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The Storyteller

By: MaxSebastian



Winter spread its web of death over the rolling fields of Wessex. Thunder clouds as grey as disease blossomed over the heavens, covering the pale dawning sun. Molten ice carpeted everything - earth, twig and roof, blocking the tracks in drifts and halting rivers in their beds. A small dark figure was the only one moving through the frosty meadows in the low light of the December morning. 

He moved through the wide open fields of angel white, leaving a trail that was soon filled behind him. Slim, strong and agile, striding through the snow, his black robe concealing his features from the biting winds as he continued ever onwards, downwards and northwards into the valley below, towards the lace lattice of white shrouded houses that surrounded the huge majestic cathedral.

The valley was, unlike the hills, not completely empty of life: there were many dark figures rushing around, sliding about the ice and making the most of the weather; the children were happy with the weather even if the parents were not. The Avon had burst her banks: that much was obvious, before freezing over. Acres of frozen floodwater spanned the entire valley in places, breaking past the deathly bare weeping willows on the river banks and into the surrounding countryside. Trenches were built in the snow like primitive desert fortifications, from which snowballs flew between rival groups. The witch's son, a tall skinny boy whose mother was the subject of many a controversial conversation in the inns and taverns of the city, received hard-thrown snow packed with sharp flint stone, and he soon had to withdrew from the scorn of the other children, his face lacerated and clothes torn. 

But the traveller had no time for games. It was a peculiarly harsh winter that year, and even old Maud, the ancient widow who lived above the crooked timber bakery in the Main Street, had never seen anything like it in all her sixty years. The traveller had to keep moving. 

In the centre of the small city, the blacksmith drew a crowd as soon as he opened his doors, many people eagerly absorbing heat from the furnace. But the cloaked figure did not alter his path for a second, he had to be somewhere else.

A mile or so north of the Cathedral was a larger hill than the rest. On it was a huge fortress, a building that had been built by the Barons just two generations back when they’d come from across the sea to take over the land. Called Old Sarum, it housed Richard, Earl of Salisbury, and his entourage. And as the new sun rose over the world, the shadowy figure drifted towards the Eastern Gate.

“Halt.”

Two guards, dressed in iron, ordered him to be still as they examined him. The traveller did not aid them by putting down the hood of his robes. His face, sharp and well-defined, remained shaded, the robe dropping down to the ground to conceal even his feet. 

"What do you want, vagrant?" One of the guards asked in a hoarse, deep voice. "None are expecting you." 

"I have come to see the Earl's daughter," said the traveller. His voice was clear as a bell peeling through the crisp wintry air, revealing his youth but also his indubitable intellect. 

"Lady Kathryn is not well, she sees no-one," the guard growled. 

"I have come to entertain her." 

"You have been sent for?" the huge brute took a deferential step back, cautious that respect might be due. 

"People do not send for me: if I come, then they are blessed." 

The guard frowned, as heavier spots of snow began winding their way out of the heavens. "There are orders that no-one disturb the girl.”

“Word is she’s dying," the other guard said, revealing the immense sadness the two of them were trying to conceal in their capacity as formidable sentries. 

"Nevertheless, go and ask the girl if she will admit the storyteller." He could not have seen a score of summers in his life, yet the traveller seemed to have an odd authority to him that just could not be questioned. The larger guard, who seemed to have more influence, nodded silently and went inside. 

“How long has she been ill?” the traveller asked the remaining sentry.

“Some months now,” the soldier replied, his appearance haggard and drained of all colour as though he’d been waiting outside the gate for hours and hours. “The people round these parts love her dearly, but they say there’s nothing anybody can do. The Earl’s had physicians and apothecaries from all over the known world, he’s had bishops by the wagonload and even, they say, the good Earl’s so desperate, he’s even smuggled in a witch or two.”

A woman in a long blue dress came out to meet the traveller. She was stocky and short, with a pale, worried face and many wrinkles. She frowned as she peered at the traveller. 

"What do you want?" She spoke in a cold, emotionless tone. 

"I’ve come to help the Lady." 

"Nobody sent for you." 

"People do not send for good fortune: if it comes, they welcome it." 

"You are saying that you are good fortune?" She asked with cutting sarcasm. 

"I will make the young Lady's life easier." 

"We’ve had many physicians here before. They haven’t been able to do anything for Lady Kathryn," she scorned him. 

The traveller sighed wearily, "go and ask your Lady, good nurse. Go and tell her the storyteller is here, and he promises to take away her loneliness and make her feel better than she ever has before." 

"Listen, vagrant, I provide Lady Kathryn with the best of care, she is never lonely and is loved by every person within miles of here." A solitary tear was issued from the nursemaid's eye, to dribble down her wrinkled cheek. 

The storyteller nodded, and gently hugged the nursemaid as her tears slipped out. "Allow her one day in my company," he said quietly, "dry your tears, good woman, I am sure you have done your best for Lady Kathryn. Let me help you." 

The woman thought for a moment. This vagrant had a strange charm that she could not define. "Very well ," she sniffed, "but be careful. She is weak because of her illness." 

The traveller smiled and the nurse saw a strange blue flash in the corner of her eye. He winked at her. 

-

The room was at the top of a tower in the keep, facing west. The nursemaid came out of the large oak door to usher in the waiting storyteller. 

"She’ll see you, but be careful,” she warned, “If she no longer wants you there, come out quickly. Don't irritate her, whatever you do." 

He nodded, picking up a black cloth bag that the nursemaid could have sworn she hadn't seen him carrying before. As the nursemaid vanished down the narrow spiral staircase, the storyteller slowly turned the huge iron doorknob and pushed the door quietly open. 

Inside, the room was round with two narrow windows and a large four poster bed with lush red sheets enveloping the restless young woman. Tapestries depicting forests and mountains hung on the walls, brightening the dull grey stone of the tower. A bear skin lay on the floor in front of a crackling fire that smelled oaky and warmed the room nicely.

Sitting up in the bed, leaning against several cushions, was the slender, pale girl, Kathryn. There was perspiration on her greyish forehead and a frown on her pretty face. She had blonde hair that flowed down to her shoulder in a bell shape, adding well to her beautifully large Norse blue eyes, but the illness had taken its toll. She was very frail.

She folded her arms over her chest. "Who are you?" she asked in a pained whisper. 

"My name is Emrys: I’ve come to make your life a bit easier," the traveller answered with prominent optimism. 

"Don't bother yourself, Lord knows it’s not possible," she was extremely tired, but not unpleasant. She did not look down on him like the nursemaid and the guards had. Perhaps it was because -- perhaps not coincidentally -- she looked to be the same age as him, to the very day. 

"Nonsense. Now, would you like to hear a story? I know one you’ll love." The traveller dropped his hood down and underneath, he was a striking looking man, young but very sharp. He smiled, looking deep into her eyes, until eventually she was forced to smile back. 

"I'm really not feeling well," she whispered and the smile lost the battle to the frown. 

"Really? I would never’ve known," he said with a little irony. From his bag, he produced a vial of glass, half full of a white powder. 

"Is that glass?" Kathryn said in wonderment. 

"It is, my Lady," the storyteller held the vial up to the light so that she could see it more easily. “It comes from very far away, across the sea.”

"Some say it is spun water, and if you grind it up and put it in a man's drink, it is worse that the strongest poison, dissolving a man’s insides whilst he still lives. I’ve never seen it before. It’s beautiful!" She still spoke in a whisper, but louder, her eyes wide with interest. "Not even father possesses any!" 

"You have a cup of water, my Lady, on the table beside your bed?" 

"Yes." 

"Then if I put some of this powder in your drink, will you take it? It will help you concentrate on the story." 

"What if it’s poison?" 

"If it’s poison, you will no longer feel awful, but I will be executed; so I promise you it’s not harmful, by my life." 

The girl clasped the old wooden cup in both trembling hands, sipping the mixture the stranger, Emrys, had given her. 

"How is it?" he asked her. 

"Bitter." 

"Good, then it’s working." He took off his cloak, laying it on the floor beside the bed. He was dressed in mostly faded brown garments, tough black trousers and thin brown shoes, with no elongated toes that the girl saw on the shoes of the ghastly colourful `fashionable' courtiers who had tried in the past to amuse her in the hope of pleasing her father. He did not look Norman by ancestry, but not really Saxon, either. 

"Feeling any better?" he asked softly after a few moments. 

"The pain has gone," her eyes were wide with surprise. “I can’t believe it, the pain is gone! How -" 

“The bark of the willow – that is the main thing, but that’s not important now. I’ll begin the story, yes?” 

"Only if I haven't heard it before." 

"You haven't, I assure you, Lady." 

The story the stranger told was like no other tale she’d ever heard. A great hero king was forced to travel home after a gruelling war, and faced many hideous creatures blocking his path home. It was an exhilarating tale, keeping her gripped like none she’d ever heard. The hero returned home eventually, to find his beautiful queen had given him up for dead and was holding a contest to find a new husband. The hero disguised himself and entered the contest himself, which involved a dazzling display of skill with a bow.

The hero eventually won his wife back, and Kathryn clapped her hands with joy. But the tale did not end then. At the moment storytellers usually stopped, this strange young narrator kept going. The girl’s eyes widened as she heard the hero take his wife into the bedroom. The storyteller described their kiss, which was like sugar and fire as the two of them tore off each other’s clothes and the years of need flooded out. 

When would the story end? Kathryn sat on the bed with her knees under her chin, hugging her thighs as she listened. So strange that a storyteller was describing things that happened long after other narrators would have brought the story to an end, but she found she didn’t want this story to come to an end yet. 

The things the storyteller recounted made her tingle strangely between her legs. She’d never heard what happens between a man and his wife – though the locals fooled themselves that she’d been sick only a few months, she hadn’t been well since before she was of marriage age, so she had never been with a man. She was riveted to the tale as she heard how the hero kissed slowly down his queen’s body, tasting her skin and running his strong hands over her curves. 

She heard every word as the hero took his queen’s breasts into his mouth and then proceeded downwards, to rest his head between her legs, lapping like a thirsty animal. Kathryn felt so very alive as she heard how the hero slid his hard penis inside his queen, and she felt an urge inside her as she heard the storyteller’s words that she’d never felt before. 

She was very aware of the soft red sheets rubbing softly against the small round swells of her chest, gently teasing her nipples that seemed suddenly so hard and sensitive. But it was between her legs that the strongest sensations came, and she felt a hot wetness seeping out of her. 

The story came to an end at last as the hero and his queen conceived what would become a handsome new prince. Kathryn’s entire body was on fire. 

“My story is at an end,” said the storyteller regretfully.

“Was it true?” She asked, clasping the soft bed linen under her chin.

“Who can say,” he replied, cryptically, “it may have been.”

“Can a man really make a woman feel that way?” Her eyes were full of questions and innocent wonder.

“That part was most definitely true,” he said.

The feelings within her were very strong, she desperately wanted him to replicate the story he had recounted, but this time with her sensual body. But as much as she was turned on, the whole experience seemed to have exhausted her – it was now evening, the storyteller’s tale had gone on all day, and being that aroused for so many hours really took it out of her, especially since she was so ill in the first place. So the tiredness overcame her, and she all but collapsed, the storyteller Emrys softly kissing her forehead before retiring.

-

The strange storyteller continued to care for Kathryn, by order of the Duke himself: the bed stricken girl felt no pain when he was near, and the stories he told her made her feel wonderful inside. She seemed to be getting better, too, and soon she was as healthy and happy as any girl could be and the members of the castle took the storyteller into their hearts.

He was good-looking, cool-headed and interesting. He always had things to tell her, about the outside world, tales of foreign lands over the sea, histories of people so ancient they were almost mythical. But always romantic tales full of the kind of exploits of men and women that normal storytellers avoided, but which seemed to send Kathryn to Heaven and back.

He had a strange manner about him, almost indescribable, it was as though he was unreal. Sometimes, when you weren’t looking for it, there was a strange sapphire flash you could only perceive out of the corner of your eye. When you looked for it again, it was gone.

After a number of days with him, listening to his steamy words, soaking those sheets with her arousal, she felt such a strong craving for him to kiss her and touch her in the same way he described, that she secretly began to touch herself, imagining it to be him. It felt so incredibly good, her fingers surreptitiously seeking out the wetness between her legs. 

That night, when he left her once again to sleep, she did not drift off, but instead, used her hands and fingers to explore herself. She experimented, trying to simulate what it might feel like to take the storyteller to bed. She caressed her skin from her neck down to her thighs, and gripped her firm little breasts, grazing her palms over her nipples, then using her fingers to squeeze them. The feelings were amazing, just as she felt like when he told her those stories, but concentrated ten fold. 

After a while, her hands dropped between her thighs and she investigated her sensations, closing her eyes and imagining that he was there touching her, tasting her, squeezing his hardness into her. It felt strange that she was so wet and slippery, but after his evocative depiction of so many different sexual acts, she was unconcerned by it all.

She slipped two fingers into her vagina, dreaming that it was him, and suddenly her body was rocked by an explosion of sensation that left her feeling like pure gold, and completely out of breath. At last, she knew fully what it felt like to be a woman, and to experience the kind of loving that the storyteller had explained to her in such glorious detail. And now she wanted it for real. Desperately.

She lay there for a while, her heart thumping in her chest as her breathing began to slow. What did she do? She was definitely not sleepy – not after that much gratification – and she was so excited that she really couldn’t wait until the morning to see the storyteller again. She wanted him now.

She got up, and put on some robes, then quietly opened her bedroom door. Outside, a guard sat on a chair, holding a spear to ward off trouble. But the guard was asleep. She crept out and painstakingly slowly, she descended the spiral staircase, listening for any sound of possible witnesses and taking care to place each foot on each cold stone step without a noise.

The castle was dark and silent – everyone was asleep bar the night watchmen on the ramparts. She found it fairly easy to sneak through the halls and corridors leading to the heart of the building. Eventually, she found the room, and passed inside.

“My Lady,” the storyteller, Emrys, was inside the tiny room, sitting at a table by a lone flickering candle, a quill in his hand and a parchment underneath it. “Can’t you sleep?”

“No,” she said quietly, “I can’t.”

“Do you want me to get you something?”

Suddenly, she let her robes drop, so that she stood entirely exposed to his gaze. She watched his expression turn to surprise. “I want you to take me,” she said as he kept his eyes fixed on hers.

“Are you sure, my Lady?” he asked.

“I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.”

She stepped forwards, so that she was just inches away from him. He drew in his breath as he observed a drop of liquid trickle down her milky white thigh. He stood up then, and she felt her entire body ignite. He placed his hands on her soft neck, wondering at how smooth her skin was. He felt his way down her torso until he got to her beautifully rounded breasts. They were firm but soft to the touch. He carefully avoided the nipple with his hands. He continued down to her tummy, which was creamy and firm. Gently, he began kissing her tiny, slightly elongated navel up to the base of her left breast.

He licked her silky skin around the enticing swell of her breast, covering every inch except the areola and nipple. Her flesh was slightly salty, from the perspiration that came with a warm room and the days of awakening sexuality. Then starting at the edge of the light pink areola, he licked in a spiral until he came to the nipple, which he wrapped the tip of his tongue around. She shivered and moaned at this new feeling but kept her elbows apart, giving him unencumbered access to her body. 

Her nipples had become hard little pebbles when he started to lick near her breasts. He put his mouth over one of her tiny buds, sucking it into his mouth, and bit down ever so lightly. She thought she was going to collapse in pleasure, but she held a wide-spread stance that steadied her. 

Her face was slightly flushed, easily apparent with her pale skin. Her entire body now glowed in the light of the candle, and as he caressed her breasts with his lips and tongue, she moaned softly.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, and kissed her thighs, moving slowly upwards, looking up at her beautiful vagina with those succulent lips slightly apart and the entire light pink slit glistening with her excitement. Beginning on the inside of her thigh, just above the knee he started to lick his way towards the centre of her ecstasy. Along the way he encountered the trail of her juices that dripped from her vagina, cleaning it off her skin with soft flicks of his tongue. 

Then using his tongue, and only his tongue, he began to explore her labia. The thin, soft, pink lips easy yielded to his tongue. But she found it too much, her trembling becoming out and out shaking at the intensity of his attention on her. She stepped back and had to sit down on his bed.


The Storyteller



He was sitting in the big low armchair when I came in. I threw my bag on the couch and went to the kitchen, returning with a couple of bottles of beer. I took a long sip and put the bottles on the table next to his chair, and I sat down on his lap, my legs dangling over the chair arm. He put his arms around me and we exchanged a lengthy kiss.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Busy, I never got a break all day," I replied, laying my head on his shoulder. "Like my new blouse? I bought it today." 

In place of my usual tee I was wearing a white linen top, with a wide scoop neck that showed off my neck and shoulders, and the tops of my breasts. He reached up and pulled the neckline out, giving him a good look at my gorgeous tits in a skimpy pink lace bra. 

"I like it," He said. "I like what's inside it even better."

"I can tell," I said, wiggling my butt on his lap, where his penis was growing hard underneath me. "Aren't you going to ask me about what I did all day?"

He knew where this was going. A big smile on his face, he said, "Oh. Did you have an - adventure - today, Cynthia?"

"I did!" I said in a sultry low voice.

"You must tell me," he replied. "Don't leave out a single detail."

I was silent for a moment, considering. 

"I needed a passport photo, in case I should ever decide to go abroad," I began. 

"Well, of course you did, baby," he said. "Please go on."

"I didn't know where to get one so I just looked for photographers in the phone book and the first one I saw was a place that specialized in those photos that look like they're from the Victorian era, you know? But the ad said they also did passport photos, so I went there."

"It was just noon when I found the shop, and the photographer was shutting up for lunch. He was a big, hulking man, about 45, not all muscled but he looked very capable, Stewart."

"A capable man, then," he said.

"Very. I asked if he could do my photo and he said sure, why not, and let me in the shop. I have to admit, I gave him a very sexy smile and I think he liked it a lot. Also, I was wearing my new blouse and it's just possible I let him get a tiny little peek at my tits, too. I should have thought something was up when he shut the door and put the 'Closed' sign up."

"That's a red flag for sure," he said. "And after that?" "He led me to the back of the shop, and I sat in front of a screen, and he shot the passport photo. I got a set of 4 so I'd have extras."

I fell silent. My hand was inside his shirt, massaging his chest and stomach. His cock was a hot hard lump underneath my ass. 

"Well that's not much of an adventure!" he said. "Mr. Capable Man takes a photo. Hmmph!"

"But I'm not finished!" I continued. "There's a bit more. I just wasn't sure I should tell you. Stewart - I was bad."

"Oh, you were, were you?" he said sternly. "Tell me everything. Then we'll decide on your punishment."

"Maybe," I began, climbing off his lap, "Maybe if I do something nice for you while I tell you, you won't be so mad at me?"

"That might help," he said, speculatively. "Better try it."

I sank to my knees in front of him, between his legs. I undid his belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. I reached into his pants and grasped his swollen manhood, pulling it out into the open air. He worked his pants down a bit so his balls were freed. My long fingers were around his shaft, slowly stroking it as it grew to full length. He laid his head back on the chair.

"Now go on," he commanded. My eyes locked onto his and I stroked his cock with agonizing slowness as I began to speak.

"We were done with the passport photos, and I was ready to leave. The photographer was staring at me so strangely! I stared back at him 'til finally he apologized, and said he was thinking how good I would look in one of his Victorian costumes. He said he'd give me a free photo if I'd let him take my picture in a costume. It sounded fun. So I said yes. He showed me where the dressing room was, and all the costumes."

"I went in and got undressed, down to my thong and my bra. There were so many costumes. I chose a corset thing, what is the word, it pushes your breasts up - "

"A bustier?" he offered.

"Exactly! A bustier. I put it on, it was red, very tight on my body, and it pushed my boobs up, Stewart, and made them so high and jiggly - you would have attacked me on the spot!"

All this while I am slowly, firmly, deliberately, jacking him off, looking deep into his eyes. His heart is beginning to race and his breath is coming with difficulty.

"And then he came into the dressing room! I was there in just my thong and the bustier, and he stared at me. He had a wild light in his eyes, and he was so big and powerful-looking. And he attacked me - on the spot!"

"Evil man," he gasped, my skilled hands bringing him closer and closer to climax.

"I didn't know what to do, he was so strong, he grabbed me and turned me around. I was helpless. He held both my arms behind my back while he undid his pants with his other hand. When his trousers came off, oh my god, his cock - it was so big. Like a fireplace log."

"Bigger than mine?" he asked in a hoarse voice. I was stroking him a bit faster now, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with both hands. His hips were moving, trying to fuck my hands as they pleasured him.

"So much bigger than you. The biggest dick I've ever seen. I told him that would never fit in my pussy, Stewart. And he - and he -"

"He what?" he demanded, panting with anticipation, trying to concentrate.

"He said he wasn't going to fuck my pussy - he was going to fuck my ass!"

"NO!" he managed to say. My hands on his penis were making jolts of electricity course through his body as though I were electrocuting him with every stroke..

"He had a tube of something, a lubricant, and he rubbed it on my tiny little rosebud. I tried to struggle but he was so big, so strong. Then I could feel the head of his monster cock at my little pink asshole, gently pushing and pushing and pushing into me inch by inch. My insides felt all hot and runny, he was splitting my body apart with his dick. And I couldn't help it, Stewart, forgive me - I became so wet and slippery. My pussy was so hot and juicy."

I was stroking him faster still, with one hand, while I held his balls in my other hand, gently tugging at them and making him even more aroused.

"I've never felt anything like the fucking he was giving me, Stewart. He was still restraining me with one of his huge hands, I couldn't move, and with his other hand he yanked my breasts out of the bustier and squeezed them roughly. I couldn't help myself, baby, I spread my legs wider and bent over more, to get him even deeper in my ass. It felt like his cock was up in my stomach when he thrust it into me. There was nothing in the world but his huge shaft tearing my core to pieces. And I loved it, Stewart. Oh forgive me baby - I loved it!"

I was stroking him at full speed now; he wanted to close his eyes but was transfixed by my hypnotic green eyes and my hand flashing up and down his penis.

"It seemed like it went on for hours, he was grunting and panting, banging my ass relentlessly."

I could see in his face and feel in his tensed and trembling thighs that he was so close to orgasm.

"Suddenly he grabbed my hips with both hands, his strength was frightening, and he roared like a wild animal... "

He was on the edge of orgasm. A few strokes more would do the job.

"...and he came in my ass, Stewart. He left huge gobs of his delicious come in my poor little ass, baby."

And then I put my mouth completely over his entire cock and finished him off - a thick hot geyser of his sperm erupted into my throat causing me to gag a little. He slumped back in the chair, completely spent. I slurped off the last delectable morsels of cream and lightly kissed the head of his penis. A tiny bit of sperm was on my lips and I slowly licked it off.

"Oh baby, can you ever forgive me?" I asked.

He wiped a bit of cum off the corner of my lips with his finger and put it to my mouth and I slowly sucked it off his fingers.

"All forgiven, Cynthia," he said with a big satisfied smile.

I laughed and said, "Next time I'll dream up an even hotter story for you!" 



The Storyteller



Just a short story today, a story I wrote on a whim. There is not much in the way of sex, but you might like the yarn just the same. It's a bit of an experiment, since it is a story within a story within a story. A bit of a no-no for a writer. I leave it to you to judge whether it works or not. Have fun.

Talemaster





The guard took my handcuffs off and told me to strip. I did as I was told and changed into the prison garb I had been given. 

The prisoners had already had their evening meal, so I was given something to eat, shown where my cell was and dumped in the common room where prisoners could watch television until lock up time. Apparently the television was on the Fritz and the inmates were grumpy and bored. I was hardly inside the room when I was violently pushed from behind forcing me to stumble into the meanest, biggest and ugliest motherfucker I had ever come across. As I was to find out later I had just sailed into "Cranky" Bill, the leader of the Hellfire motorcycle gang and undisputed leader of the inmates. I tried to apologise but Cranky cut me off. 

"I haven't seen you before, what are you in for?"

I told him that I had been wrongfully remanded by an incompetent magistrate and didn't belong here. 

"I'm only a writer and storyteller, I have done nothing wrong," I said.

"A storyteller eh?"

I suddenly realised that the room had gone dead quiet and that all the inmates were looking at us. Three of the screws had positioned themselves close to the door as if expecting trouble. Cranky looked at the crowd and said:

"Well, with the television up the shit I think Mister Storyteller here should tell us a bedtime story, what do you think?"

There was widespread nodding and a few nasty grins amongst the inmates. They were obviously enjoying Cranky having a bit of fun with a newcomer.

"See Mister Storyteller, they like the idea." Cranky pointed out, then stepped back and with an exaggerated theatrical bow and a flourish said: "Take it away Maestro, the floor is yours." He then sat down with his mates, leaving me standing in the middle of the room - all eyes on me.

I looked around the room and said: "This won't do, we will have to set the stage first. The way it is now this place sucks."

"Got that right," came a voice from the back. There was some laughter.

"Let us imagine that we are all here in a medieval tavern, say around King Arthur's time. We have just partaken of a magnificent banquet," I dropped my voice and continued, "A bit hard to imagine after the slop they just fed us but....."

There was some sporadic laughter and a lot of grinning.

"All of you have a huge tankard of foaming ale in front of you," I dropped my voice again, "I asked the warden to supply us with some ale to make the story more realistic but he told me to get fucked."

This time there was some real laughter. I was starting to rope them in.

"There are six buxom wenches buzzing around serving you, all of them are there for you ... for the asking," and again in dropped voice, "I asked the warden for that too but he wouldn't be in on this one either."

Laughter again. The faces of the inmates had changed, there was no more veiled hostility, instead they looked relaxed and curious as to what would come next. My audience was starting to enjoy itself.

"Into this atmosphere enters our hero, a wandering storyteller and minstrel. He is having a few problems at the moment. His clothes are not in the best of condition, he has no musical instrument or any other possessions, in fact he is not recognisable as a minstrel at all. He steps into the centre of the tavern and announces: 'I am Waldo the Bard, I am down on my luck and I could do with a meal, a few drinks and a bed.'

'I heard they had chopped your head off over in Travonia,' said one of the guests.

'I got away before it could get as far as that,' grinned Waldo.

'This I got to hear,' said the man, 'Landlord, give the fellow something to eat and a tankard of your best,'

Waldo sat down and after he had eaten and was on his second tankard of ale he told his story"

***

"The kingdom of Travonia is a strange and morose place, that's why nobody ever goes there. At he time there were a couple of fathers chasing me for what I had done to their daughters. It seemed like a good idea to go to a place that everyone shuns for a while until things cooled down a bit.

"I didn't do very well. The Travonians are a joyless lot, not given to song and storytelling. So I jumped at the chance when I was asked if I was interested in giving a private performance. 

"The private performance turned out to be in the bedroom of Queen Athalia, and it was an instrument other than my lute she was interested in. 

"It became a bit of a routine. Some servant would turn up and give me a time. I would then at the appointed hour go to a certain place and enter into a secret passage that led straight to the Queen's bedroom. After my "performance" I would leave by the same route.

"The Queen wasn't much of a conversationalist. Apart from ooooooooohhhhh, aaaahhhhh and AYYYYYEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIHHH about the only other words she ever said were mmmmmmggggggggnnnnnnffff and hhhhnnnnggggggdddddd when she had my dick in her mouth.

"It was the only job I had. The queen always gave me some money afterwards, so I was living quite well. 

"Of course it couldn't last.

"We were at it as usual when the unmistakable sound of an axe tearing into the bedroom door interrupted our routine. I pulled out quickly and grabbed my clothes and boots that were at the foot of the bed while my dick was shooting copious amounts of spunk all over the marble floor. 

"I made for the secret passage. By that time the bedroom door had given in and a guard went straight for me. He would have caught me too if he hadn't slipped on my jiz and fallen flat on his face. 

"Once inside the passage I closed the door and relaxed. I knew it would take them ages to figure out how to open it and I didn't think the Queen would give them much help. So I put on my clothes and got the hell out of there. I could not risk to go back to where I was staying and had to leave all my things behind. 

"Hiding during the day and travelling only at night I eventually made it out of Travonia and here I am."

"Tell us about Travonia, what is it like, why don't travellers go there and why don't their people venture outside their kingdom?"

"Seeing that I have come out of Travonia with only one other tale worth telling it will cost you a night's lodging, a breakfast in the morning and a bit more of this magnificent brew."

One of the guests passed the hat around the listeners and gave the collected amount to Waldo who seemed quite happy with it. Once he had another tankard of ale in front of him he continued with his story:

"As you know Travonia is about a ten day journey west of here, on the other side of the river Trav. Most people live in small villages and live very frugally from small time agriculture. They do not like strangers much. 

"Kataria, the capital, is their only city. It is fairly big and completely surrounded by a twenty food high wall that has eight gates to the outside. It is the only place where you come across people other than Travonians, mostly traders from the north. 

"Brown, yellow and superglue are banned in Kataria. I had to dye my boots and belt black and discard my yellow neckerchief before I was allowed to pass through the gate after I was given a stern warning that the possession of superglue was a capital offence punishable by death. I asked the guard at the gate why these laws existed; he only said 'You'll find out soon enough' and refused to discuss it further.

"I very quickly found out that Travonians do not like to discuss that part of their law. They do not talk much at the best of times and seem to have a real thing against having a good time.

"Don't get me wrong here. Travonians are not a nasty or belligerent people. They just back off at every attempt at humour or light hearted conversation.

"I am an entertainer. Humour, ridicule and bullshit are my stock in trade. I felt out of place in their stern, matter of fact type of environment.

"It was a great relief therefore when I ran into Xandos. In company he was just as dull and morose as the others. When we were on our own with a tankard of ale and no one around to observe us he became a totally different person.

"He had a good sense of humour, liked to laugh and was not adverse to a tankard or two too many, something that Travonians never did. We only ever did this at his house when we were the only ones there. Xandos was an enigma to me until I found out he was not a Travonian at all. Although he had been living in Kataria for almost half a century he had not been born there. He came from Taviria, an adjacent kingdom in the north that Travonians did almost all their trading with.

"He had come as a young man to Kataria with a group of traders and had seen an opportunity. In those days trading was a bit of a hit and miss affair. Caravans often carried goods for which there was no immediate demand or goods needed to make the return journey worthwhile were not readily available. This meant valuable time was spent sorting out these problems, time which could be more profitably spent moving goods.

"Xandos figured that what the Tavirians needed was a resident agent who could arrange placement of orders beforehand, store unsold goods until a buyer could be found and arrange profitable cargo for the return journeys. For this he could charge a commission.

"Xandos' idea proved to be a winner. Within a few years he had over one hundred people employed, both in Kataria and in Daros, the capital of Taviria. He became a wealthy man.

"The old man and I were having a few tankards at his place. For once Xandos was in a bad mood. When I asked him what the matter was he complained of the endless hold-ups the Travonian authorities caused to his incoming caravans with their endless searches for yellow or brown items and, heaven forbid, superglue."

"What is the big secrecy surrounding these laws," I asked," I cannot get a straight answer from anyone."

"It's no secret really, Travonians just don't like talking about it. It isn't exactly their proudest moment in history."

"Will you tell me what this is all about?"

"Sure," he said, "it's really quite a funny story, though Travonians don't see it like that."

Xandos stood up and went to fetch us some more beer before he continued:

"Travonians weren't always as morose as they are now. Until what they call euphemistically 'that event' they were pretty much like everyone else. It was 'that event' that convinced the priesthood and eventually the king that their fun loving ways had angered the gods and that things had to change.

"Out went jokes, festivals, drunkenness, banquets, any kind of merriment in fact. The kingdom was purged of the colours yellow and brown and the possession of superglue was made a capital offence. 

"All of that happened because of Drogor the Curse, previously known as Drogor the Legless and before that as just Drogor. His name is never mentioned in polite society. He is believed to be still around but no one has seen him for decades."

"He must be quite a man to cause that much grief," I commented.

"Well, he isn't exactly a man and he actually didn't do all that much either. This sounds strange, I know, but it is quite true. The whole story actually begins with Sigelia."

Xandos took a deep draft of ale, leant back in his chair and continued with the story.

"Sigelia was a Travonian witch. From all accounts she was in her younger years a lovely and helpful lady though decidedly odd. She was a gifted healer and people went to her for medicine. She was also a big girl, nearly seven feet tall.

"One day she managed to attract a wood troll and fell in love.

"Wood trolls are huge, human like creatures, about ten feet tall with green hair and purple eyes. Their skin looks like dirty dishwater and they smell. People say Sigelia fell for him because of his size. Wood trolls are not malevolent creatures. They prefer to roam the world in a solitary fashion and normally shy away from humans. They have enormous appetites and are greedy feeders. Something to do with their size perhaps.

"Anyway, after about three months Sigalia found she was pregnant. When she told her lover he took off and was never heard from again. He is probably still around. They normally live to 300 and have no natural enemies.

"Sigelia was devastated. She blamed the unborn child for her misery and tried everything she could to get rid of it.

"Nothing worked. A wood troll foetus is unbelievably resilient and has a very strong will to live.

"Sigelia swelled to an enormous size. When the child was born he was already four feet tall and massive, ruining Sigelia's vagina for life. She named the child Drogor, after his father.

"Sigelia's sex life was over. This bothered her a great deal and as time passed she grew bitter and grumpy and started getting into fights. 

"The boy, in spite of his appearance was well liked by Travonians. He was good natured, affectionate and always polite though there was one thing about him that would become a problem over the years.

"Drogor had huge amounts of energy, he rarely walked, he was always in a run. That wouldn't have been so bad, but he was very clumsy and kept bumping into things. Sigelia blamed herself for his clumsiness, she felt she had damaged him in some way with her numerous attempts at abortion. She hoped he would grow out of it eventually.

"By the time he was eight Drogor was seven feet tall, his legs were like tree trunks and the rest of his body matched their size. He was still bumping into things but now he was doing real damage. People became angry.

"Sigelia was at the end of her tether. Nothing she said made the slightest difference, the boy just wouldn't slow down.

"In desperation she put a hex on him. Whenever he moved faster than a slow walk his legs would drop off and the rest of his body, suddenly deprived of support, would plough into the ground. He then had to go back, re-attach his legs and be hopefully more careful next time. She figured three months of this should see him cured. It was not to be.

"That very night Sigelia picked a fight with a travelling sorcerer. She had picked the wrong guy. When the fight was over all that was left of Sigelia was a small pile of smouldering ashes.

"Since no one could undo the hex Sigelia had placed on her son, poor Drogor was stuck with his affliction. He became known as Drogor the Legless.

"Drogor's problem turned out to be a blessing of sorts. After a while he had learned to control his speed, his legs very rarely fell off any more and because he was a very strong and willing boy the king assigned him to the construction gangs who were forever altering and extending the fortifications as the city grew. The workers were pleased to have him, he could lift boulders they had trouble with and he could carry huge loads, albeit slowly.

"Drogor was happy. People liked him and he was being useful.

"One thing irked him though. Whenever the city held one of its numerous banquets he could not rush to the tables like everyone else. Having to move slowly meant that by the time he got there all the good bits were gone and he had to contend himself with cold potatoes and bits of vegetables no one wanted. He wished that just once he could get there first and get the pick of the crop.

"One of the workers suggested that a bit of superglue might stop his legs from falling off. Drogor thought this one worth a try.

"He bought a big bottle of the stuff and broke into a run. His legs fell off and he ploughed into the ground as expected. Drogor crawled back to his legs and doused the joints liberally with superglue before re-attaching them. He had used far too much and as a result some of the glue ran into places where it wasn't supposed to go, namely his orifices of elimination. Drogor had in effect glued his prick and his arsehole shut. He didn't notice it then and even if he had, at this time he would not have cared, because when he got up and tried to run it worked. For the first time in years he was able to move at a speed faster than a crawl.

"His clumsiness had not shown up much when he was doing things slowly, now that Drogor was racing again it returned with a vengeance. He kept running into things once more, wrecking much he had been building in recent years. People were pissed off at him again. Drogor didn't care. He was whole again, that was all that mattered. 

"After a couple of days he started feeling a bit uncomfortable. He realised he had not been to the toilet since he had fixed his legs and got a little worried, enough to see a doctor. 

"The doctor quickly found out what the problem was. He told Drogor that skin continually renewed itself and that after a while the glue would stick mostly to dead skin and give way. 'You'll be uncomfortable for the next two or three weeks, then it will right itself and you will be as good as before,' he said.

"In spite of having both exits blocked as it were, Drogor's appetite had not diminished any. He kept gorging himself as before. By the time the next banquet came around, some two weeks later, Drogor's body had blown up to gigantic proportions. The pressure inside had built up to the point where it had become quite painful, but Drogor didn't mind. 

"On the appointed day Drogor was ready. The tables were laden with food. As was the custom the king and his entourage filled their plates first and sat down. A bugle sounded and the rush for the food was on. The crowd charged. Drogor moved like the wind and was front runner. 

"Six feet in front of the tables the glue gave out. Drogor's legs fell off and his enormously bloated body plunged to the ground. The sudden impact caused the rest of the glue to come undone and suddenly the pressure inside had somewhere to go.

"A geyser erupted from his body that shot a hundred feet into the air. Gravity took over and moments later the king, his entourage, the food and everyone present was covered in brown and yellow polka dots that stank to high heaven.

"Drogor quickly put his legs back on and quietly crept out of the city before anyone came looking for him. He has not been seen since.

"That was the day when he became Drogor the Curse and Travonians became what they are today."

***

I took a step forward and bowed to the prisoners, signalling the end of the story. They were still laughing when they started applauding. One by one they stood up and continued to clap. The inmates were giving me a standing ovation, even the screws were applauding with abandon.

Cranky got up and walked over to me. The crowd fell silent.

He gave me a bear hug and said: "I haven't laughed like that in years and by the look of it neither has anyone else. You really are a storyteller."

I honestly believed that because of my story my arse would be safe that night.

It wasn't.



The Storyteller



After picking up her coffee, Meara looked around the crowded café for a seat. Every seat seemed to be filled. After looking further, she noticed a table in the corner where a man about her age sat typing on his laptop, and the seat next to him was vacant. Approaching him, she said, "There are no other available seats; would you mind if I join you?"

"No, you're welcome to join me," responded Sam. "Just let me finish recording my thought, here, and I'll put this away."

"Don't stop on account of me. I just want to rest my feet."

"I like my characters, but I can get back to them at any time. Real people deserve attention when they are present." After typing for another minute, Sam closed his laptop.

"Are you an author," asked Meara.

"I respect authors too much to put that label on myself. I just enjoy writing short stories in my spare time."

"I've always loved escaping into books. They've helped me learn about myself, others and the world around me. I can experience anything I choose, right from the privacy of my own bedroom."

"I guess I do that in reverse," said Sam. "Rather than just read about other people's thoughts and feelings, I enjoy writing down my thoughts and feelings. We can still have strong thoughts and feelings, even if our opportunities to experience them are limited. Sometimes we can fill voids in our lives by living vicariously through our own thoughts and feelings."

"What do you write about?" asked Meara.

"Love," said Sam.

"So you write romance stories?"

"My writing wouldn't fit the style of romance novels. I label my genre as romantica, what I see as a good blend of romance and erotica, but my primary focus is showing how love can exist beyond the confines that limit us."

"Are you saying love is easy to be found? I know I've never found true love, so if it's out there, what's blocking my vision?"

"Love cannot be found. Though we can find compatible potential partners, love is something we choose to create, develop and nurture. Love is a process that takes action. We can't just sit back and expect it to be handed to us."

"But don't you need to find the right person?"

"Let's say you adopt a puppy. Can you tell me you only have the capability to love that particular puppy and could never have loved the puppy in the next cage? You love that puppy because that puppy gives you unconditional love. It is attentive, playful and eager to give you all the kisses you could ever desire, without demanding anything in return."

"Are you saying we could experience love with anyone, just like loving any puppy?"

"Not quite. You are more likely to find puppies eager to give unconditional love than people. People tend to be more self-centered, looking at what they can gain rather than what they can give, but I believe love can grow between any two caring people who feel some degree of mutual attraction, and where red flags of incompatibility aren't present."

"So, I've spent 60 years unwilling to settle, and you're telling me love is all around us, just waiting for us to make it happen?"

"Not quite that simple, but not as overwhelming as people assume. We all want to love and be loved. Primarily, it's about feeling safe enough to let nature take its course. Just as we can love the puppy that happens to be at the shelter, we can love the person who just happens to be sitting next to us."

"OK," Meara said hesitantly. "Maybe it might help if I read your stories and learn about your definition of love. Would you be willing to let me read them?"

"I have no problem sharing them, though let me warn you; many people read a short segment, get turned off by an unconventional pairing and then never take the time to understand the underlying trend flowing through all the stories. Here's a link to my stories, but realize reading them will just give you a deeper understanding of me. They aren't meant to push my agenda onto anyone else."

"Thank you. I look forward to reading them. By the way, my name is Meara. I've enjoyed our conversation, but I have a business meeting to attend so have to leave now."

"I'm Sam. It's a pleasure to meet you, Meara. I usually stop by here every Thursday after work. People watching triggers my creative energy. Maybe I'll see your smile again. I hope your meeting goes smoothly for you."

"Thanks, Sam. I will read your stories. Enjoy your week."

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

One week later

"Hi Sam."

"Well, if it isn't smiling Meara. My stories didn't chase you away. Have a seat and join me."

"Thank you, Sam. I must admit I was caught off guard when I started reading your stories, thinking you might be drawn to relationships I couldn't see myself in, but the more I read, the more I realized you weren't limiting yourself to one type of pairings. I began to view the pairings, along with the consistency of the concept of love, as a statement that love is only limited by the limitations we place on it. Is it truly that simple to love?"

"Yes, Meara, that's what I believe. I believe our self-imposed limitations, resulting from insecurities and self-doubts, are most likely to be what prevents a loving relationship. We obviously can't make people open to something they don't find attractive, but there is a lot of flexibility in what we find attractive. Some of our requirements may be rigid, but the majority of our preferences would not make or break a relationship. We view the overall package, not the details. As high school students, we assumed everyone would focus on the pimple on our nose, while people generally saw us, not the pimple. When the total package outshines the details, those details become irrelevant. Did you love your puppy any less when his spots weren't symmetrical?"

"Sam, the more I read your stories, and the more I hear the words you share, the more I can relate to your concept of love. Deep down, I realize your concept is what I've always dreamt of experiencing. Unfortunately, after too many disappointing experiences, I'm scared of allowing myself to be vulnerable and hurt again."

"Meara, you've learned from those experiences. Trust your knowledge and judgment. At this point in your life, you know what works and doesn't for you. Just be honest with that, and you'll like the results."

"It's scary, but you are right. I know better today what works or doesn't for me than I did when I was younger. If I don't trust myself, who can I trust? After all, what have I truly got to lose? Sam, I need to share some things about me. I always felt my breasts were too small and inadequate, but my 34Bs are larger than the A-cups you seem to write about. People have always told me I'm too skinny and I need more meat on my bones. You like subtleties, yet this is my natural hair, carrot-topped ringlets and all, making it impossible to hide in a crowd. I'm pretty plain and not what most guys are looking for. At 5'9" and 60-years-old, I'm much taller and older than any of your story characters.... Sam, you can stop me anytime you wish."

"Do I have to?"

"You want me to continue listing my flaws?"

"Those weren't my words."

Meara took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "OK, Sam, help me understand."

Sam said, "Meara, my name is Sam..." and leaned over to whisper the rest of his name in her ear.

"What is your reason to reveal that?"

"The same reason you had to reveal your list. We both know your list was not a list of flaws, and I'm pretty sure you felt stronger and more assured as the list went on. We both did the same thing. We acknowledged the value we see in front of us. By giving each other ammunition that could be used to hurt us, we say, 'I trust you to not use this against me.' We both want to be accepted and appreciated as we are. I revealed myself in the stories I wrote, so you equalized the vulnerability by sharing your list. Vulnerability is what gives depth to a relationship. We reveal everything, including what can be used to hurt us, needing to know the truth won't be an obstacle to what we seek. You said, 'this is who I am. Please accept me and see value in my true self. I promise to hide nothing from you, for this is where I want to belong.' I responded with my full identity, the final key allowing you the ability to destroy my career and livelihood. Thank you, Meara. I'd love to join you on a very special new journey." 

Meara tentatively reached out and placed her hand in his. He covered her hand with his other hand, enveloping it with acceptance and warmth. Their faces slowly gravitated toward each other, till their lips met.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Sam and Meara's relationship built slowly, yet steadily. They loved their conversations about love and relationships and enjoyed their closeness. Sam picked up on her caution and didn't apply any pressure. They both were totally satisfied with their hugs, kisses and tender touches. Meara wanted to discuss each of his stories, so she was sure she didn't miss any important aspect. She was surprised how much she was learning about herself as they discussed the stories. Other than her past partners being incompatible, she learned how rushing into those relationships made the experiences more traumatic to her. Something about Sam was different, and she had no desire to gamble on losing him.

"Sam, I know we both enjoy being with each other, yet I realize there are more stages to a relationship. I admit I want to go further, yet something holds me back. I know you say consequences are more a result of our actions than the actions of others, so I want to know what I can do to let go of my barriers."

"Meara, there is a reason behind everything we do. If you put up barriers, there is a reason for those barriers. It could be due to something you pick up from me or something you experienced in your past."

"That's easy; it is definitely from my past. You are the most caring, compassionate person I've ever met. Is it possible to let go of the past?"

"I'll let you answer that question, Meara, by telling me if you are still addicted to that baby bottle you believed you couldn't live without."

"I think I understand, Sam. Though things may be functional at one stage of our development, they may have no purpose at another stage. I just need to figure out what my caution is telling me."

"The more value we place on something, the more caution we put in that area. We don't want to damage or lose what we see as a good thing. I sense we both want the same thing. We want to know we belong and what we bring to the relationship has value and is appreciated by our partner. We don't want our loved one to ever settle, put up with or tolerate anything about us. To reach this goal, we can tell each other what impresses us about the other and how that impacts us. This will take care of things already exposed, but what about those things we fear exposing? As we feel safe and secure together, we'll expose a little at a time, viewing how each item is received. With each new acceptance, we'll feel safer to expose more. If we see positive energy beyond acceptance, it will draw us in faster. You may have a devil-shaped birthmark on your belly and might be fearful of my reaction, but you'll never know till you actually expose it."

Laughing, Meara pulled up her blouse and exposed her belly. "No birthmarks here."

"But there was something there," said Sam.

"Where?" questioned Meara, as she pulled her blouse up and looked.

"Right there," Sam responded, as he pointed to her belly and proceeded to slide his fingers and palm across her belly, eliciting a gasp from Meara. "You have a beautiful flat belly, with this cute, delicate belly button, right where I like it."

"It's just a belly. Everyone has one."

"If it's just a belly, then what's the reason I feel this warmth flowing through my insides when I see and touch it? I can go to the beach and see plenty of bellies, but they don't impact me the way yours does. This one doesn't belong to just anyone, and it isn't on display for the world to see. It belongs to someone I have deep feelings for, and it is being shared just with me. It's personalized, it's special and it's lovely."

"If you respond this way to a simple belly, I don't know if I can handle exposing more," blushed Meara.

"Just sharing your blush with me is intimate enough for me."

"No, Sam, I'm not saying I don't want to expose more. I can't imagine anyone I'd prefer exposing all there is to be exposed. I do want you to see me, and I do want you to like me."

"Then you're too late, as I'm way beyond 'like,' already."

"I know, Sam. So am I," Meara said as she reached in to hug Sam and then gave him a tender kiss.

"OK," said Sam. "Let me help you feel more secure. Let me tell you what impresses me about you. Meara, your assets that stand out to me are your sweetness, gentleness, kindness, caring, consideration, playfulness, responsibility, tranquility and your amazing touches and kisses. I love your soft, smooth skin, your expressive smile and eyes, your long. lean body, your soft hair, the graceful way you move and your cute little belly button."

Another blush came over Meara. "But what don't you like about me?"

"Let me see. Hmmm. This is a tough one, but I guess it's that you just kissed me but didn't give me opportunity to kiss you back. That's about all I can come up with for now. I'll have to study you a bit further to determine what other alterations I'd like to see."

Blushes seemed to be popular, as they returned with a vengeance. "OK, Sam, kiss me back, as long as you promise your sweet kisses will never stop." Conversation seemed to drop in priority for the rest of that particular encounter.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

One evening, lying on her bed after a particularly sensual, loving makeout session, Meara lay draped over Sam's body as she gazed into his eyes and tenderly caressed his cheek. "Sam, never did I believe men could love like you love. Past lovers have left me bruised and sore, while your touch is tender, yet intentional and obviously desirous. I feel your love, desire and consideration for me, and tears of joy well up inside of me. I have never felt closer to or more trusting of a man, in my life. There is nothing about you I fear; yet I still carry past baggage with me. Unfortunately, we let our flaws hold us back from fully experiencing life."

"It looks like you paid attention when you read my stories, so let's look at that. Can you identify flaws that hold you back?"

"Oh, definitely. I have always seen my flaws very clearly."

"Those are things that proceeded your reading of my stories. Meara, flaws don't exist. They are figments of our imagination, the expression of our greatest fears. No one likes to feel he or she doesn't measure up, isn't good enough. A difference is not a flaw. I love your breasts, yet I don't have any of my own. Does that make me flawed?"

"Of course not, Sam. It isn't normal for men to have breasts, so that can't be a flaw." 

"Precisely, we determine our flaws by comparing ourselves to what we believe is the norm, but what is the purpose of this norm, other than force people to conform?"

"I guess people are more comfortable with predictability, so gravitate toward what is familiar."

"So true, Meara. Yet, is this truly what's in the best interest of both the individuals and society?"

"If it provides us with comfort, wouldn't that be in everyone's best interest?"

"But the question we need to ask is whether it truly creates comfort or discomfort. Since the majority of people won't fit the ideal mold, aren't we just creating more people who feel insecure and defective? Would those people be insecure and defective without those ideals?"

"So society is actually working against itself?"

"Yes, rather than helping people to see themselves as unique and special, people are led to believe they don't measure up. This limits the contributions those people could bring to society. Let's say you could only speak French. Would that make you flawed?"

"I guess it would be a flaw if I wanted a relationship with someone who didn't speak French."

"Yet, wouldn't that same quality be an asset, if the person you desired only spoke French?"

"So you're saying things aren't flaws when they can be seen as assets in some settings?"

"Exactly. Rather than insist on pushing that square peg through the round hole, find a square hole. There is nothing wrong with that square peg. Differences don't determine the person, but are helpful in choosing where we could feel most appreciated. If you lost an arm in an accident, would you be flawed?"

"Well, yes, as it would limit my ability to do many of the things I enjoy doing."

"And our language encourages that belief. We call these people disabled, unable. Couldn't they just as easily be seen as physically challenged? Remember from my stories, when one sense is limited others become more acute to make up for the change. I could look at someone without an arm and be in awe of how that person adjusted to the challenge. That person has probably developed skills that would be very challenging for me to do. That person may be able to provide insight that couldn't be seen by someone who didn't face that challenge. So is that person flawed, or is that person bringing a unique talent, uncommon among the masses?"

"Meara, you have no flaws. Your uniqueness makes you special to me. What is the purpose of makeup?"

"I always thought it was to cover up flaws, but now you'll tell me there are no flaws to be covered up."

"The purpose of makeup is to draw attention to your assets. If you go to a restaurant and focus on things that impress you, you'll probably enjoy the experience, even though we know there are aspects that may be less than ideal within that experience. By enhancing the assets our attention is drawn there, and we see no need to search for flaws."

"Meara, I love your smile, so would wearing bright red lipstick enhance that smile?"

"Well, that's one way of drawing attention to my lips."

"Actually, it would overshadow your lips. All I would be able to see would be the lipstick, and the lips I love would be hidden." 

"Meara, Eskimos have many words for what we just call snow. Having more words allows them to be clearer in their descriptions. I see your smile the same way. You don't have one smile, but many smiles. Your smile not only uses your mouth, but also your eyes. The subtle differences in those two areas create the smile. Each of your smiles are distinct and understandable, such as when you see a cute child, or you're offered your favorite dessert, or I touch your skin, or you're in a playful mood, or you're feeling appreciative, and endless other offerings. In fact I learned about a new smile, today, the smile you have when you feel you'll explode if you don't get what you believe you need at that moment. Some people may identify that as a look of pain, but I see below the surface and understand it's just another of your smiles, a smile of intense desire. You may believe you hid that from me, but I saw it very clearly."

"Sam, you talk about enhancing the positive, yet what if your definition of positive is different from mine? In your deeply emotional stories, you unabashedly declare your love for the erotic sounds of intimacy, while I have always experienced sex in silence. My family was into cruel humiliation. When I discovered my body, I would have horrible nightmares about what they would do upon finding out not only was I touching myself, but finding pleasure in that touch. I couldn't allow myself the chance of getting caught, so I forced myself to be silent. In time, it just became natural for me to be silent, and I haven't questioned that until I read your stories."

"Meara, how could anyone fault you for creating functional patterns? You did what you needed to do, and I respect you for that. The question we ask ourselves is whether patterns created to be functional in one setting are ideal in all settings. I would never expect my partner to change what worked for her. Yes, I might feel a void, but I would find something unique in her to fill that void. Unique qualities surround us. All we have to do is open our eyes and let them enter our awareness. I could still love a partner who was unable to make any sounds, as she might have replaced that ability with something just as beautiful. Maybe she replaced sound with touch and developed an artist's touch. How could I not let that beauty fill my soul? Today, I read your smile of desire, and I felt very special knowing you trusted me with that vulnerability. Our desire for each other is obvious to both of us."




The Storyteller



"Oh, Sam, I do trust you, desire you and love you. I sense you've progressed very slowly with me, not wanting to hurt me or scare me away. Though I appreciate that about you, I need to let you know there is no need to hold back. I am ready to freely share my body with you, as I already freely share my love. I want you to fully enjoy all of me, as much as I enjoy your loving touches, kisses and your obvious desire." Meara reached down and lovingly put her hand on Sam's firm erection. "Though my desire may not be as obvious, I want you to know me in all ways possible. I want your love to fill me emotionally and physically. I want to bring you the satisfaction you bring me."

"Meara, I already feel more satisfied with you than I've ever felt before."

"And I do, also, Sam, but I want no limits between us. Sam, I love the way we communicate. I feel safe sharing everything and anything. The only thing confusing me is I'm not sure if I love your intelligence, your sensitivity, your creativity, your understanding, your caring or your handsome exterior. Hopefully, you'll let me stick around till I'm able to figure that out. I figure I should be able to figure it out within 40 years or so."

"Meara, you fill my life with so much love, you will always be welcome to be a special part of my life."

Meara continued to gaze deeply into Sam's eyes as she quietly unbuttoned the buttons on her blouse. Rolling over onto her back, she undid the clasp at the front of her bra and exposed her breasts to Sam, for the first time. "Then the time for hiding anything has passed, Sam. Let me feed you with my desire. Let me nurture you with my love." 

Sam watched her breasts, swollen with desire, rise and fall with each breath Meara took. Topping her perfect mounds were peach colored nipples, fully erect and inviting. "You are so beautiful, Meara, my priceless treasure."

Sam reached out and cradled a breast in his hand, eliciting an audible gasp from Meara. His head lowered, till his lips enveloped her eager nipple. "Oh, Sam," she cried out. Moans flowed from her, as she held his head to her breast while he continued to caress and suckle.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The next Saturday, Sam and Meara sat enjoying a nice meal at a local restaurant. They carried on a pleasant conversation. Not knowing how or when to bring up the subject, Sam decided to just say it. "Meara, I have something for you."

"And I have something for you, too," said Meara, with relief in her voice.

They both passed sheets of paper over to the other and then laughed, as they viewed the other's STD test results. Meara said, "Sam, I want to be with you and realize I don't care if that includes accepting whatever consequences might come with you, yet I needed to show you I am safe. It never crossed my mind your thoughts would be running in the same direction, yet, knowing you, how could I not have anticipated the same from you? I believe I'm just so in love with you, nothing could keep me from you. Sam, tonight I want you to spend the night with me, in my bed, in my arms, and in me. All I want is to be that close to you. I have no expectations of what will happen or where it will lead, as those things have no meaning to me right now. I just need to connect with you as close as is humanly possible."

"Meara, I love you and want to share all aspects of love with you. I have no doubt our sharing will take us into deeper depths of emotion, but I want the physical side to work for you, also. I know the guys you've been with have been insensitive and self-serving, but please let me know about your past frustrations and disappointments, so I can make sure all your concerns are addressed."

"Sam, you are so caring, attentive and loving. If that's all I get, I'll be totally fulfilled. My past experiences have been frustrating and disappointing. As your amazing attention wasn't present, I focused on physical satisfaction, and that wasn't to be found. I'm not sure if there might be something wrong with me or if it was something my partners did or didn't do. I have never experienced an orgasm through intercourse, though I know other women have. Maybe I need more time than men can realistically give, or maybe I'm just incapable. I stopped having sex many years ago, as I couldn't face another experience of being aroused and left with no release. Sam, with you I've discovered sensations I never dreamed of. With you, I feel satisfied even without an orgasm. I don't even care if I have an orgasm with you. I just want to be with you."

"Meara, there are two parts to your past frustration. The first and most important part was the lack of true emotional connection. The second was the common tendency of men to believe they have no control over their orgasms. They took care of themselves, assuming you would do the same. Meara, you know I'm always eager to learn new things. I picked up some knowledge a while back, but haven't had a partner to check it out with. Everything I read tells me the knowledge is sound, but I haven't verified it through personal experience. The value of a well-exercised pubococcygeus (PC) muscle is generally common knowledge among women. They've heard how a toned PC muscle enables them to squeeze their partner's penis during intercourse, adding increased intensity for both partners. Some women take the time to do the exercises and some don't, but most at least know about it. It isn't common knowledge among men how their PC muscle can be helpful, also. Research shows men with toned PC muscles are capable of having multiple orgasms. Though orgasm and ejaculation are seen as one and the same by most men, they are actually separate processes and don't have to happen simultaneously. It is the ejaculation process that requires a refractory period, not the orgasm process. I understand by tightening the PC muscle just before orgasm, men are capable of having the orgasm without ejaculating, allowing them to enjoy the sensation without any limitation on continuing, much like women. Though I had given up on finding a woman like you, I figured it couldn't hurt to exercise my PC muscle, so I've done that. I guess we'll be able to find out together whether it works or not."

"Sam, I've never heard of that before. How could something like that continue to remain hidden?"

"I guess it has to do with how guys are trained to believe they already have all the answers and see possible improvement as acknowledging they might be less than perfect. I have no problem acknowledging I'm not perfect, so anything I can learn or do to improve is something I'm eager to accept."

"Sam, I honestly don't care if it works or not. I know you are the type of partner who truly cares about more than just himself, and I love that you've chosen me to be your partner. Just knowing I won the prize, and got you, is more than enough for me. Anything else is just the icing on the cake. I would love to help you experience all possible pleasure, though."

"Meara, it's not about winning any prize. You get from me no more than you deserve, for it's your love that feeds what I'm capable of sharing. If you didn't feed your love to me, there would be no love for me to share with you. You are just as much a part of the equation as I am. Without you, none of this could exist."

Meara leaned toward Sam, put her hand on his cheek and gave him a lingering, loving kiss. "Just a taste of the dessert to come, Sam. Have you had enough to eat, here?"

"A new smile... I love it. I guess I'm soon to find out exactly what it means."

"That you will, you sexy man," Meara whispered, as her hand caressed the bulge in his pants.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

As they closed the door to Meara's apartment, Sam realized she was shaking. "Nervous or cold," he asked.

"Neither, she smiled," just excited with anticipation and desire." She took Sam by the hand and led him to her bedroom. Standing face-to-face, with both of her hands in his hands, Meara said, "As a token of my deep love and devotion, I offer you this humble body. Let it pleasure you and fulfill you, in appreciation of all you have so graciously shared with me. I love you Sam, and I am yours." With that, she threw her arms around Sam's neck and passionately kissed him.

After several minutes, lost in that kiss, Sam pulled away, returning to holding Meara's hands and gazing lovingly at her. "Meara, I love the way you savor the simple little things I have to offer. No matter what I share, I see happiness on your face. I want to fill you with all the happiness you are capable of receiving. I want to continue loving you till time ceases to exist. I am happy with you, Meara. I love you. You totally fulfill me and motivate me to be the best I can be. I can only offer but what I have, but that which I have is freely given. Tonight we may consummate our love, but this is merely a step along our beautiful journey. Each step takes us closer to the ultimate love. At this point, we may question how we could ever feel closer, yet I've felt that at every step along our way. Thank you for loving me, Meara." With that, they found themselves entwined in each other's arms, again.

As they separated, Sam slowly started to unbutton Meara's blouse. She blushed and looked down and to the side. Sam watched the flush flow down through the V created by her breasts. "How far down does your blush go?" Sam asked curiously.

"I believe you're about to find out, Sam, my love."

Sam slipped Meara's blouse off and placed it on a chair. He then removed his shirt and pulled her close, sharing the warmth of skin on skin. Meara undid her bra and let it drop to the floor. Returning to their embrace, she said, "Now that's much better."

"Mmmm," was all Sam could say. He unbuttoned the waist of her skirt and slowly lowered the zipper. When the zipper was all the way down, Meara pulled her hips away from Sam and let her skirt drop to the floor, stepping out of it and kicking it to the side. After hugging for a moment, she dropped to her knees and removed Sam's pants, placing a tender kiss on the bulge barely restrained by his briefs. She removed his shoes and socks and then kicked hers off, also. She now rotated for Sam to get a good look at her contribution to the evening. Sam had never seen panties like Meara wore. They were made of satin, form fitting at the top, while open and flowing on the bottom. If they were boxers, they were the sexiest boxers he had ever imagined. He loved watching the material flow as Meara turned. He reached down to feel the material, though didn't miss the curve of her butt in the process, causing Meara to giggle. "Meara, you sure have done a wonderful job at keeping your body in tip top shape. You exceed any expectation I could have had." He walked around her, running his hands over her body, eliciting a soothing purring from Meara.

Meara stepped to the bed, pulled down the covers and sat down on the satin sheets. "Care to join me, my love?" she cooed. Sam didn't need any encouragement to join Meara. They were quickly enmeshed in an embrace, sharing sensual kisses that freely expressed their hunger for each other. Sam ran his fingers through her hair, feeling its softness. Grabbing a handful, he pulled it toward his nose, so he could inhale its clean fresh scent. They hugged, kissed and caressed for 20 minutes, before Sam was able to pull himself away and further his exploration. 

After reading Sam's stories, Meara knew Sam would take his time, and she wondered if she could patiently wait for what she sought. It didn't take much time before she decided that wouldn't be a problem, as she found herself lost in all the new sensations. She realized she had never been made love to, in her life. This was so new and so wonderful. She enjoyed his curiosity, his desire, along with all the wondrous unexpected discoveries she was learning about her own body. She wanted Sam to fully understand the glory she was feeling, so unleashed the love sounds that flowed through her, till their expression pleasured his ears. Her sounds triggered more passion in Sam, which just fed her passion that much more. She had previously experienced him loving her exposed upper body, but this felt so different, and she found herself floating in awe of what was happening to her, both inside and out. She kept saying Sam's name, though each expression had a totally different meaning. It would come out loving or yearning or exhilarating or pleading and even sometimes filled with tears of joy. She felt his hands on her back as his face nuzzled between her breasts. So much was happening at once. She didn't know if she wanted to push down to gain more contact with his hands or push up to gain more contact with his face. She couldn't make a decision, so just lay there, feeling enveloped by his love. She could tell Sam was enjoying everything as much as she was and loved knowing she was able to bring him this degree of pleasure.

Slowly, Sam continued downward, not wanting to let go of all the new discoveries, yet not wanting to overlook the discoveries to come. There was no way Meara could even consider any flaws, as she could tell by Sam's ministrations she was perfect for him. That awareness brought her so much happiness, her tears began to flow again. Sam frequently looked up to her face and must have seen the tears, but he could tell her smile was her umbrella, and she was singing in the rain, singing to him, and singing of her love for him. He arrived at her belly, and she knew he was savoring her cute little belly button. Since he first said that, she had grown to realize it truly was cute, and she took time to admire it whenever it was in view.

Sam finally approached the one remaining piece of clothing on her body, and Meara felt herself getting hotter and hotter. The previous touches were soothing and loving, but this was going to be different. She spread her legs to give him easy access. He lay down between her legs, holding and caressing them. She felt them shake with anticipation, but his touch soothed them. He placed a very tender kiss at the juncture of her legs. She fluffed her pillow to raise her head, so she could see and not miss anything. Sam's hands flowed over the satin material, and she was in heaven. His hands lowered to the sides of her legs, and they rose slowly under the satin material. Her hips started swaying, and her love songs became more pronounced. He slid his hands just below the waistband, converging at the center. Her stomach muscles kept contracting uncontrollably. His hands created a tent of fabric as he drew his hands slowly toward himself. When he got to the point where the opening at the bottom brought her treasure into clear light, he exclaimed, "Wow!!!" 

Meara's blush hit hard this time, and he watched it progress down her belly, enhancing the color of her engorged outer lips and the little ruffle of her inner lips that barely squeezed out from her puffy outer ones. "Wow!!! It goes all the way," said Sam in amazement. An even more powerful blush was triggered by that statement. Meara knew what he was reacting to, as she left a special surprise for him. She trimmed her red curls into a heart, to honor the stories that brought them together. The significance of this gesture wasn't lost on Sam. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he climbed back up to kiss his amazing woman. "I love you," was all he could get out, but both were happy beyond words. They held each other, kissed, cried and laughed, but most of all, they loved. This was the love they always dreamt of, yet felt was unattainable. It was real... and would always be.

When Sam prepared to return between her legs, Meara lifted her hips, allowing him to remove the veil over her gift to him. "You sure are pretty," Sam said, as he ran his fingers around Meara's 'heart' and then through her curls. He kissed her 'heart' before moving further south. Meara couldn't seem to keep track of everywhere Sam was. His hands cupped her butt cheeks, while his tongue followed the transition at the end of her legs. He noticed fluid dripping out from her still engorged lips, catching it with his tongue. "Mmmm. Sweet," he said. "I thought post menopausal women needed supplemental lubrication?"

"With all those months of foreplay, I don't see how anyone would need supplemental lubrication," Meara laughed, though the laugh was quickly stifled as Sam's tongue carved its way between her lips. Meara's breathing deepened, as Sam explored every square inch of both sets of lips.

"Mmmm. Twice the pleasure," said Sam.

"Twice the fun," kidded Meara.

Sam placed Meara's silky inner lips between his and sucked gently. He watched the skin pull the hood of her clit back and forth. Meara placed her legs on Sam's back, wanting to spread them and give him total access. She ran her fingers through his hair, while she shared her vocalizations. She never anticipated how good it could feel to vocalize to the man she loved. Sam pulled back Meara's hood and placed a light kiss on the tip of her clit. Electricity shot through her body. His tongue massaged up one side of her little shaft and down the other. He could sense her energy growing. Quickly, he thrust his tongue as deep as he could into her hot, wet tunnel of love. Meara's eyes shot wide open. A scream barely made it out from her lips, sounding something like "Sa!!!!" before waves of pleasure pulsed through her body. He removed his tongue and replaced it with two fingers, stroking her G-spot, while he sucked on her swollen mound. Her orgasm picked up again. She pulled Sam up her still pulsating body. Swallowing hard, with her eyes wide open, Meara said, "Sam... I need you... now." Sam quickly removed his briefs and then lay down on Meara. Meara loved feeling his warm weight on her.

"Guide me in, Meara."

Taking a quick detour to gather some of her copious lubrication, she slathered it over Sam's hard penis. With his penis in her hand, she circled her opening twice before pressing it to her clit and then aiming him directly into her eager depths. Wrapping her legs around him, just below his butt, she pulled him in with one quick motion. "Sam," she screamed as he filled her up, releasing another wave of energy through her body. They kissed passionately, as he steadily stroked in and out. He couldn't believe how hot she was and how snug. She squeezed him on each out stroke, relaxing with each in stroke. Sam's hands roamed her body, making sure he stayed connected with all of her. Eventually, her kisses, along with her milking of his penis, took him to the point of no return. He thrust in deep while contracting his PC muscle. Waves rushed through him, and Meara could feel his energy flow. Meara was pleasantly surprised he continued to stroke in and out. Tears freely flowed, again. He angled his penetration to make sure he paid attention to every sensitive spot. Her energy grew again, till she screamed with joy at the new orgasm being brought on. She held Sam tightly, sending him over the edge, again. This time, Meara could feel hot streams hitting the walls of her vagina. She smiled and then kissed Sam deeply. He rolled her over on top of him, and then he covered her with a blanket. Their pulsations gradually faded. She looked into his eyes and said with a smile, "It works... everything works... you are amazing."

"Correction, my love... we are amazing," returned Sam, with a smile. They held each other, giving little kisses and soothing caresses, till sleep overtook them, Sam still resting deep inside Meara.

----------------------------

As the room got brighter and the songbirds noisier, Meara started to stir. She opened her eyes and saw Sam's smiling eyes. "What's the reason you let me sleep so late?" she questioned.

"Because you looked so peaceful and beautiful laying there, with that smile of contentment on your face."

"That's not fair. I didn't get to watch you sleep," said Meara with a pouty face.




The Storyteller



"I guess we'll have to keep repeating this until you can wake before me."

"Is that a promise?" asked Meara.

"As long as you greet me with a kiss whenever I wake before you."

"But I just woke up."

"So did I, my love. Kiss me, Meara." She complied, realizing she wouldn't complain too much about paying up in the future.

Nuzzled to his chest, Meara played with the hair on Sam's chest. "I like this," said Meara.

"I guess we both prefer what we don't have. I happen to think your chest is more interesting and appealing."

"OK, Sam, I'll let you play with mine as long as I can play with yours.... Sam, do you realize I had my first orgasm through intercourse... and my second," she added with a smile. "I couldn't believe my first hit so soon."

"Maybe it was just a continuation of the previous one."

"Sam, you make it very hard for me to keep track of orgasms. I wasn't even trying for them, and they kept happening."

"That's what makes them special, when they are an unexpected little bonus to that delicious love."

"Mmmm. Delicious is right. It looks like your new technique worked for you. How did it feel?"

"They both felt great... different, but great, though not nearly as great as your body felt and feels right now."

"Sam, do I feel something growing under me?"

"Meara, you just have this way of triggering that reaction, but what I want most is to just feel your body moving on mine."

"I'm so happy, Sam."

"Me, too, Meara." But she was too lost in his touch to hear any more words.



The Storyteller



Emrys shuffled forwards and gently parted her legs as she steadied herself, supporting her body by placing her hands flat on the bed behind her. 

He smiled at her, “you’re all right, my lady?”

“Oh yes,” she said, a fresh fire in her blue eyes, a sapphire fire that somehow didn’t seem entirely natural. 

He sank his head down between her thighs and kissed her open flower. He spread the pink lips of her labia were apart with gentle fingers and her clitoris was forced out of hiding. Her body began to shiver again with uncontrollable excitement as he worked his way up to her clit, which was now engorged. Using the same spiral he used on her nipples, he worked his way on her, giving her such incredible feelings, it felt as though her entire world was ablaze. He could see her juices flowing freely out of her tender vagina as he sucked her tiny clit into his mouth, flicking it, caressing it, his tongue composing the sweetest melodies from her senses.

She was now moaning and shivering so loudly, he was worried she might attract attention. But no one else had living quarters this deep inside the castle. Finally, she could stand it no longer. Her pelvis pushed forward, pressing her hot wetness down onto his face as her body began to buck. She was dripping with sweat all over her body, every muscle tightened up. She yelped out loud and then her entire body went limp. 

She slept that night in his tiny room in the depths of the castle, too exhausted to return to her tower room.

-

Her illness left her as the winter ended. Her life became as bright as the sunlight that woke her each morning. As the days became longer and the green leaves sprouted from the revived beech trees outside her window, the storyteller felt she was strong enough to take her outside to see the river and the forests surrounding the farmer's fields. 

He spent time teaching her to use a long bow, how to hunt for food and telling her which plants and berries were good to eat and which were poisonous. They found edible mushrooms, avoiding poisonous fungi and caught rabbits to roast over camp fires.

Yet however much she loved him - and she soon realised that she did love him, more than anything else in the entire world - he was the strangest person she had ever met. He told her almost nothing about himself, he spoke fluently many different languages, none of which she’d ever heard before. And his tales never stopped. Most storytellers she’d ever seen had a certain repertoire of stories which they travelled around to tell, but they soon ran out of new tales. This storyteller, her storyteller, hadn’t once told her a story she’d heard before, and every evening there was an entirely new tale.

He must have told her nearly a hundred stories. How could it be?

Her nursemaid began to disapprove of Emrys. After Pentecost, rumours had begun to circulate about witchcraft; although people in the castle had their doubts about the strange man's methods, they kept quiet because they badly wanted Lady Kathryn's health and happiness. But there were stories of a strange blue light that seemed to appear sometimes when the storyteller was there. 

Then it all went wrong. 

They were lying against a sleepy willow on the riverbank, watching the cool water of the Avon flow past, the emerald green water weed wavering in the current. The Lady Kathryn sat between his thighs, leaning back against him as he told her about a strange land far away where armies used unholy fire to blast through solid castle walls in a matter of hours.

Kathryn turned, and kissed him passionately quite suddenly. “Emrys,” she said softly as they parted, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone before. I know I’m small in the world of your travels, but I don’t know if I could ever live another day now without you.”

“I’ll never leave you, Kathryn,” he said, “I think you must realise that by now.”

“But I don’t understand why,” she said, “you’ve been all over the world, you’ve met kings and queens and mighty emperors - ”

“I’ve loved you for my entire existence,” he said, “it’s just unfortunate that I have had to travel the entire world to find you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The world isn’t an easy place to understand, dear Kathryn,” he kissed her cheek. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, but there is something you should understand. If you were to love me, you wouldn’t be able to stay here.”

She sighed, heavily, for the countryside around Salisbury was beautiful. “I knew that, of course,” she said. “Not least because my father has plans for me to marry the new Earl of Chichester.”

“But you have to understand that my life is on the road. If I settle anywhere, it soon becomes dangerous for me.”

“I don’t care,” she said, “I’d do anything to be with you.”

She reached for him again, turning to kiss him, the passion between them felt so very right, something that had been meant to be from the very beginning of time. 

But they were disturbed.

“What in Heaven and on earth are you doing?”

It was Kathryn's nursemaid, who had been feeling increasingly resentful of the storyteller, who was spending more and more time with the young girl while she was spending less and less time with her. Coming to fetch the Earl’s daughter, she came upon the two of them in firm embrace.

“The Earl shall hear of this,” she said, turned and ran back to the castle.

It was only an hour later that the storyteller was banished from the castle and lady Kathryn taken to a nunnery to repent of her sins.

-

Emrys took a room at the King’s Head, an inn on the Main Street in the city. With Kathryn forcibly taken from him, his world had fallen apart. He wanted to find Kathryn and simply take her away, now that she was probably well enough to face a few months of travel. But the Earl, Richard, had sent his daughter to a nunnery far away, and no one had been told to which one she had gone.

The rumour was that before she returned to Salisbury, she would be married off to the Earl of Chichester. Chichester was currently just ten years old, that was the trouble, so Kathryn wouldn’t return for at least another four years. 

But what could he do? Marriage to another man was a bad prospect, but one he could deal with when he knew for a fact that Lady Kathryn was only meant to be with him. But four more years when he’d finally found perfection on earth was a long time to wait.


But one evening, when Emrys retired to bed, he found someone inside his room above the inn. It was Kathryn.

“I ran away,” she explained as they kissed ferociously, the months they’d spent apart driving them on into intense passion. “I couldn’t stand being away from you.”

“We must act quickly,” he warned, “if we don’t get out of here soon…”

“We have time,” she assured him, and pulled off first his clothes, and then her own. 

He lay on the bed and she straddled him, her burning wetness bearing down on his pulsing erection. She leaned forward, her angelic face framed by her golden locks, her azure eyes filled with delight, her exquisite petite frame pressing against him, squeezing her chest against his, her sweet smile joining with his in an explosive kiss.

“Will you finally be claiming what’s yours, my love?” she asked.

“What’s mine?” he did not understand.

She smiled, the most wonderful sight in all his travels, and whispered into his ear, “my maidenhead.”

She kissed him, and he asked her, “are you ready for it?”

“I’ve been waiting all my life for this moment.”

He held her and turned her onto her back so that he would have more control and could ensure that he wouldn’t hurt her. Between her legs, she felt his stiff heat pressing against her clitoris, and the wonderful feelings throbbed through her body. She beamed her pure delight up at him as he kissed her on each cheek, her lips and then slowly down her neck. He gently caressed her labia and clit with his hard, hot penis, and as he buried his face into her sweet-smelling hair, he coaxed her sweet pink little nipples. She was going to be very wet when at last he would come inside her.

But suddenly, there was a banging downstairs. They both heard it, the sound of the door being hammered. Someone was knocking urgently on the front door of the inn. 

“It’s them,” Kathryn was terrified. The two of them broke up and hurriedly dressed. “Is there a back way out of here?”

“No,” said the storyteller. “We’ll have to go out the window.”

But it was too late. There was a commotion downstairs as a number of men entered the establishment. They stormed upstairs and into the room, just as Kathryn dropped out of the window, but before Emrys had the chance. “Go!” He called to her out of the window, “run! Run as far as you can. I’ll find you, I promise!”

The soldiers filled the room and there was no way out for the storyteller. “You should never have come to this fair city, sorcerer,” said the sergeant, “it’s no place for warlocks or priests of Satan.”

He was dragged out of the inn in shackles and chains. They weren’t concerned with Kathryn any more. The Earl had disowned her: but they were concerned with the suspicious stranger, the storyteller who went by the outlandish name of Emrys. 

So the Lady Kathryn, hiding in the shadows, followed the soldiers as they took her love to the centre of the city, outside the Guild Hall to where a dreadful tree trunk stood, bare of any branches, atop a pile of firewood. She watched in dumbstruck terror as the soldiers dragged him towards the stake, lifted him up the woodpile and tied him to the pole.

The citizens of Salisbury were out in numbers: she’d never seen so many people together in one place, screaming, “burn him, burn him, burn him.”

As she realised they were all calling for the storyteller’s death, horror and revulsion turned to shock. There was no way out. The one love of her life, the man who made all things wonderful, was to be put to the torch. And there was nothing she could do.

She couldn’t bring herself to watch any more as the fires were lit, and ran, through the empty streets and out into the fields on the floodplain of the river. Soon, she was climbing, up and up, fleeing the only city she had ever known, running north past the imposing castle at Old Sarum, where her entire childhood had been.

A last glance back as she left the valley, and the only light came from the huge bonfire, the flames licking around a central black spot. 

-

An old man sat in the stone circle some fifteen miles north of Salisbury, silent, thinking. His hands were clasped together in the lap of his purple cloak as the sun sank lower, shedding an orange glow through the gap in the dark clouds, reflecting pink over the heavens. The air was cold that evening before midwinter, but he did not feel the temperature; at least it was no longer snowing. 

People used to think it was a holy place, this stone circle, and came from all over Wessex - and Mercia and even further than that - to visit. But it wasn’t particularly holy now, not with the old gods largely forgotten. If there was anywhere that an old traveller could call home, though, it was here. No one would disturb him here in his sadness. He could sit and think as he did now with the silent lightning lit up the sky over the horizon, lining the edges of every grey cloud with silver out of the blackness.

Some three or four moments later, a great rumble like the cracking of stone blasted through the air. The brief glimpse of light illuminated the stone circle, showing up every crack and every dimple on the grey obelisks. 

The bolts of forked light centred on a spot to the East. That was where he had to go now. It was the final place left for him to try. 

The cold, lonely night was sparked to life by the great crash of thunder, which seemed as though the old gods were battling across the heavens in a last ditch attempt to keep the irresistible force of Christianity from overcoming them. A few miles away was the village, and the old man reached it in less than an hour. It was as the local legends described, a house away from the centre of the village, away from the square flint stone church, with grass entirely burnt away by lightning even though the tiny thatched cottage hadn’t been touched at all.

The old man knocked on the badly-made wooden door, shaking it on its rusted hinges. 

The woman who answered it was instantly recognisable as soon as the lightning flashed. She had aged a great deal, but the old man knew who she was. Her large eyes were no longer blue, though, they were white. She was blind: no wonder she did not hold a candle at the door. 

"Who is it?" she asked, staring vacantly out. 

"Lady Kathryn,” said the old man, “I have come back, just as I promised I would.”

“Wh-who…what do you want? Do I know you?” she was confused. “Stop playing games with me. I am tired and I am cold. Please state your business, sir, or I’ll have to say good night to you.”

“Kathryn, open your eyes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, “I’ve been blind for years. Who are you?”

“Open your eyes, Kathryn.”

She looked quizzically, towards the source of his voice. Suddenly there was an iridescent blue light – something which she thought she had to have imagined. Whatever it was, it made her eyes sore as though she had been cutting onions, and she screwed them tightly shut, rubbing them with her fingers.

“Look at me, my dear Kathryn.”

She opened her eyes and there was suddenly colour all around her – the veil on her sight had suddenly lifted. She saw reds and yellows and purples, a brilliant sunset over the western sky, as black clouds brewed over head, flashing with lightning.

And in front of her, an old man with a long silvery beard. An old man she recognised, whose face had been burned into her memory all those years ago, and which she had recalled every minute of her hard life ever since they had been parted. 

"You made me see," she said quietly, mournfully. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’ve been searching for you,” he said, “and now, at last, I have found you. Our lives are beginning again, Kathryn.”

She pulled him to her and kissed him, “if only,” she said wistfully, “if only. You know, I think I was always scared of going mad. But now it’s finally caught up with me, you know, it really can’t be any worse than being sane.”

He smiled, “you’re not insane, my love.”

“But how can I not be? I saw you burning in the flames…”

“No ordinary group of mortal men could ever kill me, Kathryn. I thought you might have known that.”

She traced her hands all over his face, feeling every part of him, still locked in the habits of her blindness. “I cannot believe it’s really you,” she shook her head. “It’s just too much.” Her heart was filled with the most supreme gladness she had ever felt.

He kissed her again, and this time Kathryn gave in to her years of longing, the passion again flowering within her as it hadn’t for so many years. As they kissed, she felt a strange change ripple through her body. All her aches and pains that came from age suddenly dissipated. The air was filled with that peculiar blue light.

She broke apart from him, and held him at arm’s length, shocked as his beard shrank and his silver locks darkened. His wrinkled old face softened, his bloodshot old eyes became clear and sharp again. She covered her mouth with her hands in pure surprise. Emrys was standing there before her, and he was young again – barely more than a boy.

“We have all eternity for each other,” he said to her, and she took a step back.

“But you’ll have to look at me like this,” she said regretfully.

“Kathryn, you are the most beautiful thing in all creation. Look, I’ll show you.” The two of them went inside the tiny cottage, and he found her mixing bowl. He touched it, and it was suddenly filled with the purest pure water. “Look.” She leaned over the bowl and looked down, and her heart missed a beat. Instead of a haggard old woman staring back at her, she saw the face of a young girl, beautiful with perfect skin, stunning blue eyes and a tidy bell of golden hair.

She turned and smiled, that expression that Emrys had travelled for lifetimes to find, and she kissed him again. “We really do have eternity together, don’t we?” she asked.

He nodded and ran his fingers through her hair as he looked into her eyes, “I promise you’ll never be unhappy again.”

“Then you’d better start now,” she grinned, “you have some catching up to do.”

She pushed the straps of her faded dress from her shoulders and allowed the garment to drop to the floor. Her pert little breasts, peaked with stiff pink buds, stood up to his amorous gaze, urging him to touch them. Buy she moved away from him, and stooped to sit down in front of the fire. She took a poker and awakened the blaze, and then looked up, waiting for him to join her on the hearth rug.

He kicked off his worn boots and removed his shirt. Kathryn smiled up at him as he fumbled with the fastenings on his trousers. She leaned back, placing her hands behind her back to support herself, and parted her thighs slightly, as though inviting him. As he removed his trousers, revealing his large, rigid penis to her sweet eyes, he could see that between her legs, under a sprinkling of golden hairs, she was already very wet.

He went to her, and sat facing her, between her knees, slipping his legs under hers. He pulled her towards him, strong yet gentle, and held her in his arms so that she sat in his lap, her burning, soaking labia pressing against his eager manhood. 

He kissed her, and she pushed her soft breasts against his chest. Running her hands over his head, she held the back of his neck and their kiss intensified. She rocked her hips slightly to rub his hardness up and down her labia, brushing her clit in the most breathtaking way.

The fire beside them roared suddenly, and they felt the welcome heat on their skin, dispelling the frigid stormy night, yet it was as nothing compared to the heat between them. 

“Take me,” she whispered, and he gently laid her down on the rug. “I want to see the world with you.”

Bright blue light exploded all about them as he slipped his soft stiffness into her tight vagina, and as he gently pushed through her maidenhead, she felt herself open up suddenly, as though she was waking up or surfacing from a long, deep swim, drawing in glorious clean air into her lungs, the sweet air of perfect happiness.