Awaken: An Enchanted Story

by Anya Richards

  Curious now, as well as embarrassed, Myrina crossed her arms and leaned a hip against the kitchen table to ask, “What happens—after you show him?”

  “Nothing.” Elawen took a piece of twine and began to secure the bundle. “He says his cockerel doesn’t crow anymore, but he still likes to see a bit of flesh every now and again.”

  “Silly old man,” Myrina pursed her lips, still trying to figure the whole thing out, “to tease himself thusly.”

  Elawen shrugged, tying the last knot and giving the package a little pat. “I won’t complain. If he wants to sit there, randy as an old goat with no chance of a swive to give him ease, I don’t care. I just take my penny and go.” She gave Myrina a saucy wink as she took off her apron and hung it on a hook. “I know where to show my wares if I want someone to handle them.”

  They were still laughing together when Elawen’s mam, Goodwife Harbottle, came into the kitchen, a basket of vegetables on her hip.

  “So, there’s time enough for laughing in the day, when the work goes a-begging.” With a little grimace, Elawen rushed to take the burden, as her mother continued. “While the rest of the world toils, ye can feel happy shirking your lot.”

  “Eh, no, Mam.” Elawen put the basket on the table with a thump and gestured to the bundle sitting alongside it. “I was just going to deliver Woodsman Gottreb’s provisions, honest.”

  Myrina reached for the cloak she’d hung on a peg near the door, hoping to slip away before she too got a taste of the goodwife’s sour temper. But there was no escape.

  “Stay right there, Myrina Traihune, for it makes no sense to rush away now I’ve already seen you idling instead of fetching the eggs and going home to your poor sick mother. And as for you,” she turned her scowl on Elawen, “you’ll be going nowhere farther than this kitchen, my girl.” The goodwife reached for the recently abandoned apron and held it out to her daughter. “There are vegetables to peel and dinner to be made, and I wager you’re just the one for the job.”

  Elawen scrunched her face into a woebegone mask, pointing still to the bundle. “But what about the poor old woodsman, Mam? He’ll go hungry if I don’t take him his loaves and cheese and ale.”

  “Ha.” Goodwife Harbottle turned her back on the two young women and reached for a bowl. “Myrina has to pass near there on her way home. She can take Gottreb’s bundle.”

  Elawen stuck out her tongue at her mother’s back, and Myrina had to bite back a laugh before she could reply, “I’ll be glad to, goodwife.”

  Myrina set the woodsman’s bundle in the bottom of her basket and the eggs for her mother atop before swinging her wool cloak around her shoulders. The goodwife was still muttering and grumbling, but paused as Myrina reached the door to say, “Be careful in the woods, Myrina. Stay on the path, especially in the old forest.”

  “Yes, goodwife,” she dutifully replied, but inside she dismissed the remark as the worrying the elderly are so very wont to do. After all, she was no green girl, stupid enough to wander away after posies. And hadn’t she walked through the woods a hundred times without even a hint of trouble?

  Pausing at the door for a final goodbye, she had to bite back another laugh as Elawen mimed silently behind her mother’s back, “Show him your tits!”

  If she did, Myrina mused, it would be the most excitement she’d had in who knew how long. Nothing strange or unusual ever happened in the village of Kessit, nor in the country around.

  “Really,” Myrina muttered to herself, crossing the Harbottles’ dusty yard toward the south-bound road, scuffling through drifts of fallen leaves as she went. “I think ’tis the most boring place in the entire world, especially since Jecil left.”

  Just the thought of her old sweetheart filled her with melancholy. He was the only man in the village worth a tuppence and, in turn, the village hadn’t been enough to hold him. Myrina had half-hoped he’d change his mind about going north to the city and joining the emperor’s militia, but in her heart she also knew it was what he needed.

  Jecil wasn’t meant to be tied down in such a tiny place. If ever there was a man created to have adventures, it was he. Myrina understood, more than he imagined. There was a part of her that craved the same. Had things been different, she might have gone with him, but there was her mother to think about. The illness ravaging her body was slowly, steadily getting worse, and there was only Myrina to tend her needs. Besides, Myrina knew she didn’t truly love Jecil. Much as she enjoyed his company, and to some extent his love-making, she had always felt there should be more.

  Elawen, with her seemingly unending store of knowledge, assured her there was. After all, she said, hearing Myrina’s halting, blush-filled account of the night before Jecil left, it sounded like the man didn’t have a clue about how to go about pleasing a woman.

  Face screwed into a ferocious scowl, she asked, “He didn’t kiss your breasts?”

  “No.” Myrina felt a fresh wave of embarrassment stain her cheeks. “Only my mouth. But—” she continued hurriedly as Elawen opened her mouth to speak again, “—he did touch me there.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “Of course!”

  And it had been nice, at first. Then his fingers had pinched too hard, and she was too frightened to ask him to stop, in case he laughed at her. What did she know about that kind of thing? Perhaps it was something a body had to get used to.

  It was the same when he put his hand between her thighs, his fingers moving and circling, making her gasp and moan with building desire. It somehow hadn’t seemed to last long enough. Before she could enjoy that feeling, he stuck his finger inside her body, making her want to cry out in frustration.

  Elawen tried to get her to talk about the actual swiving too, but Myrina had cut her off, saying she just couldn’t.

  “Did you come?” Elawen asked. Seeing the blank look on Myrina’s face, she made a rude noise, and continued. “There is a moment when you feel like the pleasure is so big it will crush you, or tear you into a million pieces. It’s the best feeling in the world.”

  Myrina hadn’t felt anything like that and said so.

  “Eh, men can be so selfish. If I got my hands on that Jecil, I’d show him a thing or two.” Elawen flounced back on her cot and crossed her arms beneath her head, fixing Myrina with a knowing look. “What you need to do, before you find another lover, is figure out what gives you the most pleasure.”

  “How do I do that without a lover?”

  “Touch yourself,” Elawen said with a grin, obviously knowing what Myrina’s reaction would be. “Everywhere. On your breasts, all over your body, and especially between your l—”

  “Stop!” Myrina covered her ears, inundated with mortification so strong she actually felt a little faint.

  Elawen laughed, calling her an old maiden aunt and assuring her there was no other solution. A woman had to know what she liked, so as to tell a man how to go about it.

  “Silly,” Myrina muttered to herself now, turning off the main road into the old forest, following the twisty path to Gottreb’s cottage. “Surely some men must know how to do such things without instruction.”

  Yet Elawen’s advice lingered in her mind, and the memory of those fleeting moments when Jecil’s fingers tickled and rubbed her quim made Myrina’s skin heat. It was tempting to try, just to see if it were possible to find that shivery achy sensation again, perhaps take it even further. Although she’d said she didn’t want to hear anymore, Elawen had insisted it was possible to find that strange explosion of pleasure by herself.

  Maybe she would try it tonight, in bed.

  Myrina blushed once more just from the thought and knew she couldn’t—not with Mam asleep in the room below! She would have to find a place where she could be by herself and know she wouldn’t be discovered, or heard.

  Suddenly breathless, she stopped on the path, lifting her head to catch the cool afternoon breeze on her heated cheeks. The woods were quiet, with only the occasional distant birdsong and rustle
of leaves breaking the silence, but there was something different in the air. Myrina didn’t know what it was—a scent, perhaps, or a hint of sound too low to be truly heard—but it held her enthralled.

  Letting the basket hang at her side, Myrina realised all her clothing felt too tight or too heavy. The light cotton shift abraded her breasts, her over-blouse constricting her breathing. The wool of her cloak seemed too warm for the autumn day, and a sheen of perspiration gathered on her forehead, in her cleavage. Her petticoats dragged at her waist, emphasising the low, hard throb in her belly. And between her legs…

  Myrina groaned softly at the pulsating longing rising in her quim, making it full, tingly, needy.

  “Damn Elawen and her advice,” she whispered, believing her thoughts to be the cause of her discomfort and forcing her trembling legs to continue toward Gottreb’s cottage. Walking only made it worse, for she could feel a slick of moisture on her thighs, and each step produced another jolt to the over-sensitive place between her legs. There was a dream-like feeling to her journey now, as though her body had taken over her mind and its desires were swiftly overriding all other considerations.

  The woods were now completely silent, inviting in their solitude. She couldn’t go to Gottreb’s like this, trembling and panting, especially with what Elawen had said about showing him her breasts. Even that thought, distasteful as it truly was, made her quim quiver all the more.

  She didn’t realise she was leaving the path until the trees became so thick she was pushing her way through the low-hanging branches. Even then there was no fear, only an underlying knowledge that somewhere ahead lay the answer to her questions.

  The woods parted like a curtain drawn back from a window, and she was in a grassy hollow paved with wildflowers and ringed with old trees which seemed to stand guard against intrusion. Sunlight streamed over the lush vegetation, making everything as bright and warm as spring. At one end was a thicket with a barely visible rock entangled in brambles. Enchanted, Myrina put down her basket and walked toward it, shedding her cumbersome cloak as she went.

  Something about the place made her want to dance, to sing, to cast aside her clothing and become a wild creature of the forest.

  The thought hardly crossed her mind before her hands were at her buttons, opening her over-blouse with dreamy haste so as to shrug out of the garment. And it took hardly a moment more for the tie at the neck of her shift to be undone and her breasts to be bare. As the sun touched and the breeze caressed her naked flesh, a sense of joy and abandonment overtook her completely.

  The air seemed to tingle, come alive. Mixed in with the rustle of the leaves came a deep, entreating whispering that caused a shiver to rise along her spine. Caught in the dreamscape of her fantasy, Myrina followed its dictates, using the tips of her fingers to touch her face.

  “Smooth,” she whispered in reply to a question hardly sensed. “Soft and warm.”

  Lower drifted her hands, and Myrina shivered as they brushed the side of her neck. “Yes,” she murmured, exploring the hollows beneath her ear, the tendons of her throat pulled tight by her upturned head, finding sensitive places to heighten her pleasure. “There, and there.”

  A command, desperate, desire-filled, and Myrina cupped the undersides of her breasts, lifting them as though to encourage a lover’s kisses. Slowly, teasingly, she slipped her palms along them, gasping as heat inundated her body. Yearning drew her nipples tight, made them so sensitive the very stirring of the air made them ache. Circling the puckered flesh with the pads of her fingers, Myrina moaned, almost wept with delight. Around and around, avoiding the very tips for as long as she could, shuddering, until the phantom voice cried out with frustration as deep as her own. Slowly, savouring the moment, she pinched gently with forefingers and thumbs.

  “Ahhh,” she cried aloud, sinking to her knees, as waves of pleasure rushed from her nipples to reverberate deep into her body. Plucking and teasing, her fingers took on a life of their own, tightening almost painfully, then soothing the hungry points with butterfly strokes, only to tighten again. The spectral voice heightened her delight as broken words became images in Myrina’s mind.

  He would suck, nip, lick her, adoring every beautiful inch of skin. There would be no surcease until she lay weak and writhing with desire, begging for him to stop—never stop. A full day, a full year, would he spend lavishing attention on her body. Holding her still beneath him, he would kiss her face, her neck, over and over, before drifting to her breasts. Oh, the time he would spend there! Did she know how lovely they were? How passion filled him as he looked at them, watched her touch herself there? Did she realise how desperately he wanted to be the one making her moan and sigh and cry aloud with pleasure?

  “Yes!” Lost in the dream, Myrina arched her back, longing for the touch of hot, firm lips instead of her fingers around her nipples. There was a deep pressure building inside her, like that of a kettle popping and jumping above the coals. Those lips, she knew, would bring her to full, rolling boil, and she needed it, so desperately.

  He would kiss her belly. Did she know the pleasure that could come from that? He would show her, gladly. Kiss and lick there, and her fingers and arms and thighs—everywhere!

  “Oh!” Faster and faster, harder then softer, Myrina’s fingers flew. The pulsing inside grew more insistent, and she pinched her nipples, tugging, hips jolting as the voice added layer upon layer of new sensations to her already overwhelmed system.

  When she was ready, when he knew to delay would only cause her pain, not pleasure anymore, he would part her legs, touch her, find the place to make her scream with passion.

  Myrina gasped, strung tight with need. One hand remained on her breast. The other had somehow found its way under her skirt, was travelling beneath her petticoats, searching for the place he described.

  As she found it, placed the first tentative touch upon the quivering point, an image came to her as though put straight into her head by her eyes. Lying on her back, with a beautiful dark-haired man kneeling between her legs, his green eyes gleaming with desire. His lips moved. “Beautiful,” he said, strong hands cupping her bottom, lifting her until his firm, knowing mouth slid between her thighs.

  Myrina screamed, the sound echoing through the trees, as a convulsion of pure ecstasy rendered her blind and deaf and destroyed to everything but the sweet pain of release. Again and again his lips tugged, his tongue flayed, until she could take not one moment more, and her hand fell away, and she lay quivering in a cloud of flowers.

  Shocked incredulity at her own abandoned behaviour brought her back to herself, and she jumped to her feet, stumbling as her legs threatened to give way beneath her. What kind of enchantment had she fallen under? For enchantment it must have been, to produce such images and feelings! Even now, no longer under its spell, she thought she heard that low, deep voice entreating her to wait, to stay.

  Quickly tugging her shift to rights and grabbing her over-blouse, cloak and basket, Myrina ran from the glade, ignoring the voice, although the desolation in it brought tears to her eyes.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Myrina got to Gottreb’s cottage, shame had displaced shock.

  What had so overcome her in that glade? It was as though someone else, a different and unknown Myrina, had taken over her body and mind. And the voice in her head…was she going mad? ’Twas a frightening, sobering thought.

  Pausing outside the woodsman’s door, she wiped her face with an edge of her cloak and tried to compose herself enough so the old man would sense nothing wrong. After knocking and being bade to enter, she pushed the door open and went in, smiling as best she could at the elderly man lying on the bed.

  “Good eve, Myrina. Have you brought my provisions from Goodwife Harbottle?”

  “Indeed I have.” Myrina placed her basket on the table and lifted the eggs out carefully before removing the package and beginning to unwrap it. “She sent a loaf fresh from the oven, butter, cheese, a side of beef and a jar of ale
.”

  “Ah,” sighed the half-blind old man, “the goodwife, bless her soul, takes great care of me. I don’t know what I would do without her aid and that of you young people who bring the food. Once, not so long ago as you might think, I could hunt and catch my own food, going into the village only to sell my wood and buy whatever I needed.”

  Myrina nodded, bustling about the room, putting the food on the shelves, hardly listening as the elder rambled on about times gone by. Inside, shame and fear still roiled, making her feel almost ill.

  Turning her back to the woodsman, she stood as though looking out the window, trying to slow the still-frantic pace of her heart. The pleasure, the journey to that ultimate moment of soul-destructive release, would not be denied. She must have been ensorcelled, the spell drawing her to that place, creating her wanton behaviour, the voice in her head. Yet she didn’t believe in magic—not really. Surely it was just something parents made up to keep their children in line with fear? If you don’t behave, the faeries will be angered, the pixies pinch your toes at night.

  Perhaps Elawen was right in saying it was time Myrina found herself another lover? Surely this unseemly reaction was a result of loneliness, of being untouched by a man’s hands for all these months? But how could she have imagined, on her own, a man putting his head between her legs to kiss her quim? Not even Elawen had ever told her of such a thing. Did people actually do such things to each other?

  “Does aught ail you, Myrina?”

  Gottreb’s querulous voice brought her out of her turbulent thoughts, and Myrina pushed them aside, drawing a shuddering breath before turning to face him. “No, Master Gottreb. I was just thinking.”

  “I was beginning to wonder what you were looking at.” The old man paused to cough. “If perhaps faery folk were outside making faces at you through the glass.”