Maiden

  Aishling Morgan

  Author’s Note

  The world of Maiden is not ours, neither in terms of physical characteristics nor of culture. Elethrine, her friends and antagonists know nothing of commuting, office politics or supermarkets. Instead they inhabit a world of beautiful girls, stalwart men and strange half-men. This is fantasy, a genre that has long been developing from the romantic myths and which many readers will instantly recognise. Such tales have always had an underlying erotic power, yet in Maiden this is given full, uninhibited rein.

  In this story I have for the first time combined my love of the erotic with my love of fantasy. I feel the two have blended well but I have certainly benefited from the advice and patience of friends, in particular David and Hilary Wade. I would also like to thank David for his contributions to the bawdy songs. Finally, I trust you will enjoy reading Maiden as much as I have enjoyed its creation.

  Aishling Morgan

  Chapter One - Demoiselle

  Elethrine peered down from her window high in the castle’s tallest turret. A noise had attracted her attention. Far below in the blockyard a ring of youths had surrounded a girl and were teasing her by singing a song that was always guaranteed to bring the blushes to maidens’ cheeks. Elethrine listened to the words drifting up with a trace of irritation, knowing that had she not been the daughter of a baron, she herself might be subject to such cruel taunting -

  Here’s the dirty goblin, hop, hop, hop,

  Down with his trousers and out with his cock,

  Now you’d better run girl, far, far, away,

  ‘Cause if you let him catch you, he’ll put you in the hay,

  See how big his cock is, all green and fat and long,

  And there’s no good in telling him, he doesn’t know it’s wrong,

  He’ll lift your skirts and split your drawers as it begins to swell,

  He’ll put it in your maidenhead, your bottom ring as well,

  He’ll squeeze your tits and smack your arse, and if he’s in the mood,

  He’ll make you suck and lick his balls, and other things so rude,

  He’ll fill you full of thick white cream, in every single hollow,

  He’ll stain your clothes and soil your face, he’ll even make you swallow,

  And when he’s done he’ll steal your clothes and leave you shamed and bare,

  With jism up your bottom, and jism in your hair,

  But if you run and tell your men and ask them to go searching,

  It’s like as not they’ll strip your rump and tie you for a birching,

  ‘Cause they all know that girls can run as fast as needs may be,

  But goblins can’t, and never could, and so it seems to me,

  That girls who walk where goblins live and whistle, laugh or sing,

  Know well what fate waits there for them and hunger for its sting.

  The ditty trailed off, leaving the youths laughing and the girl hiding her face for shame. The knowledge that her rank made her immune to such coarse behaviour pleased Elethrine, yet also left her with a faint sense of missing out on something; as if it might actually be enjoyable for the poor girl below to be tormented with the thought of what would happen if the goblins caught her. The song was no joke either. Sometimes it actually happened, and when it did - Elethrine’s nurse assured her - the poor victim was sore for a week. Sore where, Nurse Anaka had not made clear, but Elethrine could imagine, and found her hand moving involuntarily to the front of her skirts.

  The thought made her shiver, a naughty sensation that immediately filled her with utter mortification. With a disturbingly warm feeling in her belly, she turned away from the window. In her mind she made a note to have the youths whipped, not for teasing the hapless maiden, but for disturbing her, the Demoiselle Elethrine, only daughter to Dakarmoth, twelfth Baron Korismund. In reality, of course, their punishment would be for causing the disturbing thoughts that had made her belly warm and set her throat fluttering, but that was hardly something that could be spoken of.

  Anyway, it was a silly rhyme. Especially the ending, as if any girl would actually let herself get caught on purpose, knowing she would be put through such an ordeal. Besides, it wasn’t even accurate. Goblins didn’t wear trousers, everybody knew that. In fact, a pouch of uncured leather was the only thing they wore, if that. Trousers were hardly practical with their shape, which Elethrine knew, because she had seen one. A woodsman had caught it in a net and brought it into the keep, intending to use it for sport. Forbidden to go near it, Elethrine had sneaked down at night and peeped through the keyhole of the room in which it was bound in an iron cage. One glimpse had been enough. It had been no more than one third the height of a normal man, deep, rich black-green in colour and covered in warts and wattles. The face had been set in an expression that was somehow unutterably lewd and also fierce, which had terrified her, but not nearly as much as what it had between its stubby, bowed legs.

  Never having seen a naked man, she was unsure of the anatomical details of their secret places, yet knew enough of male animals to know that they were very different from girls, and ruder. What was between the goblin’s legs was far ruder than anything she could have imagined, and hardly secret, being barely constrained within the crude pouch of stained leather. The outline of the penis had been clearly discernible, a great, fat thing that squirmed and writhed obscenely in it’s sack as if determined to burst free. It had been huge too, out of all proportion to the goblin’s body. Beneath it the balls had also shown clearly, bulbous globes larger than hens eggs.

  Elethrine had stared entranced, until, perhaps catching her scent, the grotesque beast had moved it’s hand purposefully towards its pouch. She had screamed and run, not stopping until she was safely in her room with the door locked behind her. There had also been a curious scent, although she had scarcely been aware of it until it was gone. It had been compelling, making her want to do things the very thought of which brought blushes to her cheeks.

  In the morning the goblin had been gone, which caused an uproar that ended with the Baron banning them inside the castle walls. It had never been found either, and for the next three months two veteran pikemen had guarded her door night and day. That had been in addition to her purity-girdle, which she wore anyway to ensure that she remained chaste until the day she was taken in wedlock by a highborn Mundic strong and cunning enough to achieve her.

  She sat down on her bed, remembering the gross sight and the disturbing dreams that had followed for weeks afterwards. Always it would be the same. She would be picking flowers in one of the meadows above the castle. It would be quiet and still, and then she would hear a rustling in the long grass. Somehow she would know what it was, and run immediately, down the hillside in a blind panic. In reality, goblins were easy to outrun, their short, bow legs making them incapable of any speed. In her dream they were as fleet as the finest horses, while she was clumsy and slow. Always they caught her, and always in the big cherry orchard, where, under the shelter of the blossom-hung trees, they would pull her to the ground. Her skirts would be thrown up, her bodice torn apart. They would fumble open the strings and catches of her petticoats and chemise, tearing what wouldn’t come easily. They would open her drawers and burst her corset, breaking the lock. They would rip open her pantalettes to expose her final barrier, her purity-girdle…

  Only she wouldn’t have it on. Their monstrous cocks would be out of their pouches, their obscene balls swinging beneath them. Lying on a bed of her ruined clothing, her precious tuppenny would be open, vulnerable, as the biggest, ugliest goblin got down between her legs, its gigantic, hideous penis ready to deflower her. The others would be molesting her, some holding her thighs apart, other using their long spatulate fingers to explored her body, several pawing at her naked br
easts, one trying to get its penis to her mouth, one with a finger sneaking towards the most intimate part of her bottom…

  And then she would wake up, always an instant before she was deflowered. She would be sweating and breathing hard, and always, always, her tuppenny would be wet and warm. Her purity-girdle stopped her touching herself there, which was just as well, as without it she knew that she would try to do what her giggling maid had told her was possible.

  The maid, Nurse Anaka’s daughter Aisla, was a tall, lithe girl with the flame red hair colour known in Mund as “peasant red”. Elethrine herself, like most nobles, had hair of a rich, yet pale blonde, which made her stand out from the tawnys and reds of the peasants and artisans. When Aisla had hinted to Elethrine of the pleasures of playing with her tuppenny, Elethrine had ordered the poor girl to do it, not believing it was possible. Aisla had protested, but under the threat of a paddling, had agreed. Blushing furiously, the maid had raised her skirts, opened her single pair of drawers, pulled apart her pantalettes to reveal a neat, pale pink tuppenny. With her eyes closed in embarrassment, Aisla had started to rub at the little bump towards the top of the soft pink centre. As she played, her embarrassment had faded, until she was lying with her thighs spread wide, breathing deeply as her fingers worked in the wet, fleshy folds between her legs. The maid had popped her breasts out of her bodice after a while, feeling them and sighing and arching her body in a pleasure that was obviously no pretence. At the end Aisla had cried out as if in pain and called her mistress’s name, only to revert to coy blushes within the minute.

  Elethrine had watched the display with the warmth between her own thighs becoming increasingly urgent. By the end she had felt so discomfited that she had ordered Aisla to strip to her underwear and kneel on the bed with her haunches up. Elethrine had then opened the maid’s drawers wide to get at the full breadth of trim bottom. The position had left Aisla’s tuppenny and bottom ring showing, to Elethrine’s delight, and she had taken further pleasure in describing to Aisla how she looked. Elethrine had then beaten the poor maid across her bare buttocks, using a wooden rule, then a hairbrush and finally the thin cane that was kept for her own discipline. Far from soothing her nerves, the act of beating her maid had only served to heighten Elethrine’s discomfiture. The harder she beat, the worse it had become, until Aisla’s bottom had become the colour of a ripe cherry and the unfortunate maid was crying into a pillow. Finally Elethrine had had to abandon the process and, feeling very odd indeed, had ordered Aisla to draw her a cool bath.

  The memory made Elethrine feel much the same, filling her with an urge near to desperation to get her purity girdle open and see if she could do the same as Aisla had done. Unable to resist, she quickly checked to make sure that nobody was coming up the stairs. Confident of her privacy, she began to massage her breasts, feeling the full globes of flesh under her straining bodice. Naked, they were heavy and each one filled a hand, as she knew from feeling them at night when her lined gown could be pulled up for access. Leaving her breasts she stroked her hands down the trim line of her waist, delighting in the gentle, elegant curve. Lower, her hips flared, supporting a bottom that was perhaps a shade fatter than she might have liked. The heavy cheeks were sensitive though and she cupped one in each hand and stuck them out as if awaiting punishment. The feel of her bottom in her hands made the need to try and get at her tuppenny even stronger and she began to pull up her skirts at the front. Lifting her dress and three petticoats left her drawers showing, at which point she hesitated. Exposing the lock to her purity girdle meant unlacing the front of her drawers and then the front of her pantalettes beneath. To undo them would be the work of a moment, but to do them up again was a very different matter. If she was caught trying to open her purity girdle the result would be a hasty upending over her bed, the exposure of her bottom and the application of twelve agonising strokes of the cane that always hung above her bed to remind her that she was not above discipline.

  Even as she paused, listening carefully, she caught the sound of the door at the bottom of her staircase being opened. Frantically rearranging her skirts, she just managed to adopt a demure, ladylike pose by one of the windows when the door opened. Elethrine turned, discovering to her annoyance that it was not Anaka but Aisla, who not only would not report her but might have been made to help.

  From nowhere the thought that Aisla might have been made to help with more than getting the girdle open came into Elethrine’s head, sending furious blushes to her cheeks at the very idea of what she had so briefly imagined.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said rather curtly, trying to rid herself of the image of the maid’s delicate features pressed against the soft golden curls between her thighs.

  ‘Your father commands your presence Mistress,’ Aisla answered hastily. ‘In the great hall.’

  ‘Why?’ Elethrine demanded, irritated at the summons.

  ‘I don’t know Mistress,’ Aisla replied. ‘Father awaits you at the foot of the tower stair.’

  ‘Your father I take it?’ Elethrine replied. ‘Oh well, I suppose it must be important then. Stay in your room, I may want you later.’

  ‘Yes Mistress,’ Aisla answered.

  Elethrine made a final adjustment of her dress and started down the stairs, meeting Aisla’s father, Uroth, at the bottom. Greeting him with a curt nod, she set off towards the great hall. The gigantic Uroth walked steadily behind her, his great steps easily keeping up with her brisk pace. As master-at-arms and armourer, Uroth was not the normal person to escort her, and as she passed through the tall, dim corridors of the keep and crossed the cloistered courtyard she was wondering at the reason for so much ceremony.

  The great hall opened off the cloisters, and Elethrine walked through the high door, Uroth remaining at the entrance. The scents of smoke, dust and old wood struck her as she entered. Walls of rough hewn granite of the deepest grey rose on either side, set with high, arched windows and half-covered by the banners of the various nobles of Korismund. What had once been rich, deep colours highlighted with cloth of gold and silver lacquer were now faded and thin with age. Above them the soot-blackened roof beams reared to a peak that was lost in shadow, the dull light from the high, stained glass windows providing only hints of grotesquely carved faces bearded with cobweb.

  An enormous grate ran the length of the room, deep with the cold ashes of the previous night’s dining and ringed with tables. At the far end a vast wooden throne rose to half the height of the room, its back fantastically carved and worked with polished stones - garnet, dark malachite, jet, blood-stone. On the throne sat a tall, grim figure, his black cloak and armour of dull steel worked with the arms of Korismund, a crimson rose held in a clenched steel fist. A great banner hung above his head, showing the same arms, as did the shield fastened to one side of the throne. A massive sword hung on the opposite side, its worn leather grip showing that it was not merely ceremonial. A coronet ringed his head, bright in contrast to the grey of his hair and long beard.

  ‘Why so formal father?’ Elethrine said cheerfully, giving the smallest of curtsies as she approached.

  ‘For good reason child,’ the Baron replied. ‘As you know, Talithea, Princess of Mund, will be coming here to take formal betrothal with Kavisterion, Prince of Ateron in Aegmund.’

  ‘Indeed father.’

  ‘Her outriders are here and she will be here also, within the hour,’ the went on. ‘It is necessary that we receive her with due protocol.’

  ‘Within the hour!’ Elethrine echoed. ‘I though she was coming this evening. I must change, bathe, have my hair set! Where is my maid!’

  ‘Calm yourself little Pommette,’ he continued. ‘All that in due course, but first there is something important I must tell you.’

  ‘What is that?’ she replied, trying not to sound too impatient.

  ‘As you know,’ Dakarmoth rumbled, ‘being a somewhat remote barony, we have tended to stay with the old traditions.’

  ‘Yes father,’ Eleth
rine replied conscientiously.

  ‘And thus,’ he continued, ‘being of the fourth rank, and noble, we are entitled to names of nine letters in length.’

  ‘Yes father,’ Elethrine repeated.

  ‘Yet,’ he sighed, ‘as you may not know, some two hundred years ago, some modernist clique in the royal court - led by King Galaitharion XI himself I believe -reduced the number of ranks to nine, abolishing the four ranks of peasants and decreeing that all peasants are equal and might have names of four letters. Artisans might all have five, regardless of rank; the thaneclan, squires and reeves six, nobles seven and royals eight, again regardless of rank. Foolish, I know, yet the upshot is that Princess Talithea has a name of only eight letters, as you may have noticed.’

  ‘Indeed, father,’ Elethrine answered. ‘I had thought it because her family are descended from Thane Etharion…’

  ‘So is ours, impertinent child,’ Dakarmoth interrupted.

  ‘Your forgiveness,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Granted,’ he answered. ‘Now, we must observe protocol…’

  ‘Of course,’ she put in.

  ‘Exactly,’ he continued, ‘we must observe protocol, and so, for the duration of her stay, you must shorten your name…’

  ‘Father!’ Elethrine exclaimed, scandalised by the suggestion. ‘Then, then, should it be eight letters, I would be thought no more than of the rank of a thane!’

  ‘Seven letters,’ her father corrected her.

  ‘Seven!’ Elethrine shouted. ‘Me, be thought a member of the squires! Never! I could never! Oh for shame!’

  ‘Elethrine!’ Dakarmoth boomed in a voice redolent of thin canes and sore, female bottoms.

  Elethrine shut up hastily.

  ‘But father,’ she continued after a pause, her tone now thoughtful, almost wheedling, ‘the Prince of Ateron is named Kavisterion, a name of eleven letters…’

  ‘He is of Aegmund,’ Dakarmoth interrupted her, ‘and frankly little more than a barbarian, although it is clearly an important move on the part of the king to join his line to ours. No, this evening at the ceremony of betrothal, you shall be announced as Ethrine, which, when all is said, is a pleasant name.’