Archer
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Archer free porn video
The Archer
by Abe
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 vee. 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. Yes.
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.
[END]
Hortense
- 10.06.2021
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