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Message-ID: <49687asstr$1099696203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel)
Subject: {ASSM} {Curmudgeon Fest} Kindler's Feather by Mat Twassel
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Date: Fri,  5 Nov 2004 18:10:03 -0500
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Kindler's Feather
by Mat Twassel

(for Denny)

Two knights on heavy horses galloped the main road 
from Gunderweg's castle. Less than an hour down the 
highway they encountered the solitary man, a tall 
fellow of indeterminate age making his way on foot 
with long steady strides.

"Doctor Kindler," said the first knight, his horse 
snorting and stamping. "Doctor Kindler, we're here 
to provide you escort. King Gunderweg's orders. The 
girl's in the hut ahind the castle, bout an hour 
from here iffen you ride with us. Hop up."

The man did not pause his step. Sunlight struck his 
brow when he glanced at the mounted knight. 
Kindler's eyes were stern, his voice stone. "I'll 
go on my own," he said, "same as always."

"King's orders," the knight repeated. "The roads 
'round here taint safe." Sun glinted from his 
sword, scabbard swaying as the horse pranced and 
wheeled, but the man, Kindler, kept walking. The 
two knights looked at each other, shrugged. "Suit 
yourself," the first knight said, "We tried," and 
the pair galloped off, dust from the horses' hooves 
pluming, settling. 

"What do you think?" the first knight asked his 
companion several miles later. "Should we have 
stayed? Insisted? At sword point?"

"Kindler knows his spells," the second knight said. 
"Rub him wrong, he turns stout cocks to flimsy 
tallow. No way would I chance it." The knight 
chortled. "He'll have his hands full with this 
girl, though. She's a rare beauty, but wildcat 
through and through. The scratches on my thighs 
from catching her still haven't healed. And she 
nearly bit my elbow off."

"Hah! Better your elbow than your barrel," the 
first knight said. "But if anyone can tame her, 
it's Kindler."

"Breaking her is one thing; any clod of a king can 
mount her. Putting a baby boy in her belly by next 
moon tis something more."

The knights spurred their mounts. Their sword 
scabbards jounced the horses' flanks as they rode, 
following their erections into the wilderness.

Three archers guarded the hut, one at the window, 
one at the open doorway, and one on the roof. At 
Kindler's approach the archer at the doorway opened 
his palm and moved it towards the entry.  The long 
journey's dust cloaked Kindler and his heavy robes. 
Umber powder softened his step. Kindler slipped 
inside the hut and made his way soundlessly across 
the stone floor. To Kindler's left, fire crackled 
in the hearth. The great tub stood next to it, 
steam billowing up. To Kindler's right lay the wide 
bed: an abundance of soft cloths, quilts and 
comforters spread across; a slim candle burning on 
each post. In the hut's far corner stood the girl, 
her back to Kindler, talking into an ancient cell 
phone.  "Toodle-boop," she said. "Oh, Toodle-boop, 
my love, you must come and rescue me at once. Be 
careful, my darling. The king's ogres are outside. 
If they catch you, they'll eat us both. Please 
hurry, Toodle-boop. Please, please, please."

Kindler laughed. The girl startled, whirled, and 
dropped her toy. Plastic shattered on stone.

"Don't worry," Kindler said, breaking the silence. 
"I'm not an ogre. I won't eat you. Not without 
cooking your first. Not without salt and sauce. 
That's only civilized."

The girl said nothing. Her eyes were bright, her 
garb tattered, her feet bare and dark with dirt. 
Dried mud capped her knees, streaked her cheeks, 
stained her smock. "Disrobe," Kindler commanded the 
girl. She studied him for a moment, then did as she 
was told.

Kindler led the girl to the tub. Not a girl, 
officially: her first flow had ended two days 
before, which left less than half a moon to prepare 
for the king. But perfectly girlish she was, this 
child; beautifully innocent, absolutely intact.  
She had the soft, gray-green eyes and fierce, fire-
red hair that King Gunderweg preferred. She had 
graceful breasts, just begun, and those longish, 
coltish limbs with a demur bush between--the sparse 
nest unable to conceal the shy cleft, the timid 
bud. 

She struggled and splashed but for a moment, then 
sputtered and bubbled under the steamy water. 
Kindler held her firm, scrubbed her hard with the 
raspy cloth, hoisted her out dripping like a 
drowned kitten, and laid her on the bed. He blotted 
and buffed her dry and fluffy, but left her bare 
upon her back while he tended the hearth fire, 
building it up to a roaring blaze.

The girl, unabashed by her nakedness, turned to her 
side and with wide-eyed attention watched Kindler 
work.

"I see you've mastered shamelessness," Kindler 
said. "Let's see how you do with your next lesson. 
Sensitivity." From his robes Kindler produced a 
small white feather. The tip of it he touched to 
the girl's nose.  She twitched and smiled. He 
nudged the feather against both fledgling nipples 
just enough to make them point. The girl frowned.  
The feather dipped abruptly, swirling the shallow 
scallop of the girl's navel. She giggled. 

"You're missing the point," Kindler said. "Remain 
impassive, I'll set you free."

Kindler continued the game of tickles, teases and 
touches. Back and forth the feather stroked her 
beneath her chin. The girl quivered. Nipples, nose, 
navel. She squirmed and sighed. A caress at the 
instep of each small foot brought her legs up, her 
ankles against her ears. When the feather brushed 
her bottom, the girl moaned, and moaned more when 
feather-touches whispered to her softest spots, the 
heart of her moon, the soul of her moor, the shy 
patch of special skin between. It played and plied, 
this feather, fluttering and flicking, stroking, 
shuffling, soothing--soothing, shuffling, stroking, 
until at last the girl's belly clenched, her body 
shook, stars trembled and twinkled, and white 
feathers fell through night sky.

One delirium was not enough. Kindler's feather took 
the girl through two, three, four feverish falls, 
each harder, deeper, farther than the last. Logs 
shifted on the grate, embers flared and fluttered 
to ash, and the white-tipped feather, wetted, 
whisked the girl from one new ecstasy to another.

"I can't," the girl mewed after six. "Please no."

Kindler's eyes said she could.  The feather 
frolicked. The girl bucked. Fresh spasms swallowed 
fresher ones. "Oh, oh, oh," the girl wailed. The 
pleasure wouldn't stop. Kindler wouldn't stop. The 
girl fainted, dead asleep.

Hours later, awake at last, she asked, "What's 
impassive?"

Kindler laughed. He pulled out a fresh feather. The 
game began again. Nose, nipple, navel. Mound, moon, 
moor. Fall after fall after fall.

The next day, new wood in the hearth, it took but a 
touch of Kindler's feather to the girl's ear, her 
nose, her kneecap, and she'd fall. "More," Kindler 
commanded, and the girl bunched herself on the bed, 
bottom raised up, and fell with the feather still 
inches from her crux.

"More," she moaned, then yelped when Kindler's palm 
busked her bottom flesh. "Ow!" Kindler spanked 
harder, red patches flaring both sides of her 
peach. "Oh! Ow!" Her lips opened. Her womb roiled. 
"Oh, oh, oh." She rolled to her side, then onto her 
back, her knees lifting, her legs spreading. 
"Please."

"No."

"I itch so much inside. I want you there. I need 
you there. I'm on fire for your ... your ..."

"My? My?"

"I don't know what it's called. Your ..." She 
stretched a leg lazily, lifting Kindler's robe.  
Her second leg followed the first. Underneath, her 
feet found Kindler's erection. Her toes traced its 
length, up and back, ten toe tips sliding stiffened 
skin.

"Oh, foo!" Kindler cursed.

"Foo?" the girl said, amused, but continuing her 
slow stroking.

"Foo bar," Kindler sighed, stopping the girl's feet 
with his hands.

"Foo bar? For real? What a strange name for it. Fit 
it in me, please. I'm burning for it."

 "I can't. Burst you, it's me who burns. Spoil you, 
it's my bones kindle the king's supper, my skull 
rolls downhill, my cock crows feast upon."

"Cock," the girl said. "That's what I want. Foo bar 
me with your cock. Please, please, please." She 
withdrew her legs from Kindler's robe and lifted 
them over her head, ankles by her ears. Her gray-
green eyes went wide, imploring. Her lips quivered. 
"Please. Foo bar me now."

Kindler frowned. He knelt. His nose nuzzled the 
soft amber floss of her little mound, inhaling a 
scent sweet and mild as spring meadow.  He kissed 
in quick succession the umber pout of her peach, 
the pink petals of her flower, the bruise-red bud 
of her ruby berry.  Upon the last he lingered, 
letting his lips bunch about the swell, nipping it 
lightly with his teeth, tasting it as if it were a 
small seed, trilling the fattened tip with the tip 
of his tongue until it shivered, until her flower 
opened, until her sap soaked his chin. He mouthed 
the kiss of her essence, swallowing the salt and 
sauce of her.

Kindler leaned back. "So beautiful," he intoned. 
"So perfect."  As lightly as he could he caressed 
the delicate hymen, stretched so thin now as to be 
almost translucent. Fresh syrup welled up. Kindler 
wetted his forefinger with the slickness and eased 
it past the barrier, careful not to compromise the 
small shelf, the tender coin of maiden skin. "Don't 
move," he said. His forefinger, a slippery inch 
inside the slim aperture, ruffled the special spot. 
"Slow," he said. "Just sip. Don't suck. Don't gulp. 
Don't--"

"Can't," she said, sucking, gulping, gushing. 

"Control," Kindler said. His finger rode the girl's 
fall. With his other hand he palmed her mound, 
pried apart her petals, pinched her bud. "Control," 
he said, bringing her off again, again, again. 
"Control," he said, making her fall four times and 
four times more, and again into a final collapse.

"Was I bad?" the girl asked, having awakened from 
her slumber.

"No," Kindler assured her, "you were good. Very, 
very good. I'm proud of you."

The girl smiled.

"But ..." Kindler said, his own smile playing across 
his face, wry wrinkles.

"But what?"

"Expect a slice of pain when Gunderweg pierces you.  
He'll take pleasure in your yelp."

"King Gunderweg ... is he ... is he a bad man?"

Kindler chuckled. "Gunderweg bad? Not compared to 
Genghis Khan or Adolph Hitler or George W. Bush. 
He's just a man, though maybe not just. But take 
pleasure in his pleasure, give it up to him, to his 
hardness, and you'll find the rub of his crown soft 
as a skinned plum. That place I pressed--lock his 
ridge against it. Ride it. When you feel a flutter 
lower, let it lick his tip, nibbling while your 
core milks him hard. He'll calm quick after he's 
come, and as long as he gets a boy baby out of your 
belly, you'll be fine."

"A baby boy?"

"Yes. A male heir to carry on his line. To rule and 
rove and rape without reproach. To slay enemies, 
enslave serfs, seduce virgins. To sire more sons 
for the greater and everlasting glory of God and 
Gunderweg."

"How do I make sure it's a boy?"

"Why, girl, that's what this training is all about! 
The last lesson. Be greedy enough for his seed and 
you'll have his son, your safety, and his kingdom."

"What if I don't want it? Don't want any of it? 
Safety, kingdom, son?"

"You have no choice," Kindler said. "That's the 
last lesson. Having tasted ecstasy, you'll now be 
kept on the cusp of it, aroused relentlessly, 
concupiscence without cease, but a maddening inch 
from release, a single elusive twitch short of 
satisfaction. Deprived of the full fall until your 
cycle is at its ripest center, the apex of 
fecundity, you'll pray feverishly for Gunderweg's 
greedy thrusts; you'll beg for his battering; 
you'll grunt and squeal and swoon at the fertile 
pump and plunge of his royal seed."

"I won't! I won't! I won't!"

Kindler showed her the feather.

The girl shuddered. The feather moved closer. The 
girl's lower lip trembled. Flushed, she cried, "Why 
can't you be king?" 

"It's not in my blood," Kindler answered. "And 
anyway, my job is more important. To teach you the 
trick of boy babies."

"Your job! Pah! You're just a man!" And before 
Kindler could protest, before he could resist, 
before he could do anything but stand paralyzed, 
the girl was under his robes, her lips around his 
erection.

Impassive, Kindler let her suck. The steady swell 
gave confidence to her lips. The slow surge 
rewarded her tongue. Kindler frowned at her 
quickening skill. Earlier he'd chewed arrowroot to 
make his seed bitter, but the girl sucked and 
swallowed and smiled as if the spew were sweetest 
cream.

The feather fell. Light as light it drifted down. 
The stone floor cracked.

"There," the girl said, licking a last droplet from 
her lower lip. "Just a man, a man who'd foo bar me 
without knowing my name."

Kindler picked her up and kissed her. The girl 
kissed back. "Teach me," Kindler said. "Teach me, 
please." They embraced like trees grown together 
over the ages, like wind wearing down mountains, 
like man and woman in love. In the forest the 
archers' arrows flew. In the moors the knights' 
swords flashed.  Kindler and the girl held each 
other, and too soon the king's men came. "Hop on 
up," they said, hoisting her to their mounts.  

Kindler waited in the hut.  That night he heard 
Aieka cry out. "Oh, foo! Oh, foo! Oh, fuck!" He 
felt the blood trickle her inner thigh. In the 
forests the deer hung, dripping. In the moors the 
knights' swords plunged. In the hut Kindler waited. 
Night after night Aieka cried. Moon after moon 
Kindler waited.  "Oh, foo! Oh, foo! Oh, fuck!"  At 
last Aieka bore her child.

"My sweet Toodle-boop," Aieka sang to the baby at 
her breast. "My lovely little darling." The road 
was long and dusty and difficult, but with Kindler 
walking at her side and with her baby, her sweet 
little girl, in her arms, Aieka didn't mind. Soon 
they would be there. Soon they would join the 
others.

===
Kindler's Feather
by Mat Twassel

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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