Fierce Enchantments

by Janine Ashbless

  That was when Prospero came to this Isle, with his infant daughter in his arms.

  Listen well and mark this: the deposed Duke of Milan was no great sorcerer, however he styled himself afterwards. He was a second-rate alchemist—a mumbling book-wizard—a natural philosopher whose philosophy went no further than his own self-importance. But he was a man, and my cunt ached beyond bearing for the rough touch of a man. I saved his life, building him a cell in which to hide him from my own son; bringing him the fruits of the Island; fetching the contents of his leaky vessel from where it had foundered upon the rocks of the bay. I even let the girl-child live, though Caliban licked his drooling chops at the thought of such a tender mouthful. I forbade my boy to harm either of them.

  In return I asked only that Prospero service my appetites. It was, I admit, not as easy for him as for my poor Ariel, for he was not so well-endowed. But he was a man of ingenuity and imagination, and where cock would not suffice, fist and forearm would. I demanded only that he persevere in his efforts.

  In return for my mercy he betrayed me.

  He must have found Ariel’s prison while wandering the Isle under the foul sunlight. I sleep during the day, and Caliban hides from the bright day-eye and emerges only when it is clouded over, for he partakes of my nature. Prospero, as I found out later, made a secret compact with Ariel, to release him from his pinched torment in exchange for a vow of service. He had enough of the Art from his ridiculous books of gramarye to do that much. Perfidious mortal: he cozened Caliban too—my own flesh and blood!—by promising him the girl Miranda in marriage when she grew old enough, if only the boy did not interfere between Prospero and myself. Poor innocent Caliban—he had never known the sweet touch of a wife’s love, nor did he have any idea how long he would be expected to wait. The thought of marriage was enough to turn his head.

  I found this out one sunset, when I woke to find Ariel already had me in his grasp. I screamed for my son to aid me, but he did not appear. Then Ariel split an olive tree with a thunderbolt and wedged me inside before closing the trunk like a vice, leaving my head sticking out on one side and my nether quarters on the other. Outrage made me shriek and kick as he took advantage of my helplessness to ravish me above and below: outrage and, I confess, relief at last. He’d had more sense than me, to leave those parts he had use for free to the air. Oh, how I’d missed that golden cock stretching and pounding me! His service was swift and brutal; once again he flooded my cunt with his seed, and watched with satisfaction as it ran out over my thighs.

  There I remained for twelve years: one for each that Ariel had suffered at my hand. Fair’s fair, is it not, sweetie? Through sun and storm, night and day. Twice in each diurnal round my husband would visit to fill whichever of my orifices he chose. Sometimes Prospero would stop by too—whether from malice or frustrated longing for a female body I neither know nor care—and make furtive and wordless use of me, though that mortal man wisely eschewed my mouth and concentrated on my rear parts, flipping up his magician’s robe to stick his prod into my holes and jiggle himself to the mystic revelation he sought. Personally, I could barely feel him. And Caliban—my poor son: as his new status upon the Isle became apparent, as his suffering grew, he woefully missed the loving shelter my body had afforded him for so long, and although he could not squeeze his whole bulk into my womb, he would repeatedly stuff his aching boy-parts back into my cleft, while he wept and called upon me to hold him. And so he afforded both of us temporary comfort.

  That’s a strange look on your face, little man.

  You must surely pity Caliban, even after reading this lying play. The magician had the upper hand on this Isle, and the monster must obey him. He had been promised the girl Miranda, and then—poor natural—found he would have to wait a decade and more, even if Prospero intended to keep his word … which in all honesty I doubt was a notion that that man entertained for a second. And now his own father was free and taking every mean opportunity to torment him with cramps and urchins and blithering voices that would not let him sleep. Prospero at first tried to keep my son as a kind of pet, to tame and teach him. But that was not to last. There was too much hostility between Caliban and Ariel.

  Nor was Ariel happy. He was free of the pine, but no longer master of the Isle. Now he was at Prospero’s beck and call, promised to his service and held by the power of his own vow.

  Was Prospero triumphant, then? No! He found himself in a cleft stick, as much as I was, and almost as royally fucked. He had power in the Isle, but only because he held Ariel on the leash of his promise. He could have almost anything he wanted within its physical bounds, but Ariel’s influence did not extend beyond its coastal waters, and so he could not escape. And he feared Ariel, and Caliban, and even me, because we were all stronger than him and time was running out. Twelve years he had, and no longer: then Ariel’s service would be complete. No, there was no trust between Prospero and any of the others.

  Not even Miranda his daughter.

  Little girls grow up into young women. Women want certain things. And she—this perfect child of Nature, unspoilt by the sins and coquetry of civilization—she took what she wanted without remorse or guilt. Nature is not tender, little man; Nature is not good. It is human society that teaches law, and restraint, and shame.

  Prospero did his best, I am sure. He tried to educate her. But what child still listens to their sire or dam as they grow older? Alas … When they are small we are everything to them; when they grow up the opinions of their forebears wither in value, to less than those of the meanest stranger. So Miranda first loved her father, then laughed at him, then despised him. But for all that, she had Prospero’s heart.

  Oh, it would have done you good to see the girl, little man. She ran about the Island barefoot in whatever rags took her fancy, her knees scraped and her hair a tangled fleece. Her cheeks were not roses but brown as beech-mast, her eyes like the pale hazel eyes of a wild hare. Her long legs would flash, bare as the limbs of a hind, as she ran. And those breasts—so sweetly ripe, so brown, so berry-tipped like the very bounty of autumn! She would climb trees to rob the birds’ nests and crack their stolen eggs into her mouth, licking her wet pink lips. She swam in the turquoise waters and caught fish in her quicksilver hands. She danced naked upon the yellow sands with the half-seen get of Ariel.

  They taught her many things, my airy children. With touches and tickles, and with caresses soft and light, they burnished that tanned skin and brought her to giggling and sighing and shivering with pleasure. Autumnal fruits swelled with juices nigh unto bursting; berry-nipples flushed and stood proud upon ripe and quivering breasts. She was a cornucopia-maiden; a harvest begging to be brought in; a feast aching to be eaten.

  Poor Caliban, prowling at a distance, did not know what to make of such a morsel. He wanted with all his heart to be close to her, this beautiful nymph, but he hardly dared. He knew that Ariel would most likely be watching, invisible, and that any hurt he did Miranda would be most sternly punished. They had grown to adulthood together, and she had never shown any fear of her father’s strange pet—how was she to know any better?—but he had been trained by diverse tortures to restrain his great strength about her. He scarcely dared approach her, even when she summoned him to help her climb a crag or move a log.

  So when she took to lifting her ragged skirts and flashing her rosy cunt lips at him, he did nothing but watch, bubbling miserably, feeling his great member swell painfully fat. She liked to make water while he was in the vicinity, lifting her dress right up around her waist to reveal her bottom and squatting with thighs apart, smiling slyly at him over her shoulder as she let go and pissed into the dry earth. She could lead him anywhere, all over the Isle, and he would follow mutely at a distance, his cock so engorged that its tip trailed in the dirt between his feet.

  What, my sweetling—haven’t you seen his prick? Well I’m sure you will, sooner or later. It is not an easy thing to hide,
being so big as it is, and more like the limb of a great octopus than the pizzle of a land-beast: tapered and rubbery. Miranda would giggle at it when it rose, questing toward her. She liked the way it responded to the sight of her pert bottom or her furry slit. She liked the way Caliban could not take his eyes off her, could not stay away; and his swollen cock was the testament to his discomfort.

  One day she beckoned my Caliban to follow her down onto the beach at low tide, and into a sea-cave exposed there. The light inside was dim and the rock walls smelled of salt and weed, which lifted the poor monster’s spirits. Seeking Miranda out in the gloom—he opens more of his eyes as the lack of light demands it—he found her sitting on the damp and silvery sand, her knees raised and spread wide. Between her thighs glistened the wet patch of her sex, pointing straight at him, and she was stroking it gently, holding her labia open with spread fingers.

  “Have you seen one of these anywhere else on the Isle, Caliban?” she asked.

  “My mother has one,” he mumbled, falling to his knees, the better to contemplate the wondrous thing before him. “But hers is much bigger. Yours is … pretty.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It is beautiful,” said he, poor simple thing, as his member crept toward her across the sandy floor like a sea-snake. Indeed, he could not imagine anything more bewitching than that secret pout, coral-hued as some treasure of the reefs. With all his being he longed for it.

  “Look closer,” she told him. And he, simpleton that he was, crouched down and crawled until he was between her ankles. His great nostrils flared and dripped, catching her wild and musky scent, and his breath gusted on her thighs. Shouldn’t she have been afraid of that maw, those teeth? Yet she did not so much as tremble.

  “Does it smell nice?” she wondered.

  “It is the best smell in the whole world,” said the monster who knew nothing of the world. He was drooling now: thick viscid ropes of slime.

  “Kiss it,” she ordered.

  “I … I cannot kiss, Miranda.” His lips were not designed for such delicacies.

  “Then you may lick it. You know how to do that.”

  So he obeyed, and at the first lap of his tongue—big enough to cover the whole of her wanton sex—Miranda sighed and arched and closed her eyes. Encouraged, and dizzy with daring, he repeated the action. Each slippery lick seemed to send her further and further into her trance of delight, and as far as my son was concerned, each mouthful tasted of the nectar of Heaven. Soon he had her writhing at every touch, and clawing at the smooth skin of her thighs, and panting Yes Yes Oh Yes like one of Prospero’s chanted spells. Then she bucked and squealed and thrashed, pulling away from him in spasmodic twitches and then sprawling to the sand with her chest heaving.

  He’s not overly bright, my Caliban, but knew he had not drawn blood, and he guessed that she must have experienced something like the gush of release he felt when he wrestled his own length, alone in his kennel. His need for release was very strong now—nearly overwhelming. He rolled the girl from her side onto her back, and when she spread her legs his member rose waving. Quickly, he pulled her dress off over her head. He wanted to see her naked; all of her. Those soft breasts, that narrow waist—she was slender as spring and ripe as autumn all at once, and the wanting of her drove him out of his wits. Hunching over her, he stooped and licked her from sex to throat, lavishing his tongue upon her breasts. The girl groaned with pleasure. And the slim tip of Caliban’s cock inched forward into the tight wet embrace of her cunt, almost unnoticed at first … until it began to swell.

  A shadow crossed the mouth of the cave then—perhaps no more than a gull in flight. Caliban, who would have normally flinched, did not look up, did not care.

  So in the end, even Miranda betrayed Prospero. Ariel, all a-quiver with malice, brought news to the master that he must come see—and when he did come see, it was Miranda and Caliban writhing together in a sand-floored cave, the girl’s ankles about her ears as the monster plundered her narrow slot with a glistening prick that one would have sworn was too bulky to fit in that virgin hole. Pulse after pulse of thick swell surged up its length, quite visible to the onlookers, and soup-thick seed squirted out around its girth with each wave, blue-gray and pearlescent, from a vessel already filled to overflowing. And all the while the girl sobbed encouragement.

  Now, sweetling—you are all flushed. Perhaps you huddle too close to the fire.

  So, you see, that was when Caliban the bestial pet became Caliban the tortured, beaten slave. It did not matter that the girl had been willing and more—not to her father. Now Ariel was given full license to hound the poor boy.

  You doubt me, I sense? Yes, I know all this, even though I was not there! As soon as I found myself entrapped in my tree, I sank my mind down through its roots and spread it through the earth of the Isle. I saw everything that happened in this small domain, for twelve years. All the vindictive fear and the arguments and the bullying and the rage. Trapped on our rock in the wide sea … Oh, we were just like a human family.

  And I almost felt sorry for Prospero … His daughter a monster’s whore, the sands of his power running through the glass day by day by day. Nor could he bring Miranda back into the fold of his fatherly authority. She simply fled him, inured to his exhortations and his imprecations alike, and he had no iron in his soul to set Ariel upon her. The girl continued to dally with Caliban whenever she could steal the opportunity. And yes, each time it happened Caliban would be beaten severely, but that never gave her pause—I suppose she thought that such a great strong beast must be created to endure pain and that this was the natural way of things. She had no other example in her life. No, neither did fear stop my poor boy. The temptation of her lithe young body squealing and mewling beneath his bulk meant more to him than all the punishment he had to accept.

  Miranda did confront Ariel, I will say that much for her. “Why must you be so cruel to him?” she asked once, scowling.

  “I hate him,” said Ariel, hovering a foot about the earth. He was visible to her that afternoon, and wore the shape that Prospero preferred to see him in: a golden youth with a wicked, beautiful face and hair that crackled with lightning. For reasons of modesty—not his own—he was clad about the hips in a billowing cloth that somehow never slipped or floated away.

  “Why?” she demanded, stubbornly.

  “Because he is ugly.” Ariel swooped up into a tree branch, and just as swiftly dived down again to stare into her face. Even human-sized, he loomed over Miranda. “I hate all ugly, creeping things. I love the beautiful and the dainty. The mere sight of Caliban offends me.”

  “Most of all when he fucks me, I think—you can’t wait to tell my father.”

  “Such a thing is disgusting.” Ariel’s face twisted. “When I see him befouling your sweet flesh … it enrages me.”

  Miranda made an inspired grab into the baroque folds of his loincloth, and closed her fingers about a long cock, jutting and fully erect. She watched Ariel’s eyes widen. “Yes,” she said. “This is very angry—I can tell.” She gave it a squeeze, finding it harder than even Caliban’s blubbery muscular organ, and surprisingly thick. “I think it wants to hurt me.”

  “I would never hurt you,” Ariel said hoarsely. “You are too fair.”

  “But if Caliban is to be punished,” she said with a pout, stroking him from crown to base with long sure caresses, “shouldn’t I take chastisement too? Should you not rain blows upon me with this big hard rod of yours?”

  “Prospero would never let me punish you,” he said, gasping.

  “What if I let you chastise me? Just a little?” She released him suddenly, and as he reeled she stepped away, turned her back and pulled up her skirt to bare the beautiful round globes of her behind. Bending from the hips, she widened her stance, presenting him with a dusky split, a pink glisten, and an inverted smirk. “You do not have to tell my father.”

/>   As helpless as his son had been, Ariel was drawn forward, smooth upon the air, to touch that place where her scratched and dusty thighs met, and became Paradise. “You are wet,” he whispered, sinking his fingers into her.

  “Oh, you can make me wetter,” she told him, wriggling upon his intrusion and trying to draw him deeper. His cock was as hard as a bone; it was an easy matter—indeed it seemed inevitable—to feed it to her slick entrance and push inside her.

  “Where the beast fucks, there fuck I,” he muttered. A hand on either hip claimed her so that he could thrust to the hilt, and when she squealed in delight every bird in the wood rose from its tree in alarm.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she cried.

  From that moment on it became Ariel’s dutiful custom to chastise her thus every time the girl disgraced herself with the monster. Indeed, he often could not wait until the trespass was committed and over with—as she knelt between Caliban’s thighs, sucking upon his cock, he’d appear and swiftly pierce her with his golden dart from behind, and thus offence and retribution became a single thing. Any time of day you might find Miranda with her flushed face in the earth and her ass in the air, while Ariel crouched astride her bottom, thrusting wildly between her cheeks yet never touching the ground. Any time of night you might hear the girl’s choking groans as Caliban slurped upon her coral garden while spilling his seed by the pint into her open mouth.

  Sometimes Miranda would stagger to her bed drunk with exhaustion, almost unable to keep her shaking legs beneath her, her bare body painted from tit to thigh with pearlescent gray and creamy white semen that mingled yet refused to mix; more spunk glistening on her chin, and seeping from her well-used holes with each step to lubricate the cleft of her delectable bottom. And in her eyes—such gratification and triumph!

  Caliban escaped with gentler punishment too, from that time onward. It was the nearest my husband and my son had ever been to truce.