Mid-day hung heavy like hot, moist gauze in the steamy air of the forest. By the water-pool no animals lurked to drink; only brilliant, glittering dragonflies buzzed the clear, pellucid surface and even they were aware that not everything was as it should be. The cawing and shrieking of flame-coloured birds had long fallen silent. All the creatures of this sultry habitat knew that the brush, dense, green, dripping, contained a waiting ambush; all, that is, except the intended victims. Already the delicate clicking of their ivory bracelets on wrists and ankles betrayed their approach. Now the swish of long, slim legs through tall viridian grasses and at last the four Rasta warbabes entered the clearing. The magnificent ebony warriors wore only the scantiest of thongs in black and yellow 'leopard-skin' satin, their ivory bracelets and,round slender throats,chokers of multi-coloured beads. Their thick and matted dread-locks hung to their glistening oiled shoulders and their lips were thickly glossed in purple.Each carried an ivory-handled hunting knife with a wicked ten inch blade. Sweltering with heat, the rivulets of sweat coursing over satin-smooth black skin, they knelt by the pool to drink, lapping thirstily, gasping to quench their thirsts, to slake parched throats.

Intent on the crystal waters of the pool, the Rastas did not hear the four Yakuza killergirls leave their hiding place in the dense and emerald green bush. The sun beat down on graceful bodies, trained in Ninja tradition to kill swiftly, silently and without pity. Short blue-black hair was cropped like a glossy cap, almond eyes were lined in cobalt blue and no jewelry was worn to alert their victims.From a tight leather thong tied round sleek midriffs hung a short loincloth of gold satin. The glory of the Yakuza was the brilliant flower tattoo, rich as a medieval tapestry in its glowing colours, that covered the entire area of the belly from diaphragm to crotch. Holding razor-sharp blades of stiletto thinness, the four killer girls crept stealthily towards their prey. As if Nature could keep silent no longer the still, thick and humid air was ripped by the long screech of a jackal-bird, its scavenger's iridescent feathers flashing as it rose to view a fight whose consequences would pack its crop for some days.

Spinning on her heel, Zenga, leader of the Rasta war-party, turned and gave a fear-instilling ululation that signalled the rush of her sisters to their defence. As she crossed blades with Yoshino, the Yakuza chief, she was aware of victory at her side. The magnificent-breasted Selah had hurled herself at the waist of Kunisada, knocking the ivory-skinned girl to the ground at the expense of a flesh wound in her shoulder. Slithering together in their near-nudity, they rolled over, closer to the pool, Kunisada's wrist held tight by the Rasta so that she could do no more damage with her steel. Selah's blade was gone, dropped when she took her wound, but she had her other hand round Kunisada's throat, feeling the beating of the Ninja girl's pulse as she struggled beneath her. With a grunt the Yakuza twisted, came up on top and lunged down at her opponent's glorious tits.Selah took the blow through her left wrist, howling at the sharp pain. Her knee came up hard between Kunisada's open thighs and she saw the bitch reel sideways,rolling quickly to gain some advantage.But not quickly enough: Selah punched her viciously in the face, breaking her nose, rejoicing to see the red blood spurt and the Ninja chick crash back, sprawling in the damp sand by the edge of the pool. The Rasta warbabe was straddling her at once,both hands round her throat, holding her head under the now frothing and splashing waters. Ivory legs kicked wildly and hands clawed at Selah's sweating black arms, so powerful in their force. Bubbles rose streaming from Kunisada's round, horrified mouth as Selah forced her head deeper, down onto the mud at the bottom. That slim ivory body arched and twitched sickeningly and then there were no more bubbles, just a limp doll, its head well below water, lying under the wounded but triumphant Selah.

The young and inexperienced Shaka, her big eyes wild with wonder and fear, mesmerised by the glint of Segawa's stiletto, had been an easier victim for the Yakuza attack. The veteran Ninja girl grinned as the leggy black beauty gave ground before the thrusts of that deadly twelve inches of flickering steel, her only defence increasingly erratic sweeps of her long hunting knife. Sweat ran between Shaka's small hard breasts, it dribbled stickily down her thong, it began to blind her fear-filled eyes. With a hissing intake of breath Segawa ducked under the last wild slashing sweep of the Rasta's blade and buried her stiletto up to its hilt in Shaka's unprotected navel.The teenage warbabe howled in agony, clutching at her wound and doubling up in front of her killer. Her long legs buckled slowly and she was on her knees, leaning against the Ninja's bare, oiled thighs, staring up in dismay at those cold eyes that observed her death agony with icy detachment, like a surgeon watching the effects of an incision. The scarlet blood ran through the slim fingers that clasped her pierced belly, it frothed at her purple- glossed lips and trickled down her chin. A spasm of deep chilling loss shook her skinny body and she slumped lifeless to lie at her butcher's pretty feet. Segawa rested one of her elegant feet on Shaka's sexy buns and savoured her moment of victory, feeling the satin-smooth black skin cooling under her sole.

She did not pause long in her triumph; kneeling nearby was the badly wounded Selah, dizzy from loss of blood from the gashes in shoulder and wrist.The Rasta was swaying as she tried to staunch the flow of deep red blood that ran steadily from her arm. Segawa, like a first- class toreador, levelled her long, thin and deadly knife. It made barely a slap as it took Selah between the shoulder blades and entered her heart. She coughed, a harsh splutter, and then it was over. Face down between Kunisada's parted legs, she sprawled lifeless, Segawa stripping her of thong and choker and those slim ivory bracelets.

While Segawa had coolly won her easy victories, her sisters had met swift slaughter. Nakahara had rushed Cheka, a cool tall Rasta girl, winner of six combats. The Ninja's scream of savage attack echoed in the clearing as she hurled her full- breasted loveliness at the tall ebony warrior. Cheka side-stepped and wrist-flicked her ten inch blade to snick the belly- band of the Yakuza's loin-cloth. Stunned by the sight of her own naked vulnerable body, Nakahara faltered fatally. With a savage upward slash Cheka ripped open her belly from her pubic mound to her navel. The Yakuza chick yelled her agony and her horror as she saw the size of her mortal wound. She spun round from the blow,staggering wildly away from her killer, as if to escape the pain that tore into her soft girlish guts.Stumbling rapidly she lurched with a series of thrashing splashes into the pool, churning it up as she waded out knee-deep, the dark blood coursing so fast from her slit belly that it looked as if she was pissing it into the clear waters.Her wails reached a crescendo of hideous agony as she twisted and convulsed; the water sprayed up as she pitched in at full length. Her head broke the pinkening surface and her slim ivory arm clawed at the air; then she sank for ever into her crystalline bedchamber and her last long sleep, the water around her a mass of smoky scarlet clouds as she pumped out the last of her life-blood.

The Yakuza chief put up a better display of martial arts but rapidly surrendered her ground to the thrusting and brutal aggression of Zenga. Back and back she fumbled, now hopelessly on the defensive, desperate for an opening for her long and wicked stiletto. The assassin's favourite silencer was no match for a vigorously wielded hunting knife, however; it was the end when Zenga contemptuously flicked her antagonist's blade from her weakened grasp. Yoshino fell back against a tree-trunk awaiting her fate, her luscious almond eyes showing no feeling as they took in the steel that traced the pattern of her glorious flower tattoo. Her loincloth was torn away and she stood beaten and bare, her very thick pubic bush a dark delta of silky sweat-wet curls. The first blow went in deep just above Yoshino's quim. She grunted through her tightly clenched teeth and clutched at the low branches above her rolling, flung-back head. Slowly, Zenga chose her targets with loving care, darting her deep piercing pushes of the blade into tender tattooed belly. Lips drawn back in a rictus of agony, the Yakuza maiden ground her teeth hard. Her code taught her a Spartan stoicism in the face of each deliberate long slow thrust of the knife into her defenceless entrails.After the sixth stab she hung sagging, the red streams dribbling down her spread legs. She panted, 'Finish me! Finish me! For fuck's sake finish me, you black vixen! Give....me...my...death-blow.....do it now, now, now, my killer queen!' With one sudden and deadly lunge Zenga split Yoshino's small brown nipple and drove the blade into her heart. The Yakuza groaned a long slow moan and slid slowly to a sitting position, head back and eyes shut, her last gasp letting blood drool from her parted and adorable lips.

Now the calculating killer Segawa found herself outnumbered. She was holding the limp, damp thongs of her two victims in her left hand, getting her thrills from the sensation of satin soaked in sweat and cunny juice. She took in the two tall ebony warbitches as they approached her, sizing up her tactics, looking scientifically for her advantage: the cold mind of a chess master comtemplating the opening gambit. Cheka she might take, but not Zenga, not that coiled cheetah-girl waiting to pounce, the sinews rippling under her silky, glistening sable skin. The Rasta babes were circling her slowly, well aware of the snake-like speed and cunning that Segawa could show. The Yakuza's brain had worked like a swift and completely infallible computer and she saw no outcome for her save death at the hands of these prowling black panthers. She now realised that not even Cheka was a possibility. They were closer; her arrogance began to dictate to her reason. It was them, the messy slitting and slashing of the slaughterhouse; or it was her, the art and grace of the corrida. No choice. Rubbing her captured satin spoils to release the perfume of her victims' pussies, she raised her right arm and lanced her jugular vein. Her face remained a pale, unmoved Kabuki-like mask as the gouts of her heart-blood pumped and spurted in spasms into the air. She sank to her knees with grace, her hands unloosing her yellow loincloth to prevent the ritual stripping of her body. Shudders now convulsed her and she rolled onto her back, clinging to the dirt, grabbing earth in her fists, her heels drumming the sand as she choked out her last breaths.

The ambush had failed; Zenga and Cheka looked at the slaughtered beauty that lay bare and bloody around them. They lifted tenderly the bodies of Selah and Shaka, caressing their silky slender flanks as they did so, and prepared to make their return to their village with the bodies of the two fallen heroes. Long black limbs, dangling lifeless, touched their warm living skin as they walked out of the clearing into the almost submarine light of the forest. Behind them Segawa, had she retained sentience, would have realised that not only opponents can inflict indignity and defilement on the defeated dead. The rank-feathered jackal-bird perched by her head, its hooked beak darting hard and fast for its supper.