Message-ID: <16876eli$9811030532@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "chrutli patrona" Subject: RP:[chrutli]isle1a (cons snf) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19981102183249.4831.qmail@hotmail.com> Disclaimer: This is a rather grisly fantasy about secret druid rites on an isolated North Sea Island. Don't read it. If you must read it, neither the author nor the poster takes any responsibility for your having done so; legal and moral repercussions are yours alone. Live well and love gently- Chrutli ( M/f; cons snuff; other stuff) Our Island Chrutli 1 Our island is isolated in the harsh North Sea. Indeed, it doesn't appear at all on most maps. We are nominally a bit of England, but geographically closer to Norway; both countries rather ignore us. That, more than anything, is why the ancient customs here have persisted. We are isolated from radio and television. Though with the satellite dishes now, television is a possibility, few on our island can afford the luxury. What radio signals we can receive are Norwegian, and we listen mostly for the music; we are, after all, english-speaking British subjects. Farming, sheep and fishing sustain us. We have relatively few visitors. I had come to the island to assume the practice of Dr. Thomas Stewart, who was retiring. It was Dr. Stewart who initiated me into the circle. I was a worldly and sophisticated man then; I can admire in retrospect his skill and insight regarding me. I know more now, and less. I have regrets, but they are not those you might expect. My wife was the first, my dark-eyed Robin. Robin was a lovely woman, black-haired, olive-skinned, tall; on the slender side of voluptuous, the beauty of the Mediterranean, though she was British. She had been reserved and a bit prudish when I met her. She had been an indifferent lover as well when I married her, but her physical beauty compensated. I loved her breasts, and I know that she was proud of them, of the effect her beauty had on me, and on other men. She was prudish, yes, but not foolish; she enjoyed being so desirable. The birth of our little girl neither compromised her beauty, nor melted her reserve. I was, despite her passionless nature, quite in love with her. Dr. Stewart was a lean, vigorous man in his middling sixties. He was retiring from practice, though he was staying on the island. It was perhaps unusual for me, a young doctor, to chose such an isolated place to take up practice, but the very isolation appealed to me. Robin was less enthusiastic, but she was a good mother and satisfied with her role of housekeeper; as the islanders warmed to her, she grew happy and content. Stewart was retiring; I took up the practice with him, and matters seemed unremarkable until the day he took me off to the bluffs for a chat. Stewart had an extensive library on primitive religions and ritual sacrifice. I recall we discussed pagan beliefs and druids over a bottle of greek wine; the christian eucharist, and then the sacrifice of nubile young women. I argued broadly and naively that such a thing could add to the strength and vitality of a community; one woman chosen from a community, honored, then slain and perhaps even communally devoured, I said, might well provide a sort of soul and focus for a primitive society. Stewart seemed amused. "Suppose it was your own wife, or your daughter about to be slain. Would you feel the same?" It gave me a chill; I sensed he meant more than he said. "I love Robin and Katherine with my all," I said a bit indignantly. "Hypothetically, of course. If your wife was naked on some pagan altar, and you were handed a ceremonial knife. For the good of all, could you do it then? For the good of the community?" "It's a hateful notion," I protested. But somehow I could picture it; Robin, the darkness, the knife descending into the olive skin of her naked breast, the welling of hot blood. It was curiously and shamefully arousing. "It needn't be hateful," Stewart said reasonably. "Mostly certainly erotic, though, don't you think? Powerfully, darkly erotic. And yet it may be loving as well." Dr. Stewart shrugged and laughed, dismissing the topic. "Quite a discussion, don't you think? Here in the very soul of druid country?" He dropped it; I was grateful. I did indeed find it arousing. We discussed other things, and eventually returned to our homes, a pleasant afternoon away from the demands of the surgery. I liked Stewart. He was eccentric, but a gentle sort. His patients were devoted to him. When I let him off at his cottage, he touched my wrist. "Do this. The next time you're with your wife. Between the fifth and six rib, say, a deep cut from the side to the sternum. That will open her chest adequately. Then her heart; you know the anatomy." "You're a filthy perverted bastard," I said, laughing dismissively. My face grew hot. He laughed himself as he got out. "I am at that. You'll have to come see my library sometime. Well then, I'll see you in the morning." I thought nothing of it the next morning when Dr. Stewart saw Robin as a patient. Such things are a professional courtesy; one generally doesn't treat family members. It was busy in the surgery, as it always is. Robin left again before I had a chance to say hello. After lunch, Stewart and I walked to the square; he lit his pipe as we sat on a bench. "Let me see. You took off her pyjamas under the pretext of fondling her, you discovered that to get to her heart properly, you'd have to more or less cut through the mass of her breast. The idea inflamed you, and you made love to her a bit aggressively, yes? Pinned her arms over her head, bit her breasts perhaps?" I flushed deeply. "That is indecent, Stewart," I gasped. I had in fact more or less done what he said. Robin's breasts were large, full and elegantly firm; they would have gotten in the way of any incision. And the secret exploration had aroused me. "Yes, but accurate? And she surprised you, didn't she? She rather liked the truculence, multiple orgasms and all that." That too was true; a first for Robin, who often had no orgasm at all. "Robin told you this?" I demanded. "I know you saw her this morning." Stewart laughed heartily. "No. She did not. You told me yourself, Jon; it's not so much that you're transparent, but the simple fact that most men have that dark impulse. A small handful of women find it terribly arousing. If one is observant, he can recognise these women. Robin is such a woman. I'm sure of it." "Stewart, damn you, what are you getting at?" He looked at me shrewdly. "You'll see. In good time, you'll understand me. You're a bit muddled by civilisation, that's all. We're past the edge of civilisation on our lonely little island. You'll see soon enough." "Riddles, Stewart?" I was more muddled than upset; the shameful notion had been exciting, but I wanted to drop the subject altogether. "I've a one o'clock. Shouldn't we get back?" That was all he said. I had been aroused, and a bit rough with Robin, handling her a bit, pinching and forcing her. She had responded with astonishing, violent orgasms. After, she had been resentful; I was apologetic. But she had had orgasms, not a simple, hard- won orgasm, as was often her response. It wasn't, at any extent, something I wanted to discuss with a colleague. Stewart showed me a bookcase in his office before we left for the day; dozens of books on paganism, sacrificial rites, and the like. "So you're a filthy, perverted scholar?" I asked. He laughed. "I'll have you and your wife to my cottage some evening. That's where most of my collection is. I have some remarkable artifacts as well. You see, it is more than a hobby with me. Your premise of the other day may well have validity, you know." "My premise?" "That sacrificial rites can be a benefit for a society." "So much blather, Stewart," I said impatiently. "You didn't tell me you were an authority." "You didn't ask," Stewart smiled without disdain. He offered me several books on Druid practices; I took them, a bit embarrassed at my presumptuous pronouncements of the earlier afternoon. He distressed me, but I quite forgot about the exchange by the time I got home, and spent a pleasant evening with my young daughter and my lovely Robin. Kat had made cakes that afternoon with Robin's help; she was quite proud of herself. After dinner the two of them read story books on the porch swing. It was a vision of happy domesticity, and I was indeed happy. I perused the books Stewart had given me. I was mildly surprised to discover two of them were written by Stewart himself; one on the Druid faith, and the other on Druidic sacrificial rites. Stewart wrote at length on the social and moral implications of the practice. He saw such it as positive and sustainable in the fabric of a society, and his arguments were quite compelling. The other book gave a more general description of Druid beliefs, and I was surprised to discover that the tenets of that faith were good and wholesome, the sacrifice of women notwithstanding. I read until Robin put Kat to bed, and then my thoughts turned to my lovely wife and her passion of the previous night. Robin was curiously reluctant when we retired. I tried to remove her pyjama; she fussed and protested. I was a bit aggressive; she had responded to that the night before. I actually tore buttons, and thus exposed what she had been trying to conceal. There were grey marks on her chest; I recognised them immediately. They'd been done with a surgical marker, black lines to delineate an incision on the skin. They were faded from much washing and scrubbing, but still apparent. One line described the shape of her heart where it lay beneath her breastbone. Another started beneath her armpit, curved under her breast where her breast met her ribs and traveled upward to her breastbone, above her heart. A third line started the same, but traversed her breast, crossing her bulbous nipple, ending again above her heart. "What is this?" I demanded, furious. "What the devil is this?" I knew: her heart, and prospective incisions to reach it. Stewart had done this. "Jon, don't be angry. Thomas was naughty, that was all. I encouraged him. It wasn't anything." "Then what the devil is this? Explain it to me." "It's my fault. I was curious. Dr. Stewart studies pagan rites, you see. And I. I asked him." "You asked him to draw on your chest?" Robin lay back, her eyes dark. "There used to be Druids here, you know. On this island. And they sacrificed young women. So I asked him, how did they do it? And I- well, he's an old man anyway, and he can be charming. He was rather playful. So I took my blouse and brassiere off and he showed me. He drew my heart where it lay in my chest. Then he said my breast was in the way, and they might have to cut it away. That was the first mark-" she guided my hand under her breast, following the line along her ribs, curving up to her sternum- "said he'd have to take my breast away to expose the ribs, then cut between my ribs." Robin swallowed, watching me. "He was so cheerful, chatting me up. He rather fondled me a bit- I should have stopped it, I know, but he's old and I saw no harm. Then he said the other way was to cut through my breast, and he pushed it around on my chest so his knife- his marker went directly through my breast, through my nipple-" she guided my hand across her flesh- "And that would be a bit quicker. Then he told me how they would open my chest, reach in and cut this and that, quickly, and that if it was done properly I could see my own heart quivering alive. Before I passed on." Robin swallowed, shivering. "It was my fault; I shouldn't have let him, and I should have stopped him. I tried to wash it off, but-" she smiled weakly and shrugged. "He'd already done a breast exam, that and a Pap smear. He'd already touched me intimately. I'd put my clothes back on. It really was my fault." "I'll rip his bloody heart out. He had no blasted right-" "No. Don't. Please. You'll only embarrass me. Please?" Robin touched me, kissed and caressed me urgently. "Please?" "I'll have words with him, you can be assured-" She kissed me. "No. Don't speak of it. Please? Don't. Not at all. It was my fault. I was wicked. Don't blame him." Robin lifted her breasts to me, a wanton gesture foreign to her. "You like my breasts, my tennis-ball nipples. It shouldn't surprise you that other men admire them." "Other men don't draw on my wife's breasts." My anger was giving way to lust; Her nipples were erect and her eyes dark. 'Tennis balls' she called them, pips of nipples amidst aureolas that swelled prodigiously, darkly pigmented, brownish-red and smooth. I didn't love Robin for her breasts, but I certainly loved her breasts. I was aroused, and she knew it. A line across her breast, ending above her heart. I touched her breast; it would be perhaps easier to push it aside to make the incision; more truculent to cut straight through, and then into the pectoral muscle. I was aroused. I kissed her deeply. "Like last night?" she whispered, her lips trembling. I'm not a cruel man, but the hunger and outrage provoked by Stewart's meddling in our intimate life drove me almost to excess. Robin responded as she had the previous night; it was a revelation that crude rutting excited her more than tender considerations. Afterward, she watched me tenderly, as I cleaned and dressed her left breast were my teeth had broken the tender skin. "I do love you, Jonathon. You know that, don't you?" "I suppose I do." "You'll not mention this to Stewart? Please?" "Why? Why would you want to protect him?" My anger was spent, but I was still indignant. "Did he seduce you? Did he try to seduce you?" "No. Not that. Of course not that." She swallowed, looking away. "It excited me, laying beneath him like that. Imagining how it would feel. And it- I don't know, it frightened me to feel that way. I won't see him again, all right? I feel foolish. I want to put it behind me. Please?" I looked at her darkly; that business had excited her? "He's old, anyway, she added. "Too old to please a woman, I'd imagine. Don't you think?" He was retiring. Perhaps Stewart was too old to function as a man. I was determined not to apologise to Robin for injuring her breast; her nipple was swollen and discolored as well as bleeding. "I'll let it be," I said, a small act of contrition for having hurt her. Had Stewart seduced her? She said not. Perhaps he couldn't even achieve an erection; perhaps that was why he resorted to fondling women in the surgery. Robin had never lied to me before, so I dismissed my suspicions. "Thank you," she said. She curled against me to sleep; I was aroused again, but my feelings shamed me; I turned away from her and slept myself. I slept well; despite Stewart's horrid behaviour, I felt terribly virile. I could excite Robin. The dark beast in me had awaken, and he hungered. The next morning, Stewart himself made apologies. He was delicate, sincere, abject and humble. He was almost an embarrassment in his excess; he sent Robin a case of good French wine with a note asking forgiveness. I accepted his apology with reluctance. The matter passed eventually; Robin's breast healed; we resumed more temperate lovemaking, and I began reading Stewart's library more widely. He was pleased at my interest. I was surprised to discover that the last public sacrifice on our island was done in 1934, practically in modern times; in the text there was no mention of prosecution, nor any repercussions at all, simply that that had been the last public sacrifices, a young woman noted for her beauty and her gentle ways. The ritual had been conducted on a bluff at the east end of the island. I went there one grey afternoon, and discovered a slab of limestone set up on a rise, weathered and overgrown, but clearly where the deed had been done. My fascination with the rite was neither scholarly nor innocent; Stewart had encouraged me cheerfully, both in the study of Druid faith and in the dark practices of that ancient religion. Standing on the bluff, under that grey sky, I could imagine the event, the naked body, the knife, and the blood welling. I could well imagine the young woman struggling, screaming; the text, though said she'd given herself "gently and willingly, as was befitting." Later, I asked Stewart about the slab on the bluff; he confirmed that it had been the altar. He mentioned quite casually that Robin had discovered a small medallion near the altar, silver and badly corroded, but nonetheless a Druid artifact. "Robin was there?" "I took her myself, just last week." "You took her there?" I asked. I was distressed; I hadn't known Robin was interested as well; nor had I known she'd been with him. "She didn't tell you? She found it all rather fascinating." "No. She didn't." "An oversight, perhaps. Jonathon, I'm prepared to turn my practice over to you entirely. Perhaps we ought to discuss arrangements. I'm eager to have my own time, you see." I let him change the subject. We discussed arrangements. I didn't ask, but I wondered. Why had Robin been with him and said nothing? Why had the two of them gone there, of all places? Had she, out of curiosity or Stewart's persuasion, lain on that ancient altar? And if she had, what then? The questions were endless and distressing; I tried to ignore the matter, and to dismiss my own misgivings. Robin was her own woman, certainly, but I had the distressing sense of concealment and betrayal. Robin had recently come by a small medallion; she wore it on a chain between her breasts, the silver too weathered to be recognisable. She told me she bought it. I did not, later, ask Robin about the business on the bluff. It distressed me, but I didn't dare ask. I felt vaguely guilty as well; if I pictured Robin on the bluff, laid out on the ancient altar, she was always naked, and the palpebral image was erotic. Looking back, I must say I was meant to suspect her; that was Stewart's intention. Robin was a pawn. However, I knew none of that at the time. A short time after we were invited to Stewart's home for a small dinner party to celebrate his full retirement. The guests, besides Robin and myself, were Eric, a black man who was the butcher in the village, and a young woman named Wendy, who was apparently a simple clerk at the druggist's. Curious company, perhaps, but each was unique. Eric was a handsome, muscular man. He was a butcher, yes, but educated, erudite, and charming, though rather blunt and forward. He took to Robin immediately, and Robin, curiously, returned his interest. I found something oddly cold about him. Wendy, the other guest, was blonde, slender, a golden Nordic sort with a face that was cute rather than beautiful. She was in her early twenties, and spoke little, though she was quite engaged with the conversation. She had a poise, almost a serenity about her that was unusual for such a young woman. It appealed to me, though I admit I showed interest in her as much because Eric and Robin were so taken with each other. The evening went along quite pleasantly, really, until Stewart suggested we look at the artifacts he had in his study, Druid artifacts and oddities from the middle ages. Wendy demurred and asked me to accompany her to the garden. I rather wanted to see Stewart's collection, but followed her, to Robin's unspoken amusement. There was nothing remarkable about Wendy; she wasn't educated, nor witty, nor sexual, though there was a sensuality about her. Just the same, there was a glow, a serenity, a goodness about her that I fairly warmed myself on. We admired his garden and chatted lightly. It was she, finally, who suggested we go back inside. In the study, Robin was on her back in a sort of stock, fastened around her neck and wrists. It was low, no more than two feet from the floor, and she was kneeling, bent backwards in the stock, her back arched sharply. Eric was resting a massive curving sword on her throat. Robin's eyes were fastened shut, her full lips parted. "Eric, please. Stop this at once," Wendy said mildly. "You like this truculent business far too much." Robin opened her eyes and looked at me distantly; she saw my anger. Eric lifted the sword, looking at me darkly, as if I'd interrupted something. "An unusual way to treat a man's wife, don't you think?" I asked coldly. Eric nodded a bland apology. I knelt and unfastened the stock. With her back arched so severely, Robin's breasts had stretched her blouse; the shape of them, and the shape of her erect nipples was quite apparent against the taut fabric. "It's all right, Jon, really it is," Robin protested as I extracted her and helped her to her feet. She was trembling, but perhaps that was only from the strain. "It's all right. There's no harm done." "Nor any intended, of course," Eric said coolly. Wendy scolded him; Stewart tried to smooth matters over; Robin tried to catch her breath and her composure. I was far too angry for any of that, and we left before I made matters worse. We didn't speak for most of the way home. Finally, Robin said, "It really was all right. He wouldn't have hurt me." "Right. You laid yourself in that device and let yourself be bound tight." "No, that is, Eric insisted. I let him lock me up, but he was quite- well, he insisted." "And Stewart? He didn't try to stop it?" "He-he made light of it; he found a cushion for my knees. He tried to ease my discomfort." "You were quite helpless, fastened on your back like that. And Eric might have hurt you with that sword." "He didn't. Mostly, the two of them discussed how they would skin and dress my body once I was properly beheaded; Eric is a butcher, you know. Eric said my breasts would be waste, and that was a bloody shame, but that my hams would be delicious. He said my breasts were mostly fat; I suggested he put them inside my chest to tenderise everything when I baked. He was quite intrigued at the notion." Robin smiled at me timidly and ingenuously, as if it had all been harmless fun. "It's all depraved, Robin. It's not at all healthy." "Wicked," she laughed, kissing me, growing amourous as I drove. "Deliciously wicked." All the dark hungers I'd been harbouring over the weeks boiled to the surface. I wasn't cruel to her once we arrived home. I was aggressive, uncompromising and completely domineering, though. I used my necktie to bind her hands, and proceeded from there, ravishing her greedily. The dark beast was back, and ravening with hunger. Robin responded with the same feverish passion as before. And then she surprised me; she took me in her mouth. She had never done that before. And then, equally shocking and arousing, her mouth slid to my pubes and her throat embraced me. It was a whore's trick. In our years of marriage she had kissed my penis only a few times, and then after much urging. I used her mouth, and then took her again, with less restraint than before. She cried out twice, but she didn't protest my aggression. She cried a bit when we were both finished, but she curled against me to do so. I had bruised and scratched her body, but something dark and bitter remained in my thoughts, and I didn't dress her mild injuries, nor offer her more comfort than holding her as she cried. Though the night had been sexually gratifying, the events of the evening put something of a barrier between us; we barely spoke the next morning. Passions and peculiar events had driven something between us, something neither of us was willing to discuss. My suspicions of her and my cruelty were of the same fabric. That she enjoyed the cruelty, though; did that confirm my suspicions, or prove her love for me? -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----