index


Message-ID: <39180asstr$1036570206@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: AllMe Archives <editors@OUTRAGE.allme.com>
User-Agent: MT-NewsWatcher/3.2 (PPC Mac OS X)
Subject: {ASSM} The Archer {Libertine} (spooky nc)
Date: Wed,  6 Nov 2002 03:10:06 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


---------------------------------------------------------------------
More Libertine sex stories at http://allme.com/stories/libertine/?nsg
---------------------------------------------------------------------


"The Archer"
   by Libertine


There, in the gloom, was a typical Welsh cottage: small, square,
all stone and slate.  A candle burned in a window. Gwenneth went
to the door and knocked. A woman answered the door, dressed in
black, just like the "witches" on Welsh postcards.

"Pardon me," said Gwenneth, "but could you tell me where I might
be able to rent a room for the night?"

Sternly, the woman looked down on Gwenneth, who was all of five
feet two. Then she turned and bellowed, "Elspeth!"

A girl came to the door: "Can I help you?"

"Please, could you tell me where I could find a Bed and
Breakfast, a place to rent a room for the night?"

"Oh," said Elspeth, tilting her head as if in deep thought, "The
nearest, it's like on to ten mile." She spoke to the woman, in
Welsh. "Mum says its twelve miles. You're afoot?"

"Yes."

There was a discussion in Welsh. "Mum says you'd you'd better
stay here for the night. You can sleep in my room. Would that be
all right?"

"Oh, yes," sighed Gwenneth. It began to rain.

Elspeth led Gwenneth into a small sitting room, where the candle
glowed. The only other light was the fire in the grate. The woman
sat close to the candle and took up her embroidery. Gwenneth took
off her pack and sat, weary, on a small settee.

"I'll just go up and change the sheets and get some of my things
out of the room," said Elspeth, who lighted another candle and
mounted the steep stairs.

Conversation was impossible. Over the mantle was a large oil
portrait. Holding her hands before the fire, as if in need of
warmth, Gwenneth stood and studied the portrait. It was of a man,
a warrior of some bygone time, dressed in furs and plaid, with a
great sword, a longbow, and a quiver of arrows.

"He's supposed to be an ancestor of mine." said Elspeth. "What
did you say your name was?"

"Gwenneth Jones."

"That's a good Welsh name, but you're not from around here."

"No, I'm American, but I have an aunt in Llandudno."

"Oh, really. Well, I expect you'll want to see your bed. Just
follow me." At the top of the stairs, she pushed open a low door
and handed the candle to Gwenneth. "Watch your head." she said.

The room was just a loft. The twisty, hand-hewn beams of the roof
were exposed, and the undersides of the great, three-foot long
roofing slates. On a dresser were a mirror, a pitcher, a
porcelain bowl, and a small towel. There was a chamber pot under
the high bed, which stood tall on four great wooden legs. "Well."
said Elspeth. "I'll say goodnight. See you in the morning. Bolt
the door when I've left."

Gwenneth glanced at the door, with its black iron bolt, and
thought that really wouldn't be necessary. You don't find
burglars or ax murderers in Wales, and she had nothing to fear
from Elspeth. She took off her damp clothing, hanging her anorak,
her jeans, and her flannel shirt on pegs in the roof beams, then
spreading out her socks and underwear, hoping they might dry. She
washed as well as she could. Gwenneth looked at her tuft of pubic
hair, reddish, like the hair on her head. She cupped each breast
in her hand, hoping they might have grown a little fuller, more
womanly. She took from her pack an old-fashioned flannel
nightshirt and dropped it over her head. It was just the thing
for sleeping in, for the nights could be chilly, even in July.
Then she took out her hairbrush and brushed her hair for fifty
strokes. She held onto the brush and took from her pack two long
scarves. Then she blew out the candle and groped her way to the
bed.

The blackness was total, like swimming in ink. She remembered the
spooky feeling of being enveloped by the silent, translucent
clouds. She thought how lucky she was to spot the candle in the
window. She thought about the portrait of the archer, wondering
what sort of man he was.

Slowly, she drew the hem of her nightshirt up, up around her
waist. Her left hand cupped her left breast, while her right hand
slipped across her stomach, stroking the skin, finding the short,
curly hairs. She pressed her hand against her labia, rocking it
back and forth, feeling pleased that they were swelling and
growing sensitive. She tried to imagine what it would be like
having a man touching her. No man ever had, not there. A little
groping at the breasts, at a dance or something, but never there,
her most private place.

Then Gwenneth did something she had been doing, on and off, since
she was about thirteen. With one scarf, she tied her left ankle
to the left bedpost, and, stretching to do so, she used the other
scarf to tie her right ankle to the right bedpost. When she lay
back, her straightened legs formed a wide vee. This is childish,
she thought to herself, but only briefly, for this was her way of
turning on her favorite fantasies.

She was a Christian slave in ancient Rome, and her master, who
really loved her, had the eunuchs bind her thus so he... well,
the details were a little vague, but it gave her a thrill. She
rubbed two fingers up and down her furry mount, and a delicious
tingly feeling accompanied her fantasy. "This slave must be
punished!" said her master, who spoke English, not Latin. A
little shiver of fear, entirely contrived, added zest to her
predicament, as she was whipped across her thighs and belly, the
Roman slave whip feeling too much like a hairbrush.

When her Roman master's attentions failed to excite her further,
she declared a change of venue. She had been captured by that
notorious London rake, Lord Walsingham, who now declared, heh
heh, that this virginal beauty was at his mercy. How did he know
she was a virgin? He would look for himself. With her eyes
clamped shut, Gwenneth heard the rustle of her petticoats as the
rakehell lord lifted her skirts and peered at her most private
parts. In her imagination, she saw him holding high a candle and
heard him exclaim, "As pretty a quim as I've ever laid eyes on!"
She felt his hand spreading her lower lips and knew that he was
peering into the pinky depths of her treasure tunnel. "Ah, ha.
See her maidenhead. Virga intacta. I shall have it. But first,
she must agree to marry me, for I am told that Lady Gwenneth
commands a handsome dowry." Lord Walsingham dropped her skirts
and put his hands on her breasts, praising their maidenly
firmness and declaring that he would enjoy them, too.

When the lusty lord had done with her, gloating over what he was
going to do, but didn't; Gwenneth fell captive to a murdering
pirate who carried her onto his galleon and had her bound hand
and foot, spread-eagled on a grating, helpless. "Ho, ho ,ho." he
roared. "I'll have fun with this one, and, if she doesn't do
right by me, I'll give her to the crew." His rough pirate hands
made free with her helpless captive body, but she knew, deep
down, that he wouldn't hurt her. He would learn to love her and
would carry her off to his secret island fortress, to keep her
there, always, to be his love slave. Gwenneth grasped the
bristles of her hairbrush, as the pirate whispered in her ear,
"Well, my saucy maid, how would you like to be deflowered with
the pommel of my longsword?" She pleaded with him to spare her
maidenhead as she pressed hard with the brush handle, but it did
not bring her the release she wanted, and the pirate faded from
her view.

Gwenneth lay there in the dark, in the silence, listening to her
own breath and feeling an annoying sense of congestion, down
there. She had tried all her favorite fantasies, and nothing had
resolved itself. None of her girlhood seducers seemed real
enough. She might tell herself that Marcus Publius, her Roman
master, really loved her. He only whipped her out of concern, to
conceal and deny his own desire for her, for a Roman patrician
should never permit himself to love a Christian slave. On the
morrow, her master would break down and ask her forgiveness, free
her, and marry her, but she could not get past that point, beyond
which lay blissful relaxation. She grew tired and drifted off to
sleep, her ankles still tied, her nightdress up around her waist.

She dreamt that she heard the door to her room open, and someone
came in. A man! She could hear him breathing. Did Elspeth have a
lover who would slip into Gwenneth's bed, thinking she was
Elspeth? She heard the creak of leather, and smelled him, wild
animal furs and the damp wool. It was the Welshman, the archer,
so very real she could smell the mead on his breath. Strong
hands, there in the darkness, seized her hand and bound her wrist
to a bedpost with a strong string...then the other, leaving her
spreadeagled, as the pirate had done, her arms and legs taut and
spread out. She was truly helpless, unable to resist, and she
knew, in her inner brain, that this fantasy, this dream, would
not fade out before the business was done. This spectral figure,
invisible in the dark, was so incredibly real. He even spoke
Welsh to her.

Her nightdress was roughly dragged over her head and stuffed into
her mouth, so she could not even cry out in protest, when rough
hands roamed her body, stroking her legs, taking handfuls of her
girlish buttocks, making free with her breasts. She knew this
stranger meant to rape her, right and proper, and she was unable
to resist in any way, totally helpless. She was quite blameless,
too, for what can a poor girl do, when a raging outlaw has her
bound hand and foot and can ravish her at will? In that space
behind her tight shut eyes, she could see his bearded face
through the cloth which covered her face.

He stroked her body, murmuring to her in incomprehensible Welsh,
taking her body to be his toy. He took her breasts, one by one,
squeezing them and licking them. He sucked one breast and then
the other into his mouth, his coarse whiskers pricking her skin,
his teeth and tongue driving her crazy. It seemed so real! He
moved his hairy face across her belly. She felt a churning, there
between her navel and her... He was licking her, taking handfuls
of pubic hair and pulling her labia apart, burrowing into her
private... Oh! Oh! What was happening to her?

The Welshman spread her slippery juices over her mons and inner
thighs, doing with his fingers, his lips, his tongue what neither
Roman nor pirate had dared. Waves of excitement raged through her
insides, causing her to wriggle helplessly, unable to escape, for
she was stretched tight, bound hand and foot, the victim of his
relentless passions.

She felt the bed move, as her assailant removed his weight from
the bed, and she was suddenly frightened. She heard the creak of
leather, knew he must be removing the last of his clothes, the
better to.... Apprehension made her pulse pound. Would her dream
end, as her other fantasies always did, before the climax? She
waited for the worst, the best. This warrior would not shrink
from doing what her Roman, her lord, and her pirate never had.
The inevitable assault was coming, any second now, and she
shivered to think of it.

Yes, the bed sank as the archer knelt between her outspread
knees. She felt the warmth of him as he moved to cover her with
his body, his hairy chest pressed to her breasts, his
incomprehensible Welsh words telling her, she understood without
knowing, that he found her beautiful, irresistable, and he was
going to possess her.

"No, please, don't!" she cried, aloud, she thought, through the
flannel over her face. "You mustn't. I'm a virgin. You can't."
She was frightened, frightened she would wake.

It seemed so real. His weight on her, the pressure, the
stretching, the little twinge of stinging pain as her hymen burst
and her slick labia slid apart, and the sense of penetration, of
being filled to bursting made Gwenneth cry out: "Oh! No. Oh. Yes.
Ahh!" A wave of emotion swept her, not dread, relief, as a great
burden, her virginity, was so suddenly, so thankfully, removed.
Helpless, blameless, tied hand and foot so she could in no way
resist, her irresistable beauty and femininity had made this man
do the terrible deed. She was had. She had known a man. She had
crossed the bridge, yet she was helpless to stop it. She need
feel no guilt. She had been ravished by a stranger.

The great intrusive thing withdrew, leaving her empty. Was that
all there is to it? No, the thing pounded into her, harder than
before, sending warning alarms through her nervous system, as her
delicate inner membranes were stretched and rubbed. Again and
again it plunged, stirring her insides, moving things around,
pounding on her very womb, and rubbing her there, just below her
mons where, so often, so unsuccessfully, she had used her
hairbrush or her finger.

But this was no finger. This was big. This thing knew what it was
doing, and her helpless body, filled, overcome, could do nothing
to resist. With each thrust, Gwenneth felt the effect spread,
like a warm fluid infiltrating her pelvis, like electricity
sparking in her tenderest spot.

Wild associations ricocheted in her brain: the tingle when she
climbed a tree, straddling a branch, her bicycle seat, the
pounding of the saddle when she went horseback riding, the
feeling when her fingers... but this was so much more! Plunge,
withdraw, plunge, withdraw. Rhythmically, relentlessly, the
tension grew; the sensitivity grew; the intensity of friction
grew; she could not withstand it. Like little explosions of
indescribable sensation, great shuddering contractions racked her
insides. Her ravisher grunted and heaved, and her body, her very
womb, heaved with him, as she cried out, "Oh, oh, oh, AHH!" She
was overcome with ecstacy and well being.

"Uuugh, uugh, hmmm." the Welshman said.

She felt his dead weight, pressing her into the bed, so hard it
stretched her limbs even more taut than before. She felt his warm
body, the moisture on their skins, his breath in her hair and
ear. She felt him withdraw, her breasts tingling, as he released
them from his crushing against her. She felt a coolness, the air,
drying her damp breasts, wafting across the wetness of her inner
thighs. She felt profound relaxation, but then her dream faded
and was over.

Gwenneth awoke, feeling chilly, wondering why she was not under
the blanket. When she tried to move, she realized her ankles were
still tied to the bedposts with her scarves. She must have fallen
asleep without removing them. No matter, her mother wouldn't find
her so. She released herself and scurried under the covers to get
warm, hugging herself. It felt good, the soft bed, the warm
blankets. She drifted off, half asleep, half awake, and she
remembered now the strange dream. Such a vivid dream. Such a
pleasant dream. Such an impossible dream. How could she dream in
Welsh? Well, in dreams, anything can happen. In dreams, the mind
isn't rational. The superego doesn't spoil the fun. Nice
dream....

She awoke again. A dim light came through a tiny window. Elspeth
was at the door. "Gwenneth, will you be coming down for
breakfast?"

"Yes, Elspeth, just give me a minute." Gwenneth swung her legs
out from under the covers and sat on the bed, her feet still
inches from the cold floor. She felt different, somehow, and,
when she looked, she seemed to have a little spotting, when her
period wasn't due for days. She went to her pack for a
pantishield, just in case, dabbed up some of the blood with a
very cold, damp washcloth, and dressed in a hurry.

She made her way downstairs, unconsciously rubbing her wrists.
When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she saw the small
sitting room bright with sunshine. Elspeth was there, a steaming
teapot in her hand. She gave Gwenneth the strangest look. Do I
look different? thought Gwenneth. Does it show?

"One egg or two?" asked Elspeth.

"Oh, two, please. I'm suddenly very hungry." Elspeth departed for
the kitchen, and Gwenneth sat, spreading her serviette across her
lap. As she looked down, she noticed her wrists. There were
strange red marks, like rope burns, but smaller. Thoughtfully,
she looked up at the portrait of the Welsh archer. She hadn't
noticed last night, when the light was bad, but his bow was
unstrung, and he was smiling.


                          -- The End --


---------------------------------------------------------------------
-----| This story is protected by international copyright law, |-----
-----| rights not expressly waived are reserved by its author. |-----
---------------------------------------------------------------------
---------| Feedback? send mailto:editors@allme.OUTRAGE.com |---------
---------| note: be sure to remove any ".outrage" to reply |---------
---------| and we'll forward your comments to the author.  |---------
---------------------------------------------------------------------
More Libertine sex stories at http://allme.com/stories/libertine/?nsg
---------------------------------------------------------------------

-- 

hosting for these free sex stories supplied by FetishClub.com
come get your unlimited 5-day trial at http://fetishclub.com/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+