Monday, 24 November 2014

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment. Between October (when it came out as an e-book) and December (when it comes out in paperback), those excerpts will be from the stories in my new collection Fierce Enchantments.

Story 5: Sycorax

This story is a retelling of Shakespeare's The Tempest, from the wicked and thoroughly reprehensible point of view of the monster Caliban's witchy mother.  As she points out, there were many factual inaccuracies in the famous play...

No, there was no trust between Prospero and 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 civilisation—she took what she wanted without remorse or guilt. Nature is not tender; Nature is not good. It is human society that teaches law, and restraint, and shame.

Oh, it would have done you good to see the girl. 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.

John William Waterhouse: Miranda - The Tempest (1916)

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. ‘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.

You understand: Ariel, all a-quiver with malice, had 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-grey and pearlescent, from a vessel already filled to overflowing. And all the while the girl sobbed encouragement.

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Jo said...

Well, this is a sad story, really, isn't it?

Janine Ashbless said...

Caliban was horribly badly treated in The Tempest, and it always makes me uncomfortable to watch. Prospero is such a smug cruel, self-righteous bastard.

My version of the story is a dark and perverted one that borders on horror - I had to cut some lines for this post, because, well...

Anyway, I'm more inclined to sympathise with Caliban and I'm meaner to Prospero than Shakespeare was!

Phil Ball said...

They used to make me read Caliban when we did the Tempest at school, there were only two lads in the class so I guess I was the ideal candidate. Always felt he got a raw deal !