo. The structure of that society was becoming clear for him, in spite of many gaps in the picture. It was like a pyramid: on the top, the Amazons, below them, the Talunga, at the base, the other blacks. It was evident that the warriors exploited the terror provoked by the cannibals to their own benefit. But how had the managed to control the ‘very tall women’, if they were that ferocious? And what about the male children who were born into the ruling tribe – were they killed, as the ancient legends had it? That was not possible: the Amazons would have become extinct. If they mingled with the Africans, they would not be fair-skinned – although what Kango considered ‘fair’ had still to be checked. And the Talunga men – he had said that only women were selected for soldiers. What was their function, if any? Many questions remained open, the Portuguese thought. In due time, he would discover the answers.
He stood up. The boxes, barrels and trunks that had been left under the coconut trees had to be transported to the village, the ones he had brought in that first trip were still in the open area in the middle of the village.
‘Kango, go fetch something to eat. I have to see the chief.’
While the lad looked for some food, Rodrigo went to Kashimbo’s hut and asked him to put at his disposal twenty strong men. He said that had brought many things to give both the Kimbundo and the Fighting Ladies, that was enough to convince the chief, and for the rest of the day Rodrigo supervised the transportation of everything he had salvaged from the shore into his hut.
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