THE ARCHER

by Major James Fairfax

Illustrated by X-GIRL

* * * * * * *        

     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 V.  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."

     "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.

THE END

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