Category: fairy tale

Once upon a time, in a small town in the forest-covered mountains, there lived a pretty blonde disciplinarian.  She was young to hold such a responsible position in the community, her mother having retired early after fracturing her wrist in an ill-judged slash of the cane across a miscreant’s kicking calves, but she took her job seriously and had become skilled in the art of chastising males.  From all over town – and from the outlying villages and isolated forest cottages around – disobedient husbands, inattentive boyfriends and elderly men needing reminders of their status were brought to be secured across her whipping bench and vigorously flogged.

All day long and into the evening, the tree-covered slope on the edge of town where she plied her trade would ring out to the merry cries of males in pain.  In summer, she would move the whipping bench outside and her clients would experience their floggings in the fresh mountain air, their cries mingling with the birdsong and the buzzing of insects, their frantic and fruitless wriggling against the restraining straps mirrored in the eddies and splashes of the mountain stream that tumbled down the rocks beside the disciplinarian’s hut.  Often the stripes on their soft, sensitive flesh would be produced by freshly-cut birch rods or switches, cut from the verdant stands that grew in that area, their whippy quality prized by disciplinarians far and wide, who could only dream of the perfection of agonies that could be inflicted by one of their number able to use implements freshly-cut that morning from the trees. In winter, all except the most aged of her ‘clients’ were forced to stand shivering in a line inside, wishing for warmth yet knowing all too well the fiery form in which it would come to them, when inside the hut the welts on their flesh would be lit by the cheery dancing flames and the hot tears rolling down their cheeks would fall softly onto the rich mahogany-dark patch of wooden flooring, to which so many men had contributed their tears before.

Here’s a picture of the disci – oh hang on, that’s Divine Mistress Heather.  I mean, she’s blonde and – obviously – lovely but she’s not the disciplinarian of the story so I’m not sure what she’s doing here.  Sorry – we have a new photo-slave and it’s his first day on the blog.  Won’t happen again.

The fame of the disciplinarian had spread throughout the kingdom and she had even had an offer to come to the Queen’s Palace to work in the torture chambers.  But after many days contemplating the temptation of this offer to work at the peak of her profession , she regretfully put aside the thoughts of red-hot branding irons, mechanical testicle presses and other such exotic delights, for the simple pleasures of small-town life.  Unlike so many people, she had discovered early in life what made her happiest and although she loved inflicting pain, she loved still more the thought that she could walk down the main street of her town knowing that all recognised and respected her and that her appearance struck terror into the pits of the stomachs of every man in the town and for many miles around.

Oh bloody hell this is DM Heather again!  I’m really, really sorry about this, I don’t know how – what’s that, readers?  You don’t mind seeing pictures of her?  Even though you know they’re not really in keeping with the story?  I mean, that latex outfit is just way ahead of the technology in the story and – oh really?  You’re sure you don’t mind at all?  Oh, OK.  Fine.

Now there also lived in that region – in a small hut just over the ridge beyond the outskirts of town – a huntress.  She was poor but hardworking and honest.  She made her living hunting the birds and animals in the forest, mostly living off the forest itself – feeding and clothing herself from her catch – but occasionally selling meat or hides to the villagers, especially to the leather-maker whose fine products were much in demand in those parts.  With the few coins she earned, she was able to furnish her cottage simply but with well-made furnishings, and she was able to keep a boy for housework, errands and occasionally helping fetch the game she shot with her supple bow or retrieve the rare arrow that missed its target.  Sometimes, she would put her skills to other uses, when she assisted the townsfolk in tracking down and returning escaped males, but she never asked for money for such help, seeing it as her duty to her community and although she would occasionally receive presents from a grateful wife or aunt of some returned reprobate more usually a word of thanks was her only compensation and that was enough for her.

She was happy in her life, most times, most days, but there was one aching hole inside her that she could never fill, except occasionally in her dreams.  The huntress was in love.  Madly, passionately, deeply in love, with a blonde lady a year or two below her in age with a whippy cane and a look that could strike terror into the heart of any male like a shard of ice thrust into his chest.  Yes: the huntress loved the disciplinarian and could spend entire days walking in the forest, ignoring birds or small game right under her feet, as she thought of nothing but gently-curled golden locks, the elegance of a pair of bared shoulders flexing the cane or the silver bell of a laugh ringing out over a male’s sobbing and pleas for mercy.  Yet she had never spoken to her.  The huntress would rehearse a hundred different speeches of introduction, but each time would bite her lip in embarrassment at what she knew to be her uncultivated words.  Unlike the disciplinarian, whose softly-spoken reprimands could reduce a waiting male to a quivering heap of fearful jelly, the huntress had little call for fine speeches in her profession and it showed.  As well as fearing the awkwardness of any clumsy attempt to tell the disciplinarian of her feelings, she was also ashamed of the home-made skins she wore or the clean but simple furnishings of her humble cottage.  So her love was hidden and unspoken – but no less intense for that.

Huntress!  Not Hunteress!  God’s sake… why do I have to work with such amateurs?

So on days when she was not hunting, she would sit behind a rock by the mountain stream, from where she could watch her heart’s desire plying her trade without herself being observed and as the shrieks and cries rang out from below, she would dream of leaning over the quivering, abused flesh of a well-beaten back and finding a willing pair of soft lips to meet hers in silent, shared joy.

Better.

Now, one fine summer day the huntress was perched in her usual spot, thinking hopeless thoughts of the months and years that were passing in lovelorn loneliness, when she saw a strange couple approaching the door of the disciplinarian’s cottage.  No one else was there – the previous week, the town had hosted a football match and so many over-excited boys and men had needed firm correction after that excitement, that the male population of the town was mainly in that much-desired state of best behaviour that follows a really severe flogging.  So the disciplinarian was sitting outside her cottage, alone (as she thought, being unaware of the pair of besotted eyes fixed upon her from further up the slope) when the couple approached.

Both the disciplinarian and the huntress, separately, thought the two people to be the oddest pair they had ever seen.  An old woman – the ugliest woman either had ever seen – was leading the largest male either had ever seen, on a thin leather leash.  The male was colossal – eight feet tall, shambling and lurching on legs like tree trunks.  He had a heavy forehead that concealed his eyes in dark pits, a neck that had more muscle in it and greater girth than the muscled abs of an athlete and thick, curly hair coming from his ears, his hands, his feet… almost every part of his body except his smooth bald head, which gleamed in the early morning sunshine.  The old woman held a small white riding crop, barely ten inches long, which was surely entirely inadequate to dealing with this behemoth, who nonetheless seemed quite docile, responding to the smallest jerks of his leash.

The disciplinarian stood up politely to greet her guests, wondering whether they were clients too.  She felt excited at the thought of chastising and subduing such a beast – a lesser soul might have been daunted, but she was a spirited girl and her heart rose at the thought of such a challenge.

“Good morning, Lady Citizen” she remarked, formally, as the older generation often preferred such courtesies.  “May I be of service?”

The old crone merely grunted and jerked a thumb at the giant behind her.

“Needs beating.  Hard.  Reckon you can manage it?”

“Of course” replied the disciplinarian.  “How much does he need?”

The crone’s discoloured, watery eyes rose to reach hers. Then looked her slowly up and down.

“A lot, dearie.  More than you can manage, from the look of it.  Perhaps I’ll go elsewhere.”

“I’m afraid there’s no other disciplinarian in town” the disciplinarian replied, without thinking.  Then, realising this sounded rather feeble she added “But I’m sure I could manage him.  I’m stronger than I look.”

“Hmmm.” grumbled the crone.  “He’s a big bastard. From your reputation I’d expected someone… older.  Some fifty-year-old aunt with arms like a wrestler, thighs like tree trunks and a face that could stop traffic.  That’s what I was after.  Sorry girlie, but I think I’ll walk on to the next town.  No offence, but he’s not a job for a pretty little thing like you.”

“Oh please” the disciplinarian said.  “Let me try – I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

The crone’s eyes narrowed.

“How sure?”

Taken aback, the disciplinarian was lost for words.

“Well, I mean… I’ve never had a – “

“Sure enough to… stake a little something on it?” interrupted the crone.  “A little wager, perhaps?”

“Well, I don’t have a lot of money…” the disciplinarian began.

“I wasn’t thinking of money” snorted the old woman. “Something a bit more… personal.”

She reached out a withered hand and stroked the disciplinarian’s soft cheek with the backs of her gnarled fingers.  There was a sudden gasping cry from behind a rock further up the slope, where the huntress’s hand had just tightened around her bow in an involuntary spasm of shock and anger – but the sound was masked by the running, falling water and neither of the two females below noticed, intent as they were ontheir negotiations.

“Yes, more personal” she smiled.  “You’re a pretty little thing, like I said.  How about: if you can’t make him cry after – 12 strokes, shall we say? – I stay the night here?  Hmm?  In your bed.”

“With you” she added, just in case her meaning had not been taken.

Yet it had.  By the disciplinarian at least, who was thrown into turmoil by the request.  She was not one for romantic engagements, although she had kissed a few girls at the town’s weekly dance.  In fact, she was a virgin, more experienced in the joys of covering male flesh with stripes of burning pain than covering a lover’s upturned face with soft kisses… although she had often thought about that, as girls will, and wondered when the right young lady would come along.  Those dreams had certainly not involved bedding a creature such as the wizened old woman who now stood stooping before her and she did not know what to think.

Behind her rock, the huntress watched in puzzlement.  Even her sharp hunter’s hearing could not make out the crone’s words, which was just as well, as she might not have been able to restrain herself had she heard and the conversation might have been cut short by the buzz of a jealously-released arrow and the snick of its razor-sharp head piercing a bony, lecherous old head.

“Oh, but of course if you don’t think you can do it” sighed the old woman, painfully turning around and making to hobble away.  “Come on, Bonehead, we’ll have to go elsewhere.”

“No, no!” the disciplinarian protested.  “I’ll do it – I accept the wager.  Twelve strokes to make him cry or…or… what you said.”

“All right then” the crone replied, with a toothless smile.  “Bonehead!  Over the block.”

The mountain of muscle shambled over to the awaiting whipping block and bent over, like a tree bending in a high wind.  The disciplinarian struggled to close the ankle straps, which finally grasped his thick bare legs, while straining at the last possible hole.  Similarly, his ankles at the front.  The mighty curve of his back arched high above the surface of the block – clearly the usual back-strap the disciplinarian used to hold her clients firmly in place would be useless.

‘Bonehead’ was wearing a simple one-piece shift so there was no reason to lower any trousers or pants.  His vast buttocks seemed to the disciplinarian like the empty map of a territory waiting to be explored: at once tempting and daunting.  She went into the cottage, opened a cupboard with a quick gesture (normally she would open it slowly, the loud resulting creak striking terror into those who had heard it before but she guessed that no such noise would have the slightest effect on the placidly-awaiting Bonehead).

She paused awhile, contemplating her choice.  The trade-off, as ever, was between weight and suppleness; strength and whippiness; the force and the speed of the impact.  She chose a dark, rattan cane that she knew well would produce plenty of both.  It had soaked for almost three weeks in linseed oil when first purchased, then hung to dry.  Straight, just over a metre in length from ribboned grip to the varnish-sealed tip, it was about a centimetre in width but much heavier than might be expected, because of the soaked-in oil.  A novice disciplinarian would struggle to control the wrap-around from such a long instrument but in the hands of an expert, it could flex on the downstroke so that the whole last 30cm was moving much faster than the impulse provided by the arm and wrist alone, the lower third of the cane hanging back at the start of the stroke, high behind the wielder’s shoulder, but then racing forward to impart the maximum momentum to the recipient flesh, at the point of impact.  Such was the science of it but there was art too: poetry.  The cane seemed to quiver with creative potential as she lifted it by its red-ribboned handle and to sing of delights and agonies to come, as she swished it through the air.  Yes: this one.

Yeah, close enough.

Outside, she stood before the wall of flesh that was her target.  She lifted the cane high and swished it down through the air: once, twice, three times.  Each time she increased the force of her practice stroke and the swish of the first movement gave way to an ominous whirr as even the air found itself shrieking to escape the implement’s dreadful descent.  The disciplinarian had often reduced men to gibbering wrecks of terror just from these warm-up flourishes but today not a quiver of flesh disturbed the serenity with which the tied Bonehead awaited his lesson.

So be it.  She drew the cane back.  Sometimes she would continue the psychological torment at this point (new clients sometimes felt this to be the worst part of the caning, although they usually realised their mistake once the real thing began), with further swishes, or gentle ‘aiming shots’ (which she did not need – her aim was perfect from the start), in which she would merely tap the buttocks as if for practice.  Clearly, Bonehead was impervious to psychological torment, as perhaps she might have guessed from his name.  But presumably he felt pain like any other human male, even if he was built on a near superhuman scale.

Her arm drove forward, her wrist flicking at just the right moment so that the cane tip whipped around and forward, her stance such that it was precisely parallel to the target just at the point of impact.  The dark implement met the flesh with a ‘crack’ like a rock breaking in two, burying itself into the flesh, the end wrapping around to deliver a furiously-enhanced sting to the top of Bonehead’s right thigh.  As ever, the ‘crack’ of impact rang out across the hillside and the world seemed to stop, as if in horror, as if holding its breath for that split second, awaiting the inevitable gasp and scream.

There was nothing.  A faint pink line appeared across Bonehead’s white flesh, slightly redder on the right-hand side.  He himself did not move or even seem to have noticed the dreadful stroke.

From above, the huntress looked on in confusion.  She knew full well how a stroke of that power should be received and this was not it.  There had been something odd in the background as well, she thought, drawing upon her subconscious hunter instincts.  Something had moved or flickered in a way it should not.  She frowned and focused all of her attention on the scene below.

‘Confusion’ was a wholly inadequate word to describe the disciplinarian’s feelings at that moment.  She had not, obviously, expected crying from the first stroke.  Clearly, the old woman would not have made her bet (and it only occurred to her now in irritation that there seemed to be nothing on offer in return except the vindication of victory) had she not known that Bonehead was tough.  Crying is a result not of mere pain but of the relentlessness, the inevitability of pain.  Generally, it occurs some way into the beating, at the point when the recipient finds even the thought of further strokes unbearable, when they have ‘had enough’.  At that point, their irresistible conviction that they can take no more comes up against the immovable will of their disciplinarian that more will be given – and also up against the physical reality of the constraints.  Unable to reconcile the impossibility of any more pain, with the inevitability of its occurring, the male mind simply collapses into infantile helplessness and sobs unstoppably.  An instinct: crying for Mummy to help.  Yet Mummy will not or cannot come or help – indeed Mummy is sometimes the one standing over the sobbing, crushed figure with an implement and a grim smile.

So the disciplinarian was fully prepared for an absence of tears at this point.  They would come, but later.  She had even admitted to herself it was possible Bonehead would be strong enough not even to cry out.  But this… no gasp, no flinch, not even a detectable change in his breathing.  Indeed, now she came to think of it, she could neither hear nor see any breathing at all.  Bonehead’s massive form was inert, unmoving, only the pink line betraying any change since he had creakily bent down over the whipping block.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts, breathed deeply, then drew back the cane and let fly again.  Another pink line appeared, precisely three quarters of a centimetre below the previous one and perfectly parallel to it along all its length.  Had circumstances been different she might have felt pride in the precision of such a hard follow-on stroke, but in the absence of any reaction from Bonehead, she felt nothing but disappointment.  A third stroke produced no more result.  The disciplinarian changed tactics.  Normally, she would wait until at least five strokes were present before applying any crosshatching, in the classic ‘five plus one’ farm gate pattern, creating five overlaps of the most hellish agony.  However, this time, so desperate was she to achieve an effect – any effect – that she angled her fourth stroke to slash across the first three, finishing with a deep impact in Bonehead’s right thigh.

“Is this the actual beating or are you still warming up?” remarked the crone, who had been watching with amusement.  “It’s punishment I brought him for, girlie, not tickling.  How’m I going to make him work if he only gets a little pat when he’s been lazy?”

By the stream, behind her rock, the huntress was notching an arrow onto her bow.  Her intent was not murderous, but she had seen something she didn’t understand and she was determined to resolve the puzzle.  Each time the disciplinarian slashed with the cane, the old woman twitched her own, tiny riding whip and flashes appeared.  At first, the huntress had thought they were merely gleams from the white of the puny whip’s ivory shaft, but after watching several times she was sure they appeared in the air around the whip and they were certainly nothing natural.

And so the three awaited the next stroke, each with clutching their chosen instrument.  The disciplinarian drew back her cane in near-hopeless determination, the crone almost imperceptibly gripped her whip a little more tightly and, far above, the huntress drew back her bow and sighted along the arrow towards the scene outside the cottage.

OK.  That might be a little too hi-tech but… I’m not saying I’m complaining.

No longer expecting any reaction, the disciplinarian let fly with stroke number five, this time a brutal slash across the junction of buttock and thigh.  Yet this time, there was a reaction.  An extraordinary one.

Just as the length of rattan whirred busily through the air, a higher-pitched whirr surprised both ladies, and the crone’s little white riding whip was snatched from her hand to appear just a fraction of an instant later, pinned to the side of the cottage by an arrow, purple and orange sparks flickering around it.  At almost exactly the same time, the cane cracked against its target but not with the satisfying thwack of wood against flesh, but instead the soulless click of two rigid objects in collision.  Not noticing the drama of arrow and riding whip behind her, the disciplinarian could only gasp in confusion as she noticed that Bonehead’s buttocks had gone grey and the little pink lines had disappeared.  And they were – like the rest of him, which was also greyish – if anything even larger than before.  And for once, Bonehead was making a sound – but not the longed-for scream let alone a sob, but instead a deep angry roar.

He reared up, the ankle restraints snapping away as if they were cotton.  His body twisted around, leaving the remnants of the ankle straps flapping free as if they had been made of tissue and the disciplinarian looked up in horror into the one-eyed snarling face of a mountain troll.

No wonder her cane had had so little effect: it simply was not designed to work on stone.

It is sometimes said that someone in mortal danger sees their life flash before them, in their last instants.  Had this happened to the disciplinarian, it would have been a pleasant sequence of flogged males, some of them accompanied by images of her beloved mother wielding the cane, while the young disciplinarian watched, hugging herself in happy childish confidence of her mother’s love.  Alas, there was no time for such reminiscence but the disciplinarian did feel the curious peace that comes to those who have devoted themselves to good causes.  She had beaten a great many boys and men already in her short life – enough to know she was leaving the world a better place than she found it.  She closed her eyes and waited for the death that was coming from furious troll and from the claws reaching towards her – then wondered at the sound of a now somewhat familiar whir, and opened her eyes again wide with astonishment to see the troll, an arrow buried deep in the socket of his own one eye – the vulnerable spot all hunters in the mountains were taught to aim for – toppling backward and collapsing, dead, on the ground before her.

She turned in confusion to the old woman who, in a surprising turn of speed for one of her age, was lurching towards the wooden logs making up the cottage wall, obviously determined to recapture her wand (for a wand it was, the feeble leather loop disguising it as an innocent whip having been knocked off when the arrow carried it out of the old crone’s hands).  But another person was heading towards the same destination, a figure in hunter’s green running full-tilt at the speed that can only come from hurtling downhill without regard for self-preservation and it was this figure which collided with the wall first, not slowing down until thrown against the logs but – after this unconventional halt – grabbing and holding the wand in triumph.

Looks nothing like the huntress… but, OK, I suppose it captures the essence of the situation.

The disciplinarian stared in shock at the sight of this panting, triumphant figure who had appeared like a guardian angel.  Unlike conventional images of angels, though, she was muscular, dark haired and had the healthy glow of one of spends much of their life outdoors, in fair weather and foul.  The crone reacted with a screech of rage and leapt towards her, reaching out in fury for her wand which –

– was bending across the new arrival’s muscular thigh to be –

snapped in two by a pair of strong hands, leaving a brief shower of sparks and two, very ordinary-looking, broken ends of what seemed now merely to have been a white stick.

The crone halted and screamed in disappointment and rage.  But her voice changed as she screamed, becoming less crackly, deeper and more full-throated.  As the disciplinarian and the huntress watched, her appearance began to change too.  Her wrinkles softened and vanished, her hair lost its wiry character and became rich and glossy, a deep and rich auburn suffusing it and driving out the grey.  Her shapeless rags took shape and they too acquired a richness – of velvet and of inlaid jewels, all shaped by finest tailoring.  The old crone was transformed into…

A handsome prince.

The disciplinarian fell back in uncontrollable revulsion. She had committed to a wager to go to bed with… a male!  She desperately tried to keep her gorge down as the full horror of the situation hit her.  She barely noticed the prince’s attempt to flee, or the ease with which her rescuer overpowered him.  A male.  She nearly had sex with a male, a bestial subhuman sporting between his legs his… his…

“Help me tie him over!” the huntress called, her business like demand breaking into the disciplinarian’s sickened thoughts.  “Here – we can use these thongs” and she produced some short strips of leather from a pouch on her waist.  Mechanically, the disciplinarian skilfully secured ankles and wrists, then pulled the heavy restraining strap (which remained undamaged as it had not been used on the troll) across the prince’s bucking back.

“I… thank you.  Oh, thank you – whoever you are!” the disciplinarian gasped.  “I owe you my life”

The huntress looked up, into her eyes.  Her blonde curls framed that perfect face, her blue eyes seemed to stare into the huntress’s soul and her questioning, quivering lips seemed to demand answers.

The huntress flushed pink with shyness.

“Oh well, I’m umm…. I mean, I’m just…”.

She stopped, realising in horror that she actually could not recall her own name, so bewildered was she to find herself so close to the object of her greatest desires.

“Erm…” and she looked down, at the earth that she hoped would swallow her up, so ashamed was she to be so tongue-tied and awkward.  But her chin was stopped by a soft but firm finger, which led her face back up to the waiting lips which pressed against hers.  The huntress leaned – or perhaps floated, it seemed to her – forward and took her beloved in her arms, returning her kiss passionately, bravely, decisively.  Below them, the restrained prince moaned softly and wriggled in his bonds.  His turn would come.  But this moment belonged to the two lovers.

 

Someday their prince will come.  Actually he won’t.  Not ever – they made sure.

And they lived… well, happily ever after, obviously.  But I’m sure you’d like a few more details. Let’s take a look.

The disciplinarian and the huntress (who did eventually recover sufficiently to tell her lover her name but there’s no need to introduce it this late in the story) got married and lived blissfully together in the disciplinarian’s cottage.  The disciplinarian learnt the ways of the forest from her wife, although she was always too tender-hearted actually to hunt anything, and for her part the huntress eagerly learnt new ways of hurting boys.  They are neither rich nor poor but enjoy all the simple pleasures that make life worth living: the beauty of nature, the screaming of men in pain, the delights of good food and above all their love for one another.  Even the huntress’s male helper has learnt to raise his game, after a few encounters with the disciplinarian taught him to buck up and make more of an effort.

And as for the prince, they decided to keep him.  His days are spent in suspension or other stress positions and life for him is a merry dance of whipping, tawsing, flogging, beating, caning and – when the stalks are at their freshest and whippiest – the most agonising birchings ever inflicted.  The disciplinarian has developed her skills well beyond anything she had imagined possible, let loose on a subject without an owner or any other reason to limit his pain.  She has even got over her squeamishness about male genitalia and now takes a keen interest in them, often several times a day.

Eager to play her part too, the huntress sometimes takes him into the forest, where she stakes him out as bait for some of the giant cave-spiders that infest the parts, or sometimes for bears when the house needs a new bed-covering.  Of course, she always shoots spiders, bears and (on one memorable occasion) fire-lizards dead with an arrow through the brain before they reach him, but despite this perfect record the prince still shrieks and screams in terror every time as each fanged, clawed or tentacled monstrosity scuttles, lopes or charges towards his helpless, naked form.  The disciplinarian secured from her lover a promise that his life would never be endangered, as neither lady has the slightest intention of allowing him release from the living hell that his life has become.

The disciplinarian even placed enough faith in her lover’s skills to agree several times to the prince’s being allowed to ‘escape’ only to be tracked down and dragged back, screaming and sobbing, to the lover’s cottage.  If there is one thing harder to bear than despair, it is hope, so the ladies ensure that he is never completely deprived of that virtue, so the misery of his life is occasionally refreshed and renewed.

Oh yeah: the huntress got a horse.  Didn’t I mention that in the story? All part of the happy ever after thing.  She’d always wanted one.  So… yeah, she totally got a horse.  Not something I’m just inventing now to ret-con this lovely picture into the post.

So, at the end of another long golden summer day: the last boy has been beaten, the pheasants have been hung up on the porch, the prince has been tightly clamped by some of the softest parts of his flesh to the wall of the bedroom and the two lovers cuddle together, glancing up occasionally at the day’s bruises and welts and sharing little happy whispers as the prince moans through his gag and slowly shifts position in his constant, hopeless search for a position with less pain.  And their eyes meet and disciplinarian kisses huntress, or perhaps huntress, giggling, pushes disciplinarian down and they cuddle and whisper and stroke and lick as if a single entity, neither disciplinarian nor huntress but merely girl, lover, wife, saviour in a blissful embrace of love.

And that is how they lived happily ever after.

 

 

If you enjoyed this story, you may also enjoy The Lovelorn Blacksmith.   If, conversely, you didn’t enjoy it, you probably won’t enjoy that one either so here’s an idea: don’t go off and read it, then pop up in the comments telling me how much you hated it, OK?  

That is, actually, the secret of eternal happiness on the Internet (of a mild variety – not the happiness that the two lovers above are experiencing, obviously).  If you don’t like something, don’t read more of it.  So much better than reading stuff you don’t like, then having  to go to all that trouble of writing about how much you didn’t like it and why, isn’t it?  I think this idea might be the solution to a lot of the troubles of the world, it’s a wonder no one has ever thought of it before.

And if you’re thinking you don’t like any of this either, here’s another picture of Heather.  See?  Better already.