“I can find one worthy man. I always do,” I say to my watery reflection.
A cold wind blows across the lake and I draw my faded plaid wool cloak close around me, then turn toward the path leading to the nearest village.
I plod forward, dead leaves and grass crunching underfoot, no flora slowing my pace, because I have no time to admire Nature’s gifts. As I near the village my stomach grumbles. What I need is a bowl of parsnip and onion stew, or a bit of fried trout, or a cup of barley porridge to revive my failing strength. The wooden trestle takes me over the ditch and into the village. A few women sit in front of their homes, round windowless structures of straw and muddaub walls and heather-thatched conical roofs. Except for the crude painting of a chicken and a mug of mead at the entry, the tavern looks like all the other structures. Lured by the aroma, I go inside and sit on a rickety stool near enough to the center fire to bask in its warmth.
“If you don’t have any money you best be leaving,” says the tired-faced proprietor in dirty tunic and worn bracae.
I pull a coin from under my gray wool dress. “I’ll
take whatever’s in the pot.”
The proprietor squints at me—I’m used to this, my voice is ever youthful—and walks over to inspect the coin. “A bit old to be traveling the countryside by your-self.” He plucks the coin from my fingers.
“Age is a happy privilege.”
“That it is.” He ladles stew into a wooden bowl. “Where are you from?”
“Everywhere.”
“Everywhere?” He sets down a steaming bowl and wood spoon before staring into my clear blue eyes and, as with most, finds in their crystalline depths a preternatural truth. “I’d not believe you except for the look in your eye.”
I stir the soup, inhaling the aroma of fennel, parsnips, and onions. “What look is that?”
“Like you’ve seen the world and had many adventures.”
“You saw all that in my eyes?” I blow steam across the first spoonful.
“The tongue is a deceiver, but eyes never lie.” The proprietor crosses the room, plops down on a stool, and begins plucking a scrawny chicken.
I savor each spoonful of stew, the taste calling to mind another tavern keeper many years ago. I was on the same mission, finding a worthy sovereign, and had stopped to eat at a tavern much like this. That inn, however, was crowded with men. All brutish, vulgar, and drunk. Except for one. A tall, lanky young man with honey-colored hair and a pure heart. A few months later he became my third husband—or was he the fifth—I’ve had so many husbands I don’t remember. Anyway, Arden was one of my favorites. The man made love for hours! And not during the early years of our marriage when I was a young lass with smooth skin, round hips, bouncy breasts, and a tight twat. No, Arden was a rare lover: a sensual man who sucked on my tits and gorged on my clit until he died at ninety years old. Not a day passed during our seventy-year marriage that Arden did not take me in his arms each night and stroke my body until I shook with ecstasy.
Arden was a man of the soil, coaxing great yields from tiny plots and growing vegetables of exceptional size, and these talents extended into the bedroom. Arden loved fucking me with parsnips and carrots, which he insisted I make a stew of the next day. Sometimes as he slid his cock between my breasts, I fucked myself with a large parsnip. Other times he fucked me with two or three carrots clenched in his fist. Mo chreach, I would come so hard, I’d squirt my bliss out my cunny. “Rain on me,” he would say while I licked the turnip like it was his cock, and his own cock thrust into my cunny. And rain I did. My cry of ecstasy loud as thunder before I gushed with pleasure. Arden loved his vegetables as much as he loved honey. He would coat my tits and ass with honey and lick for hours. His honeyass licking always made me orgasm, and before he had a chance to lick it clean I would shout “Fuck me, fuck me,” so loud the sheep started bleating. When the children were grown and gone, we ate our supper off each other’s body. He’d tickle my nipples with parsley and brush a sorrel leaf over my clit and—
“Any ale to go with that?”
I start, lost in the memories of happy times and sexual longing, and find the innkeeper standing over me.
I tug out another coin. “Tell me about the men in these parts.”
“Looking for a new husband?” He lifts a bushy eye-brow.
I guffaw despite his accurate question. “I’m looking for a man of honor.”
The proprietor sets down the ale. “Well, most seem honorable enough until they’re drunk on mead.” He scratches his straggly beard. “Around here, the young ones think they know everything—can’t give them any advice. The older ones work hard taking care of their wives and bairns. A couple months back, though, a young man stopped in for some supper, said he was from the north and had come to visit his uncle—the laird of these parts.” The innkeeper pulls a stool near him and takes a seat. “The inn was busy that day so I didn’t have time to talk to him, but he made an impression just the same.”
“Why is that?”
“He spoke like he was educated and...” The innkeeper tugs on his beard in thought. “Well, calm and sure, like he was used to having people listen and respect him. But that’s not why I remember him. It was how he stopped a raging argument that was one fist from a brawl.”
My ears perk up. “How did he do that?”
“About five villagers—good but ornery men—were arguing over the pike fishing, something about the best way to catch them, when all five pull out their knives.”
“Over fish?”
“The best way to catch a pike is a fair argument in these parts. So, this lad, calm and cool, steps between them and asks a few questions. A few minutes later, their knives are sheathed and they’re laughing.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. Before you know it, the fishermen are buying each other rounds and joking with the lad like they’re old friends.”
“Some folks have a way about them,” I say.
The proprietor stands. “Don’t know if the lad is honorable, or even which gods he prays to, but his easy way with those clansmen was impressive.”
“Some of the most evil men I know have hundreds of friends.” I drink deeply from the mug of ale, and taste the added henbane, which increased the brew’s potency.
“Aye, isn’t that the truth.”
I finish the ale, wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “Thank you, sir. Best stew I’ve had in a long time.”
“Not staying the night?”
“No, I best be going. I’ve got a long way to go.” This wee village doesn’t have the kind of man I am looking for.
I pass a few women along the street, but not one offers a greeting. This irritates me. I am the Cailleach! I taught mankind how to thresh using a holly stick and hazel wood. Ignorant fools. Their eyes see only a hobbling woman leaning on her walking stick. Their minds are blind to my true self. What words or help they would offer if they knew this aspen stick is a slachdan, one thump on the ground making soil unfertile or the shoreline rock-strewn. They do not see the goddess within.
My fingers tighten around the slachdan when a young wife, assuming I’ve come to beg, hurries inside her home. I am glad to cross over the trestle, removing the mud from my shoes with my slachdan. No sense carrying the village’s discourtesy with me to the next place.
Nearby, a hooded crow caws and lifts off the fence post, his white body and black wings framed against the blue sky as he soars skyward. I follow his flight and see twenty miles into the distance, where a large village nestles against a hill.
My mind wanders as I walk. To earlier times and other husbands. I’ve had many. So many I lose count. The crow swoops down, alighting on a boulder ahead, the urgency of its caw reminding me of Maccus, husband number three—or was it four? Maccus was one of my favorite husbands. He was a big man with a huge cock, his lust so urgent he took me whenever and wherever the mood struck him. The crow’s caw also reminds me of his rhythm. Caw-caw...caw. Maccus w
ould swoop down on me like a crow and take me. Against a tree. On the ground. Anywhere. It was always a delightful surprise, his cock hard and eager as he lifted my skirt and rammed into me. Two thrusts later I would be wet, his eager hands groping my breasts. His impatience excited me beyond measure— he was so overcome with lust for me he couldn’t control himself! During our wedding feast, I slipped away to pee and Maccus followed me. The sound of my water tinkling on the ground made his cock stand forth and he pushed me against the tree, lifted my dress, and thrust homeward. I wrapped my legs around him and enjoyed the ride as he ram-ram.rammed into me. No fondling, no caresses, just raw passion between husband and wife.
“You’re as tight as my fist.” Maccus’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of my ass. “And slippery as a fish. Finally, I found a woman who likes to be fucked good and hard.”
When we returned to the feast, my back was bruised, my pussy sore, and cum ran down my leg. Maccus’s attacks never stopped, and my cunny got wet just anticipating them. Once, during the eve of Samhain, I was stirring a pot of stew over the hearth when Maccus sat at my feet, threw my skirt over his head, and supped on my clit.
“Keep stirring.” He slipped two fingers into my wet slit.
It was difficult to stand, let alone stir soup, when my legs shook with pleasure. I ended up beating the wooden ladle against the stone hearth as my excitement mounted, snapping it in half as I crested, my body jerking and trembling as the pressure broke over me and coursed through my limbs.
Maccus scooted out from under my skirt, licked his lips, and pulled down his bracae. He bent me over and fucked me from behind until I came again.
He pulled out then, and set my hand on his cock, warm and slick from my cunny. “Stir my pot, Cailli.”
I finished him with my hand, his cum spilling into the stew. On Samhain, we got so excited eating our special stew, we put aside our bowls and fucked right there on the table. One of the legs snapped in two mid-thrust, but that didn’t stop us. My ass slid down the tilted table-top, Maccus’s deep thrusts and the wobbly table shaking my cunny into a precarious bliss.
The years passed and Maccus remained horny as
ever. I’d be bent over picking blueberries, my ass wiggling, and this would incite his lust so much he’d take me right there. He demanded I feed him the sweet berries while he ram-ram . . . rammed into me. I never bathed alone. Each attempt resulted in my legs wrapped around his hips, his cock plunging inside, my cunny sluiced with cum and lake water. While we sat at the table at our youngest’s wedding feast, he slipped his hand under my skirt and rubbed my clit. A coughing fit covered my orgasm, normal enough for a seventy-year-old woman.
“Fuck me, Cailli.” Maccus licked his finger. “The taste and smell of you is making my cock ache.”
So while family and friends supped on salmon, I was on my hands and knees, Maccus rubbing my ass through the skirt as he drove into me.
“Still tight as my fist and slippery as a fish,” he said. “Granny, what are you looking for?”
I turned my head, saw my eldest granddaughter, a redheaded lass just seven years old, walking down the path toward us.
Though the brambles offered some concealment, Maccus arranged my skirt but didn’t pull out. “Granny lost her ring. I’m helping her look for it. Don’t worry yourself and get back to the party.”
We waited until we no longer heard the twigs snapping under her feet, then Maccus smacked my ass hard and sunk deep into me. The thrill of almost getting caught and Maccus’s impatient thrusting ripened my clit. Each of his thrusts ratcheted me nearer to bliss. We orgasmed together, his grunts and my moans united in ecstasy. Afterward, he adjusted his bracae, helped me up, my knees creaking with the effort, and dusted away the bits of leaf crushed into my skirt at the knees. We returned, two old folk, wrinkled and hobbling, no one the wiser.
I am so lost in the past, my clit aching with the memory of good fucking, that I am surprised when a large stone house appears around the bend. Sitting on a stool by the door, a ruddy-cheeked young man with thick, curly red hair and eyes blue as the loch sharpens his blade with a whetstone. He leaps to his feet when he sees me struggling up the steep path.
He slips his arm around my thick waist. “Lean on me, granny.” His smile is warm and bright as summer. “Why don’t you rest a bit at the top?” He’s a strapping youth, strong limbed with muscles like granite.
“I suppose I should.” I let him help me to the stool, my knees creaking as I sit.
“Some ale or mead for you, granny?” His gaze rests briefly on my slachdan, giving a quick squint at the letters carved into it.
“Aren’t you a kind lad. Some mead would be nice,” I say impressed by this handsome young man’s hospitality. “My name is Cailli. What’s yours?”
“Judoc,” he says before disappearing inside.
Moments later he returns with mead and a plaid blanket, which he drapes carefully over my shoulder. “Don’t want to catch a chill when the sun dips behind the hill, do we?” He sits on the ground in front of me. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll know when I get there.” I sip on the honey-sweet mead.
“How will you know?”
Judoc’s refusal to be satisfied with my vagueness reveals his intelligence, which makes me wonder if this is the lad the tavern keeper told me about.
“I’ve been on this journey before. My heart will tell me when I have found honor and valor.”
“How often do you find those?” Judoc’s eyebrows lift with another probing question.
“I’ve found them before, and I will again.” I move my head from right to left. “Where are your wife and bairns?”
“I’m not married. Haven’t found the right woman yet.”
“Picky are you?” I poke his leg with my slachdan.
Judoc chuckles. “Discriminating. How many miserable marriages have you seen?”
“Too many.”
Judoc tilts his head, his loch-blue eyes bright with intelligence. “Were you fortunate enough to have a happy marriage?”
“Indeed, I was.” All seven of my marriages were happy but I can’t tell him that.
“What’s the secret?”
I lean forward, resting my chin on both hands on top of the slachdan. “Do you really want to know or are you just humoring an old woman?”
“I’ve inherited my uncle’s lands and the lassies are flocking to me like seagulls over a boat full of fish. They wiggle their asses, bat their eyes, and brush their bosoms against my arm. With so many choices, how can I find the woman who will be a helpmate and not a hindrance to my aspirations?”
Ah, so this is the lad the tavern keeper spoke of. “What are your aspirations?”
“Helping my tenants prosper. Settling old disputes with angry lairds.” He thrust out his arm. “Unifying this land.”
“Worthy goals.” I draw the blanket around me. “I will reveal my secret to a happy marriage but it’s my secret, others may have different secrets.”
Judoc glanced at the sun dipping below the hill. “I’ll make you a deal: Tell me your secrets and I will share my supper and give you a warm bed to spend the night.” “Deal.”
Judoc helped me from the stool and into the house. It is a fine three-room home with carved furniture and braided rugs.
“This was my uncle’s home. A few months ago I came to visit, only to find him dying with fever. Since he had no sons he bequeathed me all his property. He was a clever man; he understood people as well as he understood numbers and letters.”
I sit down on a chair near the hearth. “And your father?”
“Also a great man. A laird north of here.” Judoc stirred a pot hanging over the hearth. “The gods have given me an opportunity I cannot refuse: A bond to both north and south. A bond I will use to unite the warring clans.”
Judoc is the one! The new sovereign I have been searching for.
Judoc sets a bowl of stew before me. “Now tell me the secret of a happy marriage. What kin
d of lady will help me unite our land?”
“Two things.” I slurp the broth from the spoon. “First, a sense of humor. Second...” I mush the parsnip between my teeth and swallow. “A lady who loves fucking you.”
Judoc spits out his mead, laughing so hard, tears spring from his eyes. “Granny—”
“Cailli,” I remind him.
“That was the last thing I expected from your wise lips.”
I laugh with him. “Why? Great fucking binds you together when times are tough and makes the easy times feel like paradise.” I lift my gnarled finger in the air. “You must pleasure her. Find out what she likes. Help her discover her sexuality.”
Judoc’s eyes widen.
“Teach her how to suck your cock. Lick her cunny until she screams and bucks with pleasure. Make sure her pleasure comes first. Her juices will slicken your ride and her fervor will throb against your cock and increase your pleasure.”
Judoc gulps down the rest of his mead.
“Suck on her tits and stroke the skin around her anus and have her do the same to you. Pleasure knows no bounds. Explore them well, every nook and cranny of each other’s bodies. Let her inhale the scent of your balls. Rub your cock between her breasts and rain your cum on her. Fuck hard and fuck often.”
Judoc shifts in his chair, and I can see his cock is stiff.
I sit back and smile.
Judoc stands and walks to the hearth for a refill. “No wonder you have a glint in your eye. You’ve had years of good loving. How long since your husband died?”
“Ten years.” Since the last one. “We had sex the morning he died. Oh, he was a horny old goat. Twice a day and sometimes three if he finished his chores early.”
Judoc returns to the chair, his face flushed from the heat of both hearth and loin. “I need a woman like you, Cailli.”
I open my arms. “Here I am.”
Judoc laughs. “If only you were younger or I were older . . .” He gobbles down his stew. I forgot how much a young man can eat. When the bowl is empty, he points to the bedroom. “Would you prefer my bed or a cot by the fire?”
Legends of Lust Page 9