The Archer

                                  by Abe

     There, in the gloom, was a typical Welsh cottage: small,

square, all stone and slate.  A candle burned in a window. 

Gwenneth went to the door and knocked.  A woman answered the

door, dressed in black, just like the "witches" on Welsh

postcards.

     "Pardon me," said Gwenneth, "but could you tell me where I

might be able to rent a room for the night?"

     Sternly, the woman looked down on Gwenneth, who was all of

five feet two.  Then she turned and bellowed, "Elspeth!"

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

     "Please, could you tell me where I could find a Bed and

Breakfast, a place to rent a room for the night?"

     "Oh," said Elspeth, tilting her head as if in deep thought,

"The nearest, it's like on to ten mile."  She spoke to the woman,

in Welsh.  "Mum says its twelve miles.  You're afoot?"

     "Yes."

     There was a discussion in Welsh.  "Mum says you'd you'd

better stay here for the night.  You can sleep in my room.  Would

that be all right?"

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

     Elspeth led Gwenneth into a small sitting room, where the

candle glowed.  The only other light was the fire in the grate.

The woman sat close to the candle and took up her embroidery.

Gwenneth took off her pack and sat, weary, on a small settee.

"I'll just go up and change the sheets and get some of my things

out of the room," said Elspeth, who lighted another candle and

mounted the steep stairs.

     Conversation was impossible.  Over the mantle was a large

oil portrait.  Holding her hands before the fire, as if in need

of warmth, Gwenneth stood and studied the portrait.  It was of a

man, a warrior of some bygone time, dressed in furs and plaid,

with a great sword, a longbow, and a quivver of arrows.

     "He's supposed to be an ancestor of mine," said Elspeth.

"What did you say your name was?"

     "Gwenneth Jones."

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

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

     "Oh, really.  Well, I expect you'll want to see your bed.

Just follow me."  At the top of the stairs, she pushed open a low

door and handed the candle to Gwenneth.  "Watch your head," she

said.

     The room was just a loft.  The twisty, hand-hewn beams of

the roof were exposed, and the undersides of the great,

three-foot long roofing slates.  On a dresser were a mirror, a

pitcher, a porcelain bowl, and a small towel.  There was a

chamber pot under the high bed, which stood tall on four great

wooden legs.  "Well," said Elspeth, "I'll say goodnight.  See you

in the morning.  Bolt the door when I've left."

     Gwenneth glanced at the door, with its black iron bolt, and

thought that really wouldn't be necessary.  You don't find

burglars or ax murderers in Wales, and she had nothing to fear

from Elspeth.  She took off her damp clothing, hanging her

anorak, her jeans, and her flannel shirt on pegs in the roof

beams, then spreading out her socks and underwear, hoping they

might dry.  She washed as well as she could.  Gwenneth looked at

her tuft of pubic hair, reddish, like the hair on her head.  She

cupped each breast in her hand, hoping they might have grown a

little fuller, more womanly.  She took from her pack an

old-fashioned flannel nightshirt and dropped it over her head.

It was just the thing for sleeping in, for the nights could be

chilly, even in July.  Then she took out her hairbrush and

brushed her hair for fifty strokes.  She held onto the brush and

took from her pack two long scarves.  Then she blew out the

candle and groped her way to the bed.

     The blackness was total, like swimming in ink.  She

remembered the spooky feeling of being enveloped by the silent,

translucent clouds.  She thought how lucky she was to spot the

candle in the window.  She thought about the portrait of the

archer, wondering what sort of man he was.

     Slowly, she drew the hem of her nightshirt up, up around her

waist.  Her left hand cupped her left breast, while her right

hand slipped across her stomach, stroking the skin, finding the

short, curly hairs.  She pressed her hand against her labia,

rocking it back and forth, feeling pleased that they were

swelling and growing sensitive.  She tried to imagine what it

would be like having a man touching her.  No man ever had, not

there.  A little groping at the breasts, at a dance or something,

but never there, her most private place.

     Then Gwenneth did something she had been doing, on and off,

since she was about thirteen.  With one scarf, she tied her left

ankle to the left bedpost, and, stretching to do so, she used the

other scarf to tie her right ankle to the right bedpost.  When

she lay back, her straightened legs formed a wide vee.  This is

childish, she thought to herself, but only briefly, for this was

her way of turning on her favorite fantasies.

     She was a Christian slave in ancient Rome, and her master,

who really loved her, had had the eunuchs bind her thus so he...

well, the details were a little vague, but it gave her a thrill.

She rubbed two fingers up and down her furry mount, and a

delicious tingly feeling accompanied her fantasy.  "This slave

must be punished!" said her master, who spoke English, not Latin.

A little shiver of fear, entirely contrived, added zest to her

predicament, as she was whipped across her thighs and belly, the

Roman slave whip feeling too much like a hairbrush.

     When her Roman master's attentions failed to excite her

further, she declared a change of venue.  She had been captured

by that notorious London rake, Lord Walsingham, who now declared,

heh heh, that this virginal beauty was at his mercy.  How did he

know she was a virgin?  He would look for himself.  With her eyes

clamped shut, Gwenneth heard the rustle of her petticoats as the

rakehell lord lifted her skirts and peered at her most private

parts.  In her imagination, she saw him holding high a candle and

heard him exclaim, "As pretty a quim as I've ever laid eyes on!"

She felt his hand spreading her lower lips and knew that he was

peering into the pinky depths of her treasure tunnel.  "Ah,ha.

See her maidenhead.  Virga intacta.  I shall have it.  But first,

she must agree to marry me, for I am told that Lady Gwenneth

commands a handsome dowry."  Lord Walsingham dropped her skirts

and put his hands on her breasts, praising their maidenly

firmness and declaring that he would enjoy them, too.

     When the lusty lord had done with her, gloating over what he

was going to do, but didn't, Gwenneth fell captive to a murdering

pirate who carried her onto his galleon and had her bound hand

and foot, spread-eagled on a grating, helpless.  "Ho, ho ,ho," he

roared.  "I'll have fun with this one, and, if she doesn't do

right by me, I'll give her to the crew."  His rough pirate hands

made free with her helpless captive body, but she knew, deep

down, that he wouldn't hurt her.  He would learn to love her and

would carry her off to his secret island fortress, to keep her

there, always, to be his love slave.  Gwenneth grasped the

bristles of her hairbrush, as the pirate whispered in her ear,

"Well, my saucy maid, how would you like to be deflowered with

the pommel of my longsword?"  She pleaded with him to spare her

maidenhead as she pressed hard with the brush handle, but it did

not bring her the release she wanted, and the pirate faded from

her view.

     Gwenneth lay there in the dark, in the silence, listening to

her own breath and feeling an annoying sense of congestion, down

there.  She had tried all her favorite fantasies, and nothing had

resolved itself.  None of her girlhood seducers seemed real

enough.  She might tell herself that Marcus Publius, her Roman

master, really loved her.  He only whipped her out of concern, to

conceal and deny his own desire for her, for a Roman patrician

should never permit himself to love a Christian slave.  On the

morrow, her master would break down and ask her forgiveness, free

her, and marry her, but she could not get past that point, beyond

which lay blissful relaxation.  She grew tired and drifted off to

sleep, her ankles still tied, her nightdress up around her waist.

     She dreamt that she heard the door to her room open, and

someone came in.  A man!  She could hear him breathing.  Did

Elspeth have a lover who would slip into Gwenneth's bed, thinking

she was Elspeth?  She heard the creak of leather, and smelled

him, wild animnal furs and the damp wool.  It was the Welshman,

the archer, so very real she could smell the mead on his breath.

Strong hands, there in the darkness, seized her hand and bound

her wrist to a bedpost with a strong string -- then the other,

leaving her spreadeagled, as the pirate had done, her arms and

legs taut and spread out.  She was truly helpless, unable to

resist, and she knew, in her inner brain, that this fantasy, this

dream, would not fade out before the business was done.  This

spectral figure, invisible in the dark, was so incredibly real.

He even spoke Welsh to her.

     Her nighdress was roughly dragged over her head and stuffed

into her mouth, so she could not even cry out in protest, when

rough hands roamed her body, stroking her legs, taking handfulls

of her girlish buttocks, making free with her breasts.  She knew

this stranger meant to rape her, right and proper, and she was

unable to resist in any way, totally helpless.  She was quite

blameless, too, for what can a poor girl do, when a raging outlaw

has her bound hand and foot and can ravish her at will?  In that

space behind her tight shut eyes, she could see his bearded face

through the cloth which covered her face.

     He stroked her body, murmurring to her in incomprehensible

Welsh, taking her body to be his toy.  He took her breasts, one

by one, squeezing them and licking them.  He sucked one breast

and then the other into his mouth, his coarse whiskers pricking

her skin, his teeth and tongue driving her crazy.  It seemed so

real!  He moved his hairy face across her belly.  She felt a

churning, there between her navel and her...  He was licking her,

taking handfulls of pubic hair and pulling her labia apart,

burrowing into her private... Oh! Oh!  What was happenning to

her?

     The Welshman spread her slippery juices over her mons and

inner thighs, doing with his fingers, his lips, his tongue what

neither Roman nor pirate had dared.  Waves of excitement raged

through her insides, causing her to wriggle helplessly, unable to

escape, for she was stretched tight, bound hand and foot, the

victim of his relentless passions.

     She felt the bed move, as her assailant removed his weight

from the bed, and she was suddenly frightened.  She heard the

creak of leather, knew he must be removing the last of his

clothes, the better to...  Apprehension made her pulse pound.

Would her dream end, as her other fantasies always did, before

the climax?  She waited for the worst, the best.  This warrior

would not shrink from doing what her Roman, her lord, and her

pirate never had.  The inevitable assault was coming, any second

now, and she shivered to think of it.

     Yes, the bed sank as the archer knelt between her outspread

knees.  She felt the warmth of him as he moved to cover her with

his body, his hairy chest pressed to her breasts, his

incomprehensible Welsh words telling her, she understood without

knowing, that he found her beautiful, irresistable, and he was

going to possess her.

     "No, please, don't!" she cried, aloud, she thought, through

the flannel over her face.  "You mustn't.  I'm a virgin.  You

can't."  She was frightened, frightened she would wake.

     It seemed so real.  His weight on her, the pressure, the

stretching, the little twinge of stinging pain as her hymen burst

and her slick labia slid apart, and the sense of penetration, of

being filled to bursting made Gwenneth cry out: "Oh! No. Oh. Yes.

Ahh!"  A wave of emotion swept her, not dread, relief, as a great

burden, her virginity, was so suddenly, so thankfully, removed.

Helpless, blameless, tied hand and foot so she could in no way

resist, her irresistable beauty and femininity had made this man

do the terrible deed.  She was had.  She had known a man.  She

had crossed the bridge, yet she was helpless to stop it.  She

need feel no guilt.  She had been ravished by a stranger.

     The great intrusive thing withdrew, leaving her empty.  Was

that all there is to it?  No, the thing pounded into her, harder

than before, sending warning alarms through her nervous system,

as her delicate inner membranes were stretched and rubbed.  Again

and again it plunged, stirring her insides, moving things around,

pounding on her very womb, and rubbing her there, just below her

mons where, so often, so unsuccessfully, she had used her

hairbrush or her finger.

     But this was no finger.  This was big.  This thing knew what

it was doing, and her helpless body, filled, overcome, could do

nothing to resist.  With each thrust, Gwenneth felt the effect

spread, like a warm fluid infiltrating her pelvis, like

electricity sparking in her tenderest spot.

     Wild associations ricocheted in her brain: the tingle when

she climbed a tree, straddling a branch, her bicycle seat, the

pounding of the saddle when she went horseback riding, the

feeling when her fingers... but this was so much more!  Plunge,

withdraw, plunge, withdraw.  Rhythmically, relentlessly, the

tension grew; the sensitivity grew; the intensity of friction

grew; she could not withstand it.  Like little explosions of

indescribable sensation, great shuddering contractions racked her

insides.  Her ravisher grunted and heaved, and her body, her very

womb, heaved with him, as she cried out, "Oh, oh, oh, AHH!"  She

was overcome with ecstacy and well being.

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

     She felt his dead weight, pressing her into the bed, so hard

it stretched her limbs, even more taut than before.  She felt his

warm body, the moisture on their skins, his breath in her hair

and ear.  She felt him withdraw, her breasts tingling, as he

released them from his crushing against her.  She felt a

coolness, the air, drying her damp breasts, wafting across the

wetness of her inner thighs.  She felt profound relaxation, but

then her dream faded and was over.

     Gwenneth awoke, feeling chilly, wondering why she was not

under the blanket.  When she tried to move, she realized her

ankles were still tied to the bedposts with her scarves.  She

must have fallen asleep without removing them.  No matter, her

mother wouldn't find her so.  She released herself and scurried

under the covers to get warm, hugging herself.  It felt good, the

soft bed, the warm blankets.  She drifted off, half asleep, half

awake, and she remembered now the strange dream.  Such a vivid

dream.  Such a pleasant dream.  Such an impossible dream.  How

could she dream in Welsh?  Well, in dreams, anything can happen.

In dreams, the mind isn't rational.  The superego doesn't spoil

the fun.  Nice dream...

     She awoke again.  A dim light came through a tiny window.

Elspeth was at the door.  "Gwenneth, will you be coming down for

breakfast?"

     "Yes, Elspeth, just give me a minute."  Gwenneth swung her

legs out from under the covers and sat on the bed, her feet still

inches from the cold floor.  She felt different, somehow, and,

when she looked, she seemed to have a little spotting, when her

period wasn't due for days.  She went to her pack for a

pantishield, just in case, dabbed up some of the blood with a

very cold, damp washcloth, and dressed in a hurry.

     She made her way downstairs, unconsciously rubbing her

wrists.  When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she saw the

small sitting room bright with sunshine.  Elspeth was there, a

steaming teapot in her hand.  She gave Gwenneth the strangest

look.  Do I look different? thought Gwenneth.  Does it show?

     "One egg or two?" asked Elspeth.

     "Oh, two, please.  I'm suddenly very hungry."  Elspeth

departed for the kitchen, and Gwenneth sat, spreading her

serviette across her lap.  As she looked down, she noticed her

wrists.  There were strange red marks, like rope burns, but

smaller.  Thoughtfully, she looked up at the portrait of the

Welsh archer.  She hadn't noticed last night, when the light was

bad, but his bow was unstrung, and he was smiling.

                                   [END]