PREVIOUSLY: Channah, a Queen of Hell, for reasons of her own, has married two human transgender girls she is taking through the Hell of Lust on a flying chariot ride to reach their honeymoon destination. At the foreboding Chang’an Castle, Penny and Chas have just had their first sight of their qahramanah, or jawari-trainer: a woman with wild hair and a cut face, flirting with death by pissing on demons while precariously balanced on a ledge above them. NOW:
As the wild thing turned around again, once they were able to force their eyes away from the terrible scars across her flesh and take in other details of her, they could see the robe she wore was an entari—a long Turkish robe with a high collar, buttoned from her sternum to her crotch but open above and below. Between the entari and her skin, she—obviously, scandalously, and in defiance of all public modesty—was wearing only a sheer white chemise, cut unusually tightly, that did nothing to conceal the inner curves of her breasts or of her thighs, or of the scars marking both of them. The sleeves of the entari went to her wrists, slit and flaring below the elbows. Her cavalier boots rose to the middle of her so-conspicuous pale thighs. A wide studded black leather belt circled her waist with a scabbard hanging from it, matching the thick studded black collar around her neck.
The collar around her neck reminded Penny that Hong had also worn a slim but definite cherry red choker. As an indentured slave of the succubae herself, Penny knew what the collars meant. But she had little enough time to dwell on it now, with the number and caliber of quick-witted, active women in positions of command all around them.
Even as the woman turned, she was letting her sheer chemise drop back into place, reaching to just above her knees, meaning—Penny still having the capability to be shocked at the novelty of the thought—her underwear was outside the tops of her boots. Without her arms holding the entari open, it fell to cover her crotch, a minimal level of decency, if in no way a signal of modesty. And each girl found herself wondering if the same scarring covered the tenderest and most private parts of her body, the ones they hadn’t seen…
“They’re mad for being peed on!” She marveled, her eyes alight with a strange, unsettling combination of delight and disgust, as she strode towards the arrivals, sheathing her blade.
“They’re the mad ones.” Fang shook her head slightly.
“I love it,” Channah, who seemed to love all things chaotic and defiant, responded convincingly.
“I think they love it and they hate it,” Esmeray opined, with a disarming sincerity. Her rapidly-evolving emotions of discovery, amazement, disgust, and sick fascination flitted across her face in rapid succession right in front of their eyes. Coming near them, the woman bowed like a man before the succubae. “Your Majesty. Your Grace,” she addressed them in turn.
Even Hell Can’t Hold Both of Them
And then she caught sight of Hong Qahramanah. She came up short, subconsciously facing off against the Queen Bee with back straight, legs spread shoulder’s width apart, knees bent, and hands on her hips, a moment away from readiness to fight. Hong, consciously or unconsciously, mimicked her as the two women ran their eyes judgmentally up and down one another’s bodies from crown to toe, assessing. The air between them practically sparked with lightning. They were so different from one another; it was inconceivable there could be any single prize for which both of them would be competitive. So not a rivalry per se, for anything that could be identified. But there was a definite clash, perhaps of alchemical discordance, or simply between two personalities too large and dominant to share normal space with one another.
“This must be the smug whore-taira,” the woman willfully mispronounced the Greek hetaira, which meant companion or courtesan. And then punctuated her disdain with a deliberately overdone, gong-sounding: “Fong.”
“And this must be the feral madwoman,” Hong gave back as good—or bad, to be sure—as she had gotten. “Esma-crazy.”
“Esma-crazy”—presumably Hanim, Penny realized—looked at Channah and demanded: “I’m supposed to learn from her?” while in the very same instant, Hong looked at Fang and burst out: “I’m supposed to teach her?!”
“Now, ladies,” Channah began, as Penny—followed immediately by Chas—chose this moment to drop to her knees and press her lips to the toes of Hanim’s cavalier boots, immediately asking herself whether she was actually tasting drops of urine, or only imagining it.
“Hanim Qahramanah,” they chorused. “We are honored to meet you.” But although obviously aware of them, their new Qahramanah wasn’t paying any attention to them. Yet.
She was listening—for a moment—to Channah: “Esmeray, believe me, Hong has things to teach you even I might not know. Things you will find useful in this assignment and the future. And—”
Esmeray made a barking sound of disbelief: “Ha! These girls are obviously already completely pussy-whipped. I don’t need any skills to train them, certainly not those of a porne—”
“Esmeray!” Channah’s voice cracked like a whip strike shutting Esmeray’s mouth for her, before Hong could react other than to take a step back from the gravity of Esmeray’s insult, while Hong saved face by laughing musically and affecting . “Don’t underestimate your task. I can make anyone obey. Remember?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she swallowed, some distant memory flashing across her eyes.
“What I need from these jawari is much more nuanced. And none of my succubae, who know fifty times as much as you, can do it. Don’t underestimate the challenge I have set you.”
“Yes, Your M—”
“Domina,” Fong interrupted her rival smoothly, actually turning to put her back to Esmeray and interpose herself between the qahramanah and the Queen. Speaking with a respectful tone, she began: “She is right, with apologies, I know you had good reasons for selecting these sad flowers, but to a woman like me, with the goals you have assigned us, your wives are very boring and easy marks. As little as the prospect of training foul-smelling barbarian novitiates interests me, it should take much less time than teaching a stinky crazy woman like her how to do so. Why not let me add them to my stable for a few weeks or months? There is an unused barn where we can stable them without bothering anyone, except for me, of course, separately from my Han thoroughbreds—”
“Hong!” Fang hissed.
“I’m sorry, Domina, but—”
“Don’t turn your back on her, haughty girl!”
Literature Section “06-68 Dance of the Qahramanat III”—Part 68 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1036 words —Accompanying Images: 1615-1618—Published 2025-04-20—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.