I may very well have been the most hated man in the He-Fan community. To many people, I was known as the “He-Man Pornographer,” a writer of “He-Porn,” which has been described as “sad” and “disgusting.” Now you may be thinking, what kind of sick bastard writes erotic fiction about He-Man? I guess that sick bastard would be me. But I certainly make no apologies for it. Most of the people that hated me never actually read my work, only scanning the text of my most risqué fanfics to cut and paste proof of my depravity.
Being of Greek descent, I was raised on a diet of Greek mythology, not the G-Rated Rick Riordan variety, but the original stuff, so it was not uncommon for me to learn, at a young age, of the sexual exploits of Hercules or Odysseus. Zeus, King of the Gods, was the most lecherous of all, cheating on his wife a total of 114 times. This isn’t to say that the Greeks condoned sex with reckless abandon. King Aegis of Athens was warned by the Oracle of Delphi against drunken fornication. But he did so anyway, giving birth to Theseus, which eventually led to his suicide. The Greek myths reflected the world as is, both perverse and innocent, celebrating life in all its diversity. But with Masters of the Universe, I was often confused. It wasn’t as if sex was portrayed as an evil thing; it simply ceased to exist.
Teela could hear the crunch of broken leaves under her boots as she approached the small, wooden, straw-roofed house. She had found it following the column of gray smoke wafting from its stone-brick chimney.
This must be the place, she thought, brushing her chestnut hair from her sea-blue eyes. But before she could reach the low clearing where the house resided, its small door cracked open, and out came a bearded, burly man with a giant steel glove in place of his right hand.
“Fisto, I presume?”
“Yes, and you must be Teela, Captain of the Royal Guard.”
“That I am,” she said, pushing her wooden staff into the soft, dark soil.
He turned. “Come on inside.”
“How is it that you live out here? I had trouble finding you.”
“Well, I AM a woodsman.”
“A woodsman who single-handedly kills thirty of Skeletor’s minions? That’s unlike any woodsman I’ve ever known.”
He did not reply, but stepped into the shadowy darkness of his cabin. She followed.
“You sit here in the dark?”
He lit a hanging lantern, then turned to a table where a map had been laid. “See this large island?” he pointed with his left hand, “that’s where the bandits come from.”
“Who are they? What do they want?”
“Nipponese, a harsh people.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“Only on horseback,” he replied gloomily, “when they come shooting flaming arrows into the village homes. They’re not like us. They have copper skin and slanted eyes.”
Teela reached into her pouch, pulling out a scroll. “I have orders from the king to make a peace treaty.”
Fisto laughed, but it was a harsh, broken, unpleasant laugh. “That won’t stop their raids. They pay no respects to King Randor.”
“The king is prepared to offer a settlement, a large sum.”
“No!” he cried, the wooden table crumbling beneath his metal hand. “They don’t want gold. They only want to burn homes, kill innocent men and children, and rape women.”
“I know how you feel,” she said coldly. “I understand that your family . . .”
He turned from her. “Oh, you don’t understand. They don’t deserve a settlement! They deserve . . . death.”
“King Randor doesn’t want war.”
Fisto laughed. “A noble king indeed, that kills to make himself rich.”
“He unified us! He brought peace to this planet!”
“Under his rule.”
“Are you a member of the Royal Guard or not?”
“I didn’t ask to be.”
“We need your skills.”
“I fought for myself. I owe no allegiance to no king.”
“But you will lead an army into Nippon?”
“We should try a peaceful settlement first.”
“What, has the king grown so old that his thirst for conquest is quenched? Or does he fear the hardships in invading an island that size?”
“Please . . . you’re the only one living this far out that can help me. If you won’t, I’ll go alone. Just tell me who their leader is.”
“Do you want to see?” he exclaimed, opening a chest and pulling out a hand, severed above the wrist, caked with dried blood. “Here is part of the man you seek.”
Teela had witnessed the horrors of war, and was not shocked by the loss of a limb, though she was quite taken aback by this. Then, her eyes focused with sudden realization. “He took your hand . . . and you took his.”
“Now do you think he’ll accept your settlement?” He dropped the hand on the floor. “He has nothing but contempt for us, as I have of him.”
“Still, I have to try. As Captain of the Royal Guard, I cannot let personal feelings get in the way of king’s orders. Thousands could die, and it is up to me to prevent that.”
“Go ahead and go,” he replied, rousing the dying embers of the fireplace with his metal hand. “He’ll probably rape you, then kill you. They trade women in Nippon, you know, like we do animals. If you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself the slave of some warlord, serving his lustful appetite day and night.”
“I’m not afraid. I’ve put myself at greater risk before. I’ll die for my king if I am so ordered.”
Fisto remained silent, and then tromped out the doorway. She ran after him, finding him behind the house, kneeling before two gravestones, his left hand on one them.
“I dug these graves myself,” he said, his eyes downcast. “I would have carved their names, but I had no chisel.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“I can’t help you make peace with this man, but you can sleep in my house tonight. The sun is falling, and the nearest village is far from here.”
“I won’t ask more of you,” she said softly.
That night, Teela slept in Fisto’s bed, as he slept on the floor. He didn’t seem to notice her, even when the warrior woman stripped off her white and gold attire and brown leather boots, before slipping into bed. She was well aware of the effect her body had on men, but she trusted a husband mourning over the recent loss of a wife, and she never slept in any way but nude. Still, she slept lightly, and with a dagger under her pillow, prepared as a warrior should be.
Suddenly, Teela awoke to the thunder of approaching hooves. She leaped out of bed, shaking Fisto awake.
“Marian, what is it?” he groaned.
“Do you hear that? Horses!”
“Get up!” she cried, grabbing her staff.
“By the Ancients! They’ve returned!” He sat up, attaching his metal hand to the stub of his arm.
The lantern now swinging from her hand illuminated the room, bathing half her face, breast and thigh in a warm light, leaving the rest of her shapely figure a silhouette. She then crept out through the door.
“Get dressed,” he called. “I’ll hold them off.”
“There’s no time!” The next thing she knew, an arrow with a flaming point sailed into the straw roof, turning it ablaze. “Show yourself, cowards!” she cried, brandishing her staff.
“No, no, no!” Fisto grumbled, running after her, “it’s happening again.”
A black horse appeared from the woods, and riding on it was a figure in black, a red dragon emblazoned on his breast and a bow in his hand. Nothing else could be seen of him but his eyes, gazing out from the slit of his mask.
“How dare you attack us in the middle of the night!” Teela cried. “Come off your high-horse and fight me if you dare!”
He clutched the reigns of his horse, standing it on its hind legs, before firing a flaming arrow, followed by another. The first split her staff like lightning, catching it on fire, and as it fell from her grasp, Fisto caught the second arrow in his metal hand, snapping it in two. Disarmed, Teela leapt away, as the dark figure flew from his horse, landing with his strangely curved sword unsheathed. It was unlike any sword Teela had ever seen. Shining in the moonlight, the blade arched towards Fisto, but he was quick to catch it in his impervious hand, twisting it into scrap. Teela, meanwhile, lunged with her fists, but the figure’s speed and agility were without peer, smashing her cheek with his foot, knocking her back against the wall. Now only Fisto and the figure remained.
“Where is your master?” Fisto cried. “Is he too frightened to face me!”
“Zin, jen, subo-kai!” the dark shape replied.
With that, Fisto found himself surrounded by eight others, exactly the same. He swung at one of them valiantly, stumbling forward as if he had made enemies with the air.
Teela got to her feet, watching as the eight figures orbited Fisto in perfect symphony, all striking at once. All the while, she could feel the fire raging, the heat growing more intense. The house will be destroyed, she thought, and everything in it. Torn between saving the peace treaty and Fisto, she remained, until finally making up her mind and running back into the house, burning debris falling around her.
When Teela came back out, her dagger was in her hand. Fisto was still struggling with the Nipponian. But she could see a pattern now. Only one of the eight were actually hitting him. Watching carefully, she aimed her dagger, and hurled it into his back. The other seven figures disappeared and the lone attacker collapsed to the ground.
His face raging with blood and bruises, Fisto lifted the assassin by the collar with his metal hand, preparing to slam him into the ground, but the dark figure snatched something from his belt and all were obscured in smoke.
When the air finally cleared, the man in black was gone, and so was his horse. But Teela noticed yet another shape creeping from behind the battered woodsman.
“Fisto!” she cried. “Look out!”
He turned just in time to grab the encroacher’s hand, a giant golden hand, much the same as his own. “Jitsu!” Fisto exclaimed.
In the light of the burning house, Teela could see the man with the inky black beard and mustache. He was wearing strange, ornate armor, and just as Fisto, his hand was fake. She knew it could only be he, the leader of the bandits, and then she turned to witness the house crumble into a flaming heap of stone and wood, along with the treaty.
Fisto punched a hole into the ground where Jitsu’s head had been seconds before. “Come back here, coward! Have you no honor, sending a ninja to kill me?”
“Why?” Jitsu replied. “You had every opportunity to assassinate me. There are no rules in war, Fisto. Those who believe so, lose.”
“Then you made your mistake coming here. I beat you once; I can beat you again.”
“Wait!” Teela cried, stepping forth.
Jitsu turned, surprised by Teela’s beauty and unabashed nakedness.
“You are outnumbered, Jitsu, two-to-one. If you don’t surrender to me, and agree to a peace treaty, we’ll be forced to use violence. Please, let’s not resort to violence . . .”
Fisto turned to her. “You stay out of this!”
In that instant, with his enemy facing away, Jitsu smacked Fisto in the head with his golden hand, and the two giants clashed. She tried to help Fisto but it was impossible. They were locked in battle too closely for her to intervene. Finally, Jitsu thrust his knee into the woodman’s groin and with a chop to the neck, Fisto collapsed.
Triumphant, Jitsu stood over the fallen body. As he drew his curved sword to make the final, killing blow, Teela ran to him, crying; “Stop! Don’t kill him!”
“And why shouldn’t I?”
She thought for a moment. “You have already killed his wife, and his child. Now you have proven yourself the better. Leave him with the agony of defeat.”
He moved the point of his sword from Fisto’s chest, and clenched his golden hand. “And who are you?”
“I am Teela . . .”
“You are his female?”
He moved his sword to her throat, and with his gold hand tugged at her hair. “You are beautiful. I will not kill him . . . yet.”
“Let go of my hair!” she cried. “Is this how you get women in Nippon, by force?”
“Yes!” he asserted, and she felt a sharp pain in her neck, and all went black.
Teela found herself lying naked on a large bed in a strange, decorative room, her wrists and ankles bound by rope. On the left wall there was a hook, and on it a curved sword in its scabbard. Standing at the foot of the bed was Jitsu, naked, his golden hand removed. Where it had once been was a stub. In the light of the blue, red, and yellow lanterns, she found him to be unusually attractive. He was all muscle and hairless. Only his face marred his beauty, not for his exotic copper features and slanted eyes, but the perpetual scowl that defined him.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“I think you know.”
“Please . . . I won’t run away.”
He traced the insides of her thigh with his finger, then kneaded her leg muscles with his one hand, and it felt, surprisingly wonderful.
“Where ever did you learn to do that?” she huffed.
“We Nipponians are wise in the ways of love.”
The next thing she knew, he was sliding his warm, tight body over hers, and she felt a damp emptiness between her thighs. How could such an evil man make her feel so good? Part of her wanted him inside, but another part knew he was a murderer and a villain. And yet she had no choice. Or did she?
“You don’t need to do this,” she whispered, biting his lower lip. “I want to.” Indeed, her body seemed to say so, as did her bright blue eyes.
Jitsu reached under the mattress, pulling out a small knife. He brought the knife over her face, and she was frightened to think what he might do. Her fears were abated when he moved the knife further, to cut the ropes from her wrists. He then slid down to her ankles, cutting her feet free.
If ever there was a chance of escape, it was now that he was kneeling, where she could kick him. But she was hesitant. Had she fooled him or fooled herself?
Suddenly, he was atop her, pressing his full weight against her. It was too late to back out. She’d wasted her chance to escape. Thrashing about would avail her nothing; he was simply overpowering. There’s only one way out of this, she thought to herself, give him what he wants. Surrendering to his will, she allowed him to take her by the ankles, to spread her legs apart, to kiss her neck gently and caress her breast with his only hand. He slid that hand further down the arch of her back to her jutting buttocks, gripping her tightly, pushing himself deeper. She moaned with acceptance, wrapping her legs about his muscled abdomen as he continued to thrust and to send waves of pleasure through her like the tide. It was not long before her animal instincts took over, flipping him onto his back to ride him, rising and falling as if she were straddling a wild stallion. Sweat trickled down her cheek, pooling at the base of her neck, and with another upward thrust, sprinkling across his chest. She never knew it could be like this. She never knew.
“Oh, Jitsu!” she gasped, feeling the halves of his smooth, rounded torso.
He grunted in reply, clutching her by the waist.
“Don’t stop . . . please . . .”
He did not stop, forcing himself into her again and again, working his fingers deeper. And then to assert his dominance, he pulled away and turned her over. Now she was on hands and knees, and in pain, hating being the submissive, but she could not show sign of weakness, and so she let it happen.
Drenched in sweat, their naked bodies glistening, Jitsu started to tire. Each stroke came softer, and she smiled, knowing she could outlast him. With his grip weakened, she shimmied over to the headboard and sat up, thumbing her clitoris, daring him to give her more. He was reluctant to continue, but could not resist. She swallowed him up again, his cock disappearing inside her belly.
“Come on,” she taunted, grinding her slender body against his giant frame, “show me how much of a man you are.”
He was panting, out of breath, but forced himself onward and inward.
“Harder,” she sighed. “I want to feel it.”
He started to mumble incoherently.
“Come on,” she continued, almost out of breath herself, “is this a rape, or are you teasing me?”
At long last, the bed shuddered and he rolled over, flat on his back. There was no other movement but for his throbbing lungs.
“Are you going to kill me now?”
“No. You will be my wife.”
She got to her feet, eyeing the sword on the wall. “But those other women . . .”
“But you raped them?”
“Females don’t know what they want. They are like wild horses; they need to be broken. Then they are faithful.”
“But some had husbands!”
“They succumb to the strongest, and forget their former masters.”
She gripped the hilt of the sword, unhooking it from its scabbard. “I could kill you now.”
He didn’t even turn. “You won’t kill me. Not after what we did.”
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow, and with one quick movement, unsheathed the blade, its tip whirring overhead.
His eyes focused on her now. His teeth clenched. “Go ahead, strike me!”
She paused, and turned away.
“I thought so. You haven’t the balls. But do not fret. With you as my bride, I will agree to a peace. No more raids. I’ll even release Fisto. First his wife, now you . . .,” he laughed, “I have completed my revenge!”
Teela’s lips bent like a pregnant bow, and in a single perfect motion, Jitsu’s head rolled from his shoulders, his laugh still frozen on his face. “No! He’ll never know what you did to me!”