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Subject: {ASSM} [Write Club Duel] Father Ignatius vs. Frank McCoy
Date: Sat, 2 Sep 2000 17:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "wcduel.txt" begin>
The two stories are below, Nat's story first.
The nine words were:
Father I: cuckold, suitcase, vanilla
Frank: peripatetic, unconscionable, Ragnarok
Me: hermit, geriatric, geisha
My verdict is posted to alt.sex.stories.d Enjoy!
-Souvie
**********
Note: Neither writer coded their story. I supplied the codes to
the best of my ability, after reading the stories several times.
**********
"Full Facial - Cuckolding Captain Vanilla" (MF Mdom bond)
by Father Ignatius
============
My laid-forward grandmother was a scream. If you were in the
right mood, that is. Otherwise, she was a damned pain. My
laid-back grannie was a total sweetie but she doesn't come into
this story except to provide the contrast explanatory of how come
the other granny comes to be called my "laid-forward" granny. That
is to say that no, this is not a story of geriatric sex. That must
wait until I'm very much older, may I be spared in strength,
health and desire. Please God, may I be spared...
My laid-forward grannie afforded a lot of innocent pleasure to a
lot of people in her time. Take it from me, there are plenty
worse things to say about someone after they're gone. One of the
ways she had of giving pleasure and amusement was by just not
getting it. She was born in middle-class, nineteenth-century
Africa of a Scots-Calvinist father and a Cornish-Chapelist mother
and her descendants are prepared to take bets that, despite our
existence, no-one ever gave her a sex-talk of any description. She
certainly went to her grave giving an extraordinarily good
impression of not having heard about sex. "Ag, shame," you may
well say but, on the other hand, it might have killed her and
where would I be then?
For example, she once read, and was charmed by, a book called "The
World of Suzie Wong". Indeed, it's a charming little book and, if
that's up your alley, I recommend it to you. It was filmed with
Nancy Kwan--of "Flower Drum Song" fame--as Suzie. Point is, Suzie
was a whore and, moreover, a whore with pretensions. She was, in
short, a bar-girl. Whores have their snobbery, same as you and
me. A bar-girl, you must understand, is a rung up the social
ladder from a pavement-girl. My laid-forward grannie, having read
the book repeatedly, loved it, and recommended it enthusiastically
to many, never got this. At one stage, she had a high-collared
evening-dress slit up the side to--get this--almost the knee. And,
whenever some gallant dutifully complimented this formidably
proper woman on it, she would say, "Yes, this is my Suzie Wong
dress." She never got the blanching, stuttering consternation
this produced either.
She also took me, still in short pants, to the theatre now and
again. I met Peter Pan, Wendy and Captain Hook under her
approving beneficence, for example. And Hans Christian Andersen.
She also took me to see "The Teahouse of the August Moon" by John
Patrick . It happened to be given around Christmas time and
therefore one of the things she didn't get was that the play is by
no means a pantomime. It is about the US military occupation of
Okinawa after World War II and its theme is culture clash. After
the humbling of Japan, amongst many, many other initiatives, a
unit of the peripatetic US Army had been sent to Okinawa to
re-build the shattered local economy by using and inculcating
"American know-how". Anything the locals wanted to set up in this
line, the local officer commanding had merely to wire the Pentagon
to get supplies and copious, detailed, expert instructions on what
to do with them.
"Excellent," I hear you murmur, "Good Old Uncle Sam. Well done,
the American tax-payer. What happened?" Well, the first thing
that happened was that they tried to tell the locals what they
wanted. This got as far as you might expect. Upon advice from
DC, they then decided to find out what Okinawa produced and apply
production-line techniques to it. Turns out, Okinawa produced
exquisitely delicate hand-carved, lacquered tea cups and empty
cricket cages. Superb opportunity! They could get the USAF to
fly in lathes and sandpaper and spray-guns and what-all and churn
out these cups in industrial quantities and, best of all (Sears
would be proud), they could market cricket cages--get this--with
crickets ready-installed! Fifth Avenue buyers, here we come!
Problem was, the old codger who made the cups--perverse, benighted
foreigner that he was--took pride in the fact that, from un-cut
tree to breathtaking, lacquered perfection, each single cup took
him six months to finish. If it didn't take that long, he'd
shirked the job and no-ne would want the cup. And, as for
crickets, supplying them is a no-no. You have to catch your own.
As a desperation measure, the Yanks were finally forced--surprise,
surprise--to ask the locals what _they_ wanted. To cut a long
story short, they wanted a tea-house. Gasp! Shock! Horror! A
tea-house?! But--gulp!--a tea house is where the geishas ply
their sinister trade. We can't have that! What would DC say?
What will our womenfolk back home in Mississippi (not to mention
Missouri, this being the Truman Administration) say when we write
home how this is what we're doing to take the Great American Way
into heathen lands?
Here's the problem: I guess everyone knows, "geisha" is Japanese
for "prostitute", right? These decadent foreigners wanted to used
timber from the good ol' U. S. of A., flown over the Pacific by
the USAF on the US taxpayer's dollar and build a _brothel_ out of
it, fercryinoutloud! Unconscionable! Action stations! Make sure
President Truman doesn't get to hear of _this_!
Except... it's wrong. A geisha is a tradesperson who offers a
particular service unknown in the good ol' U.S. of A. (since the
onset of Women's Lib, at any rate). At the end of a hard day at
work, a man might call in at the teahouse on his way home and
unload the burdens of the day. He will be met and made welcome by
the geishas. They will make him tea, strictly according to an
elaborate ritual that is tiresomely long and inefficient to Yankee
eyes. Like my laid-forward grannie, the damnyankees just don't
get it. It's not _meant_ to be short. It's not _meant_ to be
efficient. It's meant to be comfortably predictable,
distractingly complicated and, since it's rude to interrupt it,
take long enough to force an uptight client to take stock of his
life, take a few deep breaths and appreciate that, lousy day at
the office or not, some things can always be relied upon.
Tea made, the geisha will serve it and talk to the client. His
boss is a prick? His wife doesn;t understand him? No-one
appreciates his efforts? The geisha will listen sympathetically,
understand what's bugging the poor bastard and re-build his sense
of self. Now and again, if sex is what it takes for the geisha to
achieve this and deliver her product, then sex can certainly be
resorted to. Only a sex-obsessed damnyankee would accord it more
importance than the teapot in the process.
When it's all over, the client goes off home feeling better about
life and, when he gets home and, thanks to the geisha, he
interacts with his family in a positive way instead of taking out
his frustrations on them. And that, Gentle Reader, is the service
that geishas deliver. Yankees don't get it, though, just as my
laid-forward grannie didn't get it, but for different reasons.
"The Teahouse of the August Moon" is a truly great play. Years
later, I found the script on a second-hand bookstall and, much
read, it will always have a permanent place in my bookshelf. In
the play, one single Yankee transcends my grannie and gets it and
catches his own cricket. Needless to say, he is shunned by the
other Yankees, who are focussed on a post-demobilisation career in
Detroit. Fuck them.
You, if you are a Yankee, would probably regard me as being a
gigolo. You won't get it that I think of myself as a geisha. But
I'll fuck you anyway--for dollars. The difference is, when I've
fucked you, it's "Fuck you, damnyankee". And God help your family
when you get home.
Oh, and by the way: any damnyankee who wants to make the effort to
find out why you have to catch your own cricket will be most
fortunate.
* * *
When my cell 'phone rang, I was guiltily playing _Ragnarok_--I
should have been at the gym swimming a mile or pumping some iron.
I'd like to be saying that I was being tormented over choosing to
opt for playing on as super-hero with advanced skills instead of
becoming a wizard but, like geriatric sex, that apparently must
wait until I'm very much older. I was doing well enough to make
it worthwhile put my body in cryogenic freeze, though.
It was Dick on the 'phone for my body-temperature persona. Dick
is my agent. I always kid him that he should get a partner, also
called Dick, so that, when either one of them 'phones, I can say,
"Is that Big Dick or Little Dick?" But I digress.
"I've got a new client for you," said medium-sized Dick.
"And what does she want?"
"She wants you, my boy! Are you up for it? Been living the
existence of a hermit, waiting for this moment, I trust?"
"Close enough. Why does she want me?"
"She wants you because she's not getting what she wants from her
husband."
"He can't get it up?"
"No, no. Nothing like that. Thing is, he worships her. Puts her
on a pedestal. Metaphorically. If he did it for real, maybe she
wouldn't have such a problem. Gives her respect, remembers
foreplay, the whole nine yards. Especially respect. And then the
missionary position, 'How was it for you, my darling?' and so
forth. 'Captain Vanilla', she calls him. Can't take it any more."
"Poor bitch. How she must have suffered."
"Yeah, right. Let's not get too snide, however, because it's his
credit card your specialist services are going on. you;re
itemised as "Full Facial", by the way, should you feel the need of
inspiration."
"Gee, thanks."
"You will thank me, when you see her. She's gorgeous. And, get
this, been married a few years, can't do without what she wants
any more."
"And that is?"
"Helplessness. Wants to be taken by someone who's going to do it,
no matter what."
"I can do that."
"So I've heard. That is why I'm calling. She's in Room 220 of
the Newlands Holiday Inn Garden Court. I left her with her hands
cuffed behind her back. The keys are in a brown envelope at
reception when her husband, Mr. Wheeler--that's you,
okay?--arrives and picks up his swipe-card and any messages."
"Okay."
"While I remember--she's got a full change of clothes in a
suitcase in the closet. So go wild with what she's wearing. But
listen--helplessness, okay? No bruises, no marks, no nothing that
will require explaining away to Captain Vanilla. Have you got
that?"
"Yes, boss."
"Good boy. Go get 'er. Lucky bastard."
I thought of saying, "Luck had nothing to do with it" but I
thought of my _Ragnarok_ game, as opposed to my mile in the pool,
and let him click off.
* * *
I was wearing a ski-mask when I put "Mr. Wheeler"'s swipe-card
into the door. Because it was a key, she didn't hear me coming
and swung round with a gasp. I closed the door deliberately, put
my tog-bag down on the bed and took off the jacket I wore over the
T-shirt. She might as well get an eyeful of the results of the
swimming-and-iron-pumping while she could.
I took a ball-gag out of my tog-bag and advanced on her. She
didn't know if she should speak or not. I didn't give her the
choice. I grabbed her jaw in the way I learned when putting bits
on recalcitrant horses and pressed thumb and forefinger on her
cheeks between her teeth. Her mouth obediently opened and the
ball-gag started going in. By the time her mouth was as far open
as she thought it could go, the gag was jammed hard between her
teeth. Closing her mouth had ceased to be an option. I then
revealed to her how wide her mouth could really open and the ball
popped in. I strapped it firmly in place, buckle behind her head.
The ball would be holding her tongue firmly in place; shouting for
help was now impossible. Any noise she could make would be
swallowed up by the Holiday Inn's soft furnishings, thick carpet
and stout, swipe-card-protected door.
By this point, she would be wondering if this was such a good idea
after all. Time to increase her doubts. I produced my
flick-knife out of my back jeans pocket and popped it open. A
Swiss Army knife would do just as well for cutting, if not better,
but nothing beats the dramatic quality of a flick knife springing
open in front of a helpless face. Her eyes widened and there was
a sharp intake of breath. I took no notice but reached out and
grabbed her T-shirt under her breasts where there was slack and
pulled hard. She pulled back, naturally. The flick-knife cut
through the collar and then I tore the shirt to the hem, cut the
hem and wrenched the shirt sleeves down to her cuffed wrists. Her
white, strapless sports bra was revealed, standing out starkly
against her tanned torso. It had a clip in front so I put the
knife away and unclipped it gently, kissing her nipples gently as
they were revealed. I felt her relax slightly, so I nipped until
she jumped and squeaked and tensed up properly for me to push her
firmly onto the bed next my tog-bag.
The next thing was to get a stout, leather blindfold out of the
tog-bag, and fit it on. She'd seen the last of me. I held her
down by the throat as I knifed my way down, hip to ankle, along
the outside seam of her Levis, both sides, and hoped she felt
helpless. A good geisha gives the client what is needed. This
may not be what is requested. I roughly heaved the ruined Levis
out from under her and threw them in the corner. She could take
them away with her or leave the maid service to make up their own
minds about what was going on.
I did not touch the revealed panties.
Mindful of the need to avoid marks, for Captain Vanilla's sake, I
took two sets of velcro cuffs from my tog-bag and applied one end
of each to each of her ankles. I took the cuff keys from the
envelope the receptionist had given me, took them off and placed
them in my tog-bag. Why not? They were presumably Dick's and,
anyway, I'd be leaving plenty of equipment on her.ration.
Holiday Inn, God bless them, had become tired of being sued by
geriatrics who put their backs out stopping over low suitcases.
There was a sturdy, fold-down suitcase rack bolted to the wall at
waist-height. With a bit of luck, she wouldn't have registered it
in her tense state as she waited for me. I quietly folded it
down, noting that she cocked her head anxiously behind her
blindfold, trying to figure out what I was up to.
I picked her up from the bed in my arms, as if she were the bride
I was carrying over the threshhold, and swung round three times,
totally disorienting her. Then I carried her across the room and
laid her down on the suitcase rack. Her arms hung down on one
side and her legs on the other. I went down on my knees and
stopped under the rack to bind left wrist to right ankle; right
wrist to left ankle. This is totally disorienting. When I had
done everything I could think of to ensure she was feeling
appropriately helpless. I picked up the 'phone.
"Hello, reception? Can you send a strong young bell-hop up to
Room 220? Mrs. Wheeler needs a hand. Thanks."
And I left. A good geisha gives the client what is needed. This
may not be what is requested.
Oh, and by the way: any damnyankee who wants to make the effort to
find out why you have to catch your own cricket will be most
fortunate.
**********
"The Bargain" (MF+ Mf? first)
An Erotic Story
by Frank McCoy
================
Why is it so cold ... and why the bloody HELL am I lugging
this suitcase through the middle of ... Hel? One minute I'm your
average sales man, the next I's a warlock in the middle of
Fimbulwinter? OK ... so I'm NOT exactly average. How many
average Joes would even know what Fimbulwinter was ... let alone
that bag of bones ahead of me. I'm to meet the Spae-Wife
Grua ... and give and get a message. He'd make it worth my
while, the guy said ... as if I'd believed him then. Bloody one-
eyed overmuscled freak.
What the bloody Hell ... No, make that Hel, could make
risking my life on this frozen landscape "worth my while?"
Well, First stop up ahead. Some Farmer's hut. Gawd. What
a dump. Well ... looking closer, I've seen worse farms ... but
in this world, with no electricity, no internet, no technology
except that of Magic ... well, things looked bleak. Sure ... I'm
supposed to waltz in here, tell the local Churl that I'm a
warlock on a mission to Hel for Odin, and expect to be welcomed.
Yeah, right. And I've got a bridge to sell you. Probably not
half as good as the one Odin sold me, though.
By this time, the change from Upstate Minnesota in June to
who-knows-where in winter, was enough to convince me that Odin
WAS the Odin he had claimed to be. Only ... according to the
VERY short briefing I'd gotten, it was supposedly June here ...
High summer, normally. Only this was Fimbulwinter ... the winter
of the Twilight of the Gods ... last stage before Ragnarok, when
the Gods and Giants fought things out to see which would rule the
next Age ... Where hopefully there would be men and not monsters
for the New Rulers to rule over. Which was why MOST men allied
themselves with the gods. Not that Odin and kin made very good
allies at the best of times. Still, they DID keep promises ...
even Loki did ... which was why it was almost impossible to trap
one into a promise worth a shit.
Once again I wondered at the "make it worth my while"
promise I had gotten. Even a million bucks wouldn't make THIS
trip worth my while ... and I'm damned sure Odin knew that.
Well .... While technology didn't work, plain old low-tech
clothing did. Down-lined parkas, felt boots with leather and
other cold-weather gear seemed to work just as well here as back
home ... even the knife WORKED ... though he had to keep the
"stainless steel" blade well-oiled to keep it from rusting. The
old fart had known what he was talking about.
A sudden pain in the head reminded me that the "old fart"
could read minds ... even at a long distance ... and this was
right close to home for the gods. I mentally apologized, and the
pain let up. Geesh ... even my thoughts are censored. What
could be worth THIS?
By now, the door which had at first SEEMED so close, but
then took miles to reach was in front of me. I had barely raised
my hand, when the door opened and a blast of heat almost knocked
me over. "Welcome stranger, to the House of Knord!"
"Thank you," I said; taken aback. I had EXPECTED to have to
explain who I was, where I came from, what I was doing, and most-
especially who sent me, before being welcomed. "I'm Frank
Turnbow," I started ....
"Oh Daddy, let the man IN," giggled a feminine voice. "It's
COLD out there, and the poor man must be freezing."
Actually, in the blast of heat from the door, and my rated-
60-below-arctic-wear, I was almost roasting.
Before I could say anything more, I was rushed inside, and
helpful hands were stripping me of the excess clothing.
FEMALE hands ... and more than excess. I found myself
clutching desperately at my shirt and shorts, as everything else
followed my boots and overclothes into a side-room stuffed with
similar outer-wear.
"Good eve, Sier Frank. "tis good to see a freeman out in
these times. Come sit by the fire, and if you have news to tell,
the family will reward you with roof and table."
"Uh ... Not Sier Frank," I replied; barley rescuing an
undershirt from a giggling girl whose face looked barely
fourteen, but whose build resembled ... well, one of those
warrior women in D&D magazines ... You know the kind, comes in
riding a polar-bare (intentional miss-spelling) with barely
enough clothing to hint at being armor. Like that ... and
similar clothing. "Just Frank. I explained. I'm ... I guess
you'd call me a warlock, though not much of one. I'm on a
mission to Hel for Odin." There, I'd gotten it out.
This brought a sudden silence. For a second, I wondered if
I'd made a mistake, found the wrong house (Possibly an enemy
one?) or even insulted my host. Then:
"Please, Daddy?"
"You SAID the next hero that came through!"
"If a warlock on a mission from Himself isn't a hero, then
who is?"
The three girls, ranging in my estimate from at first twelve
to 18, and then looking closer at bodies and attitudes as WOMEN
from ... probably sixteen to twenty-three, acting like preschool
children promised a trip to the circus, was quite astonishing.
"Girls! AFTER supper." The firm voice announced the
entrance of the fourth member of the household (and I hoped, the
last; as I was already getting overwhelmed).
"I see you've met my errant and horny daughters," remarked
the woman dryly. Though not fat, the woman was HUGE. She had
arms that made Odin's look thin, and legs that could wrestle
grizzly bears.
"Uh, Meet my wife, Hilda, My eldest daughter, Gueneveve, My
middle-daughter and shield-maiden, Tolo, and last, but not least,
my youngest daughter, Suzanne," rumbled my host with a sweeping
arm.
The eldest daughter was the most dressed-up of the three; in
a simple one-piece cloth outfit that reached to the floor.
Still, you could tell, both from the lay of the rough cloth and
from scattered holes in the fabric that the body underneath was
not kept separate (and most likely never had been) from the
garment by hose (panty or not) underwear, or foundation-garments
of any kind ... particularly not brassieres. How those
incredible mammaries defied gravity, was a question to ask
somebody like Odin.
Next, was the one I'd almost gotten a little too intimate
with already ... the one that looked like "Sheera of the North"
only incredibly more real and intimate. Her hot gaze looked at
me like I was a piece of meat she was about to devour. I revised
my estimate of the woman's age upward once again from first-guess
of 14, second-guess of 16, to now at least 18 and possibly
twenty. For looks like that at twenty, I knew women in
Minneapolis who would gladly kill ... but never exercise like it
was so obvious this one did. Brunette, even darker than her
older sister's brown hair, almost black, tied in a bun to keep it
out of fighting way ... I decided that "Sheera of the North"
would have a hard time with this Hel-cat.
Finally, the youngest. Tongue-tied and grinning, this
little minx reminded me of ... of my sister? No ... maybe a
third cousin. My sister was never this sexy. Sisters aren't.
Her hair, lightest of the three, was still a chocolaty brown that
ran in sweeping waves from the tip of her head to ... my God, the
stuff must reach to her knees when she stands up. Kneeling as
she was, the woman's hair actually touched the floor and piled
around her ankles!
"Frank Warlock, could you honor a poor farmer by allowing
him to change his offer?"
"Huh? Uh ... Go ahead?" I wasn't about to make waves or
turn the guy down in any way. He, or any of his kids, for that
matter, could easily slice me up into lunch-meat. Even the
youngest, Suzette, could probably wrap me up and toss me to the
wolves without breaking a sweat.
"Would you do this poor farmer the chance to offer you his
full hospitality ... Table, Roof, and Bed?"
Oh God ... WHERE had I heard those words before. They had
more meaning I KNEW than just what they seemed. And these so-
called "simple" societies could get almighty peeved if you
insulted them. What was that quote?
"Uh, you mean?" I prompted, trying to buy time.
"It has been a LONG time since a Hero has passed this way,"
he explained. (I could hear the Capital Hero in his words.) and
especially not one that is a wizard with the grace of Odin on
him. We ... our family would be greatly honored if you would do
us this service."
I almost had it. Still, better NOT be under false
pretenses. "Uh, I'm not really ...," I started to explain.
Knord (if that was his first name or last ... I never did
find out) gave a bellow of laughter as his hand thumped me in the
back in what I guess he THOUGHT was camaraderie. "Oh come now,"
he guffawed. "Odinn One-Eye sends a warlock to Hel ... and he
claims not to be either Hero or Wizard!"
He chortled about three times, while I desperately tried to
catch my breath ... and wondered if he hadn't snapped a vertebrae
in my back. Hero ... THAT was it! Suddenly the reference
slammed into place in my brain.
"Well," He chuckled, "If you're neither Hero nor Wizard NOW,
then for sure you WILL be by the time you return. The get of a
Hero, or even a warlock would be most welcomed in this house. It
has been years since the last stopped by." Here, Knord aimed a
pointed wink at his middle daughter. "And with Fimbulwinter upon
us, and Ragnarok not far away, the get of Heros, Wizards, and
even Yeomen are greatly to be desired. To have both in one man,
would do us not only great honor, but would help this poor family
to survive." He looked me in the eye, as if daring me to object.
For a second, I wondered if he'd throw me to the wolves, if I
did.
"Glory Road," I gasped; as the memories drifted in. I
wondered for a moment if Heinlein had dreamed of this place. For
sure DePratt had.
"Table and Roof," I repeated, to be sure.
"And bed," repeated all five family members.
"And bed," I accepted. "IF that's what YOU want," I
amended. "ALL of you."
"Odinn, Hear Us. We ask that you witness our offer of
Table, Roof, and Bed, to your servant, Frank Warlock," Solemnly
spoke all four women, with the father intoning a bass to the
treble of his daughters, and the surprising baritone of his wife.
The sound was almost like a pre-rehearsed prayer.
"Odin, Hear Me," I repeated. "I accept this offer of Table,
Roof and Bed by Knord and His Family; and will do my best to
honor the commitment I make."
"I hear." Was that my imagination. In this world, I
decided I'd better ass-u-me that it was not. Breaking a promise
to a god could be worse than committing suicide. Much worse.
For a second, I worried about what mess I had gotten myself into
THIS time. The last promise I made (half drunk, I'll admit) had
gotten me into carrying a suitcase to Hel. Oh shit.
From somewhere far off, I heard the echoes of immense
laughter.
"Table," said Hilda; suddenly all business. "Girls, could
you help our guest get ready, while supper is preparing?
Huh? Girls? Help?
Suddenly I was being man-handled like a baby would be
handled by a full grown woman. What I had to say or wanted, was
not only unimportant, but was completely ignored as all three
women left in the room picked me up, undressed me completely, and
CARRIED me into a small room that made the heat of the entryway
seem like a cool breeze. A sudden loud HISSSSSS made me notice
Suzette out of the corner of my eye pouring a carafe or something
like one over a pile of stones ... which made both stones and
girl vanish in a cloud of steam. Suddenly the sauna felt even
hotter. The realization that the women were as completely naked
as I was, made that heat seem almost inconsequential. It was
only the saving-grace of finding my host, Knord, equally naked on
the rough-hewn bench that rescued me from dying of embarrassment.
At least the girls wouldn't sexually attack me HERE, in front of
their own father.
Oh yeah? I forgot the customs of places like Finland and
Denmark ... and the fact that it had been Knord who had offered
me hospitality of, "Table and Roof and Bed." Before I had more
than a slight chance to reflect on this, his two older daughters
had "plonked" me on the hard board surface, where I almost winced
in expectation of a splinter. No splinter. The surface had been
hewed with an axe, but with such skill that I defy a commercial
plane to leave less splinters. Smooth scallops, but no splinters
anywhere.
With giggles, I found myself with an Amazon on each side,
naked, and with erotic ideas. Their father was an almost
unnoticed bystander. (Unnoticed? ... Well, maybe not.)
"He's thin," remarked Tolo, seeming disappointed that I
didn't have the oaken thighs of previous boyfriends.
"He's a Warlock, remember," chided her older sister.
"Besides, he's handsome."
Well, that IS something that's pleasant to hear from a
beautiful woman. And Guenevere was ... both woman AND beautiful.
While not as long-haired and dark as her little sister, the full
flush of womanhood was enough to make even women like Dolly
Parton envious. I had no idea what sizes women use to rate
brassieres ... But if there was such a thing as 38-DD, like some
porno-stories insist, this woman would find such things too
small. However, on that body, it didn't seem out-of-place, as
both of the older girls were built on a scale to make Wonder-
Woman look like an under-endowed midget.
The intimate attention of two extremely sexy women almost
climbing in my lap had me suddenly and very embarrassedly erect.
"Oh look," cooed Suzette. "I think he LIKES us!"
My flaming red embarrassment was cut short by an even bigger
surprise, as the youngest of the three sisters knelt between my
legs and ... in full view of her two sisters and father ...
swallowed my prick! The sudden tightening of rock-hard muscles
around my arms and legs kept me from jumping up and running who-
knows-where.
Suddenly the LAST thing I wanted to do was jump and run ...
as the blow-job I was receiving turned into the best one I'd ever
had. (Aw heck! Who am I kidding? Of COURSE it was the best I'd
ever had, because it was the FIRST. Yeah, the brazen "hero",
"warlock" and cross-dimensional traveler was ... was a fucking
virgin! OK ... OK! NON-fucking-virgin, if you prefer. If the
girls ever found out ... I resolved they never would ... and
heard another echo of that damnable laughter in my head.)
"Girls ... GIRLS! Table first," came the insistent voice of
their mother. "Get him ready. Supper in two lengths."
"Yes, Momma."
Suddenly I felt myself lifted again, picked up, and THROWN
out of the house! I landed in a snowdrift that must have been
six feet high.
Spluttering at the shock, and wondering if they were going
to leave me out here, naked, without my winter-wear to freeze-to-
death in the growing dark and even colder night, suddenly I found
myself shaken as two, three, then four "thuds" announced the
arrival of the three girls and their father ... willingly joining
me in a bath of snow that surprisingly felt GOOD after the
incredible heat of the sauna.
Then, still giggling and teasing, the three girls dashed
back inside, in a peripatetic pile of moving female bodies like
some never-ending, always moving, welcoming ceremony with me in
the middle, like I hadn't heard of since ... since never.
The giggling and naked teasing continued, as all three girls
combined to wipe me down with hot dry towels (surprisingly soft,
in spite of obviously being home-sewn, knit, and spun). My hard-
on had mysteriously vanished as quick as it came.
"Table," intoned Hilda, from her seat on the floor. Instead
of the tall table I had expected, with rude benches around, the
family sorted themselves around a low rise in the middle of the
room. (You couldn't call part of the floor a TABLE, could you?
Obviously THIS family did). The floor and table, like the seats
in the sauna were sculpted by hand with axe or adze to a
painstaking smoothness.
The whole family suddenly went silent, as Knord sat tailor-
fasion, his wife beside him with both feet incredibly touching
sole-to-sole as he intoned. "Thank You Odinn, for these gifts."
Somehow I KNEW he was including ME in that list of "gifts."
There was no response from the ever-listening Odin ... or was
there? A maple-leaf slowly drifted from the ceiling ... in the
middle of winter? And a flapping noise and "Caw!" from outside
left the distinct impression of a crow leaving. Damn ... what
was it about Odin and crows?
Looking around, the tailor-seated family, the low table, the
quiet ... all suddenly reminded me in an almost homesick manner
of the last time I had attended a meal like this. A friend who
had been in the service had invited me to a Geisha party in Japan
during a visit there. Boring, white-faced girls in stilted
clothing and even stiffer manners had squired us through a tea
ceremony that almost put me to sleep. And *I* had gone there
almost expecting to get laid! What a laugh. My virginity
remained intact in Japan, like it had in all the other 23 years
of my sorry life. With my luck, even being here, and even with
the start of a blow-job from one of the sexiest girls I'd ever
met, I'd be lucky to get out without my hated virginity.
Something almost certainly would spoil the promise of "Table,
Roof, and Bed."
Well ... Table certainly went well. The one shocker was
that instead of honey-sweet mead, like I expected in a place like
this, the drink was closer to almost-liquid milk-shake, or home-
made vanilla ice-cream! The taste of vanilla-nut in the white
liquid was almost unreal. Something in this world must take the
place of the tropical plant in mine. Frozen ice-chunks told me
the rest of the recipe, Snow, honey, vanilla (or whatever) and
milk made a surprisingly good drink. Bread with meat and some
kind of sauce made most of the rest of the meal. Yeah,
sandwiches (trenchers I think) but good!
"Yawn. I think I'm ready for BED now," remarked the oldest;
stretching in an almost unbelievably fake imitation of
sleepiness.
"Me too," chimed in Suzette,
"Well, *I* am ready for bed ... How about you?" Inquired
Knord ... looking pointedly at his brood in dishabille.
It would have been unconscionable to back out now. Besides,
if I turned down THIS opportunity I'd be kicking myself until
they carted me off from the geriatric clinic to my grave.
I had a sudden horrible thought. "Uh, my suitcase?" I
wondered.
"Suitcase?" The mispronunciation was bad, but recognizable.
"Suitcase." I made lifting motions.
"In the entry ... Guenevere will guard, then I will,"
informed Hilda." I knew that it would take a dragon to get past
either of them.
Two minutes later I was being led into a dark room where
rugs were on the floor, but little else. Somehow I knew this was
the master-bedroom. I wasn't surprised that Hilda had followed
me in, and in fact was leading me by the hand. After all, "rank
has it's privileges" and "age before beauty," and all that. But
I never expected a THREESOME for my first time!
Only (thankfully) Knord just moved off to the corner to
watch.
But that didn't help! There's something about "doing it"
with an audience that will make the proudest prick go completely
limp! And remember, I was a virgin.
"Is something the matter?" inquired Hilda, sorrowfully.
"Perhaps I am too old for a young man like you? Perhaps one of
my daughters?"
"I just COULDN'T tell this wonderful woman that ...
especially since it wasn't the truth. Telling the truth
either ... that having her husband there made me nervous, would
be almost as unconscionable. While I knew she would get the
girls, or even Knord would leave if I asked ... How COULD I do
that to them ... after all they offered me? I couldn't. Neither
could I get a hard-on. Finally a truth I COULD tell occurred to
me.
"Um ... It's not really that ... it's just that I
never ...." Oh God (or Oh, Odin) it was HARD admitting that I'd
practically lived the life of a hermit up to now; with my sexual-
encounters relegated to "Mary Palm and her five daughters."
"You speak truth? Are a virgin?" she asked, amazed.
When I nodded, for a second she looked worried. "It not be
wizard oath that keep you so?"
"Oh no!" I protested. "I WANT ...." I gestured to make it
clear just what I wanted.
"Oh." Both people smiled back at me. "Virginity easy
cured," she told me ... and you know what? She was right!
It's absolutely amazing how sexy feeling a beautiful woman
sliding up next to you can be ... and how a hand, body, breast,
or mouth of a wonderful woman who WANTS to make love to you can
arouse even the most recalcitrant of pricks. Two minutes later I
felt an incredibly smooth hotness surround my penis ... and my
virginity was gone!
I'd LIKE to say I fucked and screwed that wonderful woman
for HOURS before planting my seed in her belly ... but sadly two
seconds after getting fully inside her, my lack of experience
showed, as I sent pulse after frantic pulse of sperm in search of
her waiting fertility. Somehow I knew that nine months later I
would be a father, as well as an ex-virgin ... and hopefully,
Hero.
Surprisingly, Hilda wasn't annoyed or even slightly
dissatisfied. I don't think she wanted another lover ... just a
Hero's baby. Hilda already HAD the man she wanted.
Her daughters, however.
"Now you not be so overeager," she told me. "You go treat
my little girls right!" And ... just like that, she pushed me
out of the room!
Eager giggles told me that I was expected ... and likely
three more girls would soon be expecting.
It was THEN, that I realized what Odin had meant when he
told me "You will find it worth your while." From the directions
I had, I would be well over a month on the journey ... sleeping
at different halls and cots and farms every night. The three
giggling, and extremely horny girls who rose up around me like a
wall of sexy bodies, were just the start.
Suddenly, getting that damnable suitcase to Hel ... even if
I ended up staying there myself ... seemed like a Hel of a
bargain.
Faintly, I could hear the laughter of a god.
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