In the depths of a winter far back in time, morning rose frozen from the blackness of night. Like a pale star carved of ice, the sun shivered as it lifted into the fragile air, its naked majesty unhindered by even a wisp of cloud. All around, the wild hills rose and fell, covered with snow and ice and bristling with black, barren trees. Darker forest loomed deeper into the vale, coniferous trees impervious to the blight of Scotland's cold stood tall against the weight of icicles and frost. Within the ancient protection of the pines lived all the creatures of the forest during those months. Man rarely ventured there, for it was rumored to be haunted and men are craven creatures when not traveling in groups.
That morning, as sunlight crisply sparkled across the frozen edges of things, the creatures of the wood remained still and listened. A party was moving through the bottom of vale some miles away, and there could be noted the noises of dogs, men, and horses. This season had been lean for beasts and men alike, and the creatures that trembled in their dens knew in their hearts that they hadn't the energy to run far. Yet one rose to his hooves, a mighty stag with a lean body insulated against the chill by a pelt of white fur. The ten points of his antlers glittered like bare ivory veined in silver, gleaming in the slips of light that filtered in through the branches, and his dark eyes watched unblinking, ears facing forward to listen to the hunting party approach. Does, fawns, and younger bucks sought shelter there, and if driven from the wood they would have no cover at all.
His hooves and slim legs waded through the cover of snow as if it were hardly there, his passage as silent as flowing fog. The stag, in those times named a hart, descended into the vale to meet the coming of men, the cervine nobility of his blood heating his body and giving him the courage to keep going. At the bottom of the slope he waited, as still as one of the naked, gray ash trees that clawed up towards the sky. Ravens perched and cawed as the hunting retinue came closer, the scavengers waiting for the inevitable. And when, finally, the hounds caught the scent of the hart and began to give chase, he dashed off through the slim trunks, his snowy fur flashing in the light.
The chase was long and winding, and led far away from the deep, ancient wood. The stories of that hunt say that the hart was tireless because he was magical. Others say that only when he was far enough away from his herd did he turn and menace the hounds with his antlers, feigning exhaustion, killing many of the dogs as they unwisely sought to pull him down. The red of his blood soaked into the earth, and each drop of it brought a crimson flower to bloom up through the snow. When enough spears had lodged themselves in his body the hart cried out in despair and sank to the ground, and the earth trembled at his death.
But that is surely just a story.
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Many years later, a young woman knelt as she raked out the ashes from a large fireplace in the king's castle. Winters in the region had a way of sliding into any shelter, the touch of ice deadly to those who didn't keep their hearths warm. She had to work quickly, pulling piles of ash into a burlap sack with a steady squealing scratch of the small metal trowel. Already the chill gripped at her fingers and cheeks and ears as it slid in from the chimney flue. A rosy bloom glowed on her face and the tip of her nose as she set new wood down, her fingers clumsy with cold.
For a long moment she knelt in the dust and soot in her plain gray servant's dress, her hands extended towards the growing flames she'd kindled to bathe in their warmth. The chill from the flue crawled back up and away, its deadly touch retreating from the room. Were it not for the smudges of soot and dust the girl's beauty could have rivaled any of the royal ladies living within those walls. Her features were fine and her eyes were large and dark, standing out against her milky skin and her snow-white hair. Slender limbs and a slender frame made her seem fragile, although in truth she was quick and tough. The girl had never broken a bone, no matter how hard she was struck or pushed or beaten as punishment, and she was punished often. The only reason she was kept around was for her beauty, the wildness of her spirit only forgiven when it was put to use in a bed chamber.
Gathering up her tools, the girl got to her bare feet and made her way down towards the kitchens and the servants' quarters to clean herself. That had been the last fireplace to need cleaning, and as she walked a wake of shimmering gray dust trailed behind her, shaken free from her hair and clothing with every step down the narrow and winding stairwells. Unlike her hands, her feet were hardly bothered by the chill of winter, and after having been denied shoes while growing up she had learned to live without them. Indeed, she seemed so resolutely impervious to discipline that many thought her to be far too stupid to understand what proper behavior for a servant meant.
Indeed, the girl was not simple, but she allowed others to think that of her. It wasn't a difficult lie to weave, given how she hardly spoke or truly engaged with anyone else. The other serving staff disliked her but tolerated her and allowed her a small space in the back of a pantry to sleep in. In that room she kept all of her earthly possessions, though the most precious among them were hidden beneath a loose stone in the floor behind a barrel. The girl left just enough by her bed roll to convince those who thieved from her that there was nothing else to look for, and for the sake of keeping her true keepsakes secured she happily suffered the loss of a few baubles and sweets.
This morning, of course, she passed by her little space in the pantry as she stepped outside to bathe herself. Even with snow heavy upon the ground, the girl still cracked the ice over the water trough for the horses and pulled out a bucket's worth to use for her shower. Ash sluiced from her white hair and from her naked body, the cold not biting as fiercely within the confines of the barn. Here the animals were just beginning to mill about, digesting their morning feed of beer mash, hay, and wheat chaff. With half a bucket of water left, she washed the ash from her dress and hung it up by the horse's stalls, knowing that their body heat would be enough to dry it.
In the meantime, the girl slept in the straw stored up in the loft, warmed by the rising body heat of the animals. She didn't have long to doze before the sound of the barn door opening creaked into the dark cavernous space, and the sound of boots crunching upon the hard-pressed dirt of the floor came further within. The girl remained still, listening. If the door remained open, then it was someone she likely didn't want to run into. If the door closed, then that was something else entirely. Soon enough the door was slowly shut, and the latch was set into place to bar against unwanted visitors.
With a smile, the girl slipped from her warm nest of straw, standing and brushing herself off as her visitor, one of the lord's middle sons, climbed the ladder to the loft. His clothing was fine – leather, linen, and wool in abundance to keep away the chill, though in such a warm place he quickly removed most of it. Dressed only in his leather hose and boots, the man spotted the girl in the shadows, her large eyes slightly reflective as she watched him silently.
"Farrah, are you still so timid?" the young lord teased, his mouth pulling into a generous smile within his black beard.
Farrah herself knew the man, named Lachlan, to be in his twentieth year just like herself. They had grown up together, fast friends since the age of five when she had stood up for him against his bullying older brothers. Of course she had been severely punished for it, but the young lord himself had begged his father to keep her, and so she'd stayed. Yet even with Lachlan she rarely spoke, and to that small jibe the girl just smiled and slid her hand through her hair to neaten it, as if to make a show of how little she cared about her nudity.
Lachlan chuckled and walked over to her, extending his hand cordially. It was their system, given how little she liked to speak. If she wanted to be with him as his lover that day she would accept his invitation and take his hand. If not? They would simply sit and talk, or rather he would talk and she would lean against him happily and listen, cuddling against him. That day her fair hand slid into his, Farrah's fingertips feeling the callouses that had built up over the years from his horseback riding and other princely pursuits. With his invitation accepted, the young noble gathered her to him and their lips met, the girl lifting onto the balls of her feet to match his superior height. Even so, Lachlan had to duck his head, his muscular body curling forward just a little in compromise with her petite form.
Back when they had been children, Lachlan had been small and somewhat sickly. His mother had born him too early, and it had taken him a while to fill out as a teenager. When he did, however, he towered over his other brothers, the irony of his size and strength not lost on him. Many newcomers to the castle thought him to be the oldest, which made social functions somewhat humorous for him and highly irritating for his elder siblings. Luckily his father was greatly amused and encouraged his mighty son, third born out of six children, to represent his kingdom when the older brothers were indisposed. Indeed, Lachlan was a far better leader than any of his siblings and would likely inherit his father's title well if his older brothers were unable or taken from the world.
Of course, such things weren't on Lachlan's or Farrah's mind as he laid her down on the straw. Long had they experimented with each other once they were old enough, and while his parents were still looking for a wife for him, Lachlan knew that he would always keep Farrah close to his heart. She would never be his wife, nor he her sole lover so long as he wasn't the king, for that was the price of letting her stay – she belonged to the desires of the castle as a whole, and Lachlan knew that even his father made use of her on occasion. It didn't seem to bother Farrah, who bore all treatment with silent stoicism.
That day, Lachlan was quite good to her. In the warm shadows, upon a sweet-smelling bed of straw, the prince treated her like a queen, seeing to her needs before his own. Perhaps Farrah was reluctant to speak, but in these matters she made sound, her voice beautiful and full of desire and satisfaction as he used his mouth and fingers upon her. He knew precisely what she liked and he gave it to her, rolling her onto her hands and knees as he gripped her slender backside in his large hands and parted her cheeks. He cleaned her everywhere, from her star to her pearl. Of course she was already clean, her bathing from earlier quite thorough for his benefit, and her white, sweet flesh quivered as he tasted her deeply in all ways. The girl covered her mouth to keep her cry quiet as she came, and Lachlan knew that this was his cue to focus on himself.
With his hose unfastened and pushed down to his knees, he mounted her from behind, taking her roughly. Farrah, red-cheeked and breathless, dug her fingers into the straw as her sensitive flesh was stretched, filled, and pounded ferociously, and her eyes rolled up as her lids closed in ecstasy. The clap of his hips against her slender backside was loud and sharp and quick, his thick, meaty cock taking her as if she belonged to him completely. Oh how he wished that she did, and in these moments he pretended it was so. Yet he didn't finish as he'd started. Through pure luck no one had gotten a child on her yet, but such fortune couldn't last forever. He wanted children by her but not at this time, knowing that his bastards would be treated with cruelty given that she was nothing more than an orphaned serving girl. And so he withdrew from her, slickened with her nectar enough to let him push slowly and tightly past the clench of her star.
Farrah groaned and gripped the straw harder, trembling as his fat rod sank into her deeply, inch by inch. Lachlan held his breath as he took her this way, his hands keeping her cheeks parted to watch her flushed ring stretch around him possessively as her body swallowed him down. The girl relaxed as well as she could for him, trying to stay loose around his large organ as it filled her. For a while he had to gently thrust and withdraw, loosening her as his cock sawed slowly, his ruddy wet shaft disappearing into her pale body, sinking into it until finally the midnight black ringlets marking a trail from his fit stomach to his genitals brushed against her pale backside. As always his sack tightened, wanting to spill his seed right away, and his fingers gripped at her hips as he desperately fought the urge. No! He wouldn't end it so quickly!
After a few moments to calm himself, he felt the overwhelming desire to cum dissipate enough to let him take her roughly once more, her ring loose enough to allow him his vigorous rut. Farrah shook and groaned happily, her nipples tight and her feverish pussy leaking its glossy desire down her inner thighs. Truly she liked things rough, her slender, petite body so very durable that she liked testing its limits.
With a gasp, Farrah felt him withdraw from her tight embrace, leaving her feeling empty. The girl whimpered and looked back at him, her face flushed to the point that even her ears were red. Lachlan, tanned and black-haired much like the other men in his family, was glistening with a slight sheen of sweat as he loomed over her. His large hands moved her onto her side, one hand pressing her legs tightly together at the knees while the other guided his cock back into her star, taking her from the side. The girl gasped and held her breath, this penetration sliding within her easily. The feeling of being held down made her squirm with excitement, and as he bent over her she rolled her upper half to press her shoulders to the straw. Even as he took her like this he kissed her, his short beard tickling the taut lines of her neck and jaw.
His free hand caught hold of hers as she tried to reach between her own legs, swatting it away time and again. Farrah laughed into the kiss each time her attempt to pleasure herself was foiled, until at last he pinned her wrists to the straw altogether. His face loomed inches above hers and he grunted hotly as he approached the very last of his sexual endurance. Unable to hold out anymore, the prince gasped and came, his seed bursting forth in hot jets within her tight, willing body.
For a long moment they remained in that position as Lachlan caught his breath, their hot, sweaty bodies pressed together as he pinned her to the straw. Farrah's dark eyes looked up into his with such adoration that he dipped his head to kiss her again sweetly. "Farrah, you will never be parted from me" he whispered, nuzzling in to press his lips against her cheek and throat.
The girl's breathing had calmed since, and she hummed happily and tilted her head back to offer herself for such affection. Yet she had a sobering thought and frowned. "And when you take a wife?" she asked quietly, no longer looking at him.
Lachlan had no answer, and he knew that Farrah knew that. "I will not love her like I love you, Farrah. That is all I can give you. Is it enough?"
Those dark eyes looked back up at him slowly, and he felt in his soul that she was seeing all that he was. Every wish and desire, every bad dream, every fear, and every sin. His cock softened as she laid him bare, and the chill of winter flowed through his veins in fear that she would reject him. The man was too good to disregard her as a mere servant, and so he waited for her judgment. It had been a long time coming, after all. Never had he admitted his love for her before, though he had felt it always. Just before he thought his heart would crack from rejection, the girl slowly nodded. "It's enough."
That day, the prince announced his choice to marry. The bride was a good and beautiful woman from a neighboring kingdom, and Lachlan was very kind to her. That spring they wed and the princess was moved into the castle with all her retinue. Farrah saw less and less of the prince, but she knew that the life they had led in secret couldn't last. The girl still went about her duties as she always had, cleaning the hearths and relighting the fires in the early morning and sweeping the communal rooms in the afternoon and evening.
Farrah didn't hate Lachlan's wife, for the lady was kind to her. Soon into the marriage the princess made it clear that she knew of Lachlan's feelings for the girl. The princess, named Avalbane, had been realistic about her marriage, and knew that it was a political bond and not one of love. Oh, she did care for Lachlan, and was even then pregnant with his child, but she did not begrudge him his feelings for another. As a gift to the prince, Farrah was taken on as one of Avalbane's personal servants and given her own quarters. With such a promotion, the girl was given a few new dresses of beautiful make, and slippers and boots to wear when walking through snow.
By the time Lachlan's child was born, the news that it was a son flew throughout the kingdom and around the countryside. It was welcome news, for earlier that winter Lachlan's older brothers had sailed away to fight alongside a long-time ally in the very northernmost point of Scotland, and they had been felled from their horses as they'd fought bravely. The king himself had fought with them and had been maimed, only going back to his kingdom when victory for his side was assured. Besides the loss of his two oldest sons, the great old bear of a man had suffered the loss of an eye and his left arm below the elbow, but quick medical care had prevented infection from setting in. He looked even more fearsome than before, but while still virile and strong his sight had been ruined; old age had caught up to him and cataracts had left his remaining eye milky and useless. The old king gave Lachlan the crown and retired to a gentler life of listening to the sounds of the nearby sea or taking walks with his hounds, who never led him astray.
That summer, when Avalbane was nursing her baby, Farrah was sent to tend to the old king. Avalbane's magnanimity seemed to have waned during her pregnancy, and once she was the queen it had disappeared altogether. The girl had all her belongings moved into the old king's portion of the castle and was appointed as his sole caretaker. The old queen had passed away several years before, and the king seemed unwilling to marry again.
One day, as the gulls called out noisily over the sea and bickered as the fisherman hauled in their catch, the old king stood upon the ramparts to listen. The salty sea breezes flowed through his still-dark hair and beard, now streaked with white. His single white eye glinted in the sun, while his other remained forever closed, sewn shut by a surgeon to protect the socket. The man's single arm remained folded behind his back regally and his spine was straight, his aging body still immensely broad and tall even at his age of more than sixty years.
Farrah, clad in nothing but a summer dress of light green wool, stepped out onto the ramparts, silent upon her bare feet. A small wooden cup was nestled into her hands holding cool water, for the old king had been standing out in the sun for quite a while. Clearing her throat as she stood beside him, she reluctantly said "water, sir". One of the many terms of her service to the old king was that she had to speak to him. She had to speak all the time, because he couldn't read her body language or expressions. Farrah hated this indignity but had no choice in the matter.
"Ah, Farrah..." rumbled the old man. "Call me Dougal when we're alone. You know that."
The girl blushed and looked out at the sea, noting the white breakers as they clashed against the rocks by the cliffs. The fishermen were a long ways off, pulling their small boats onto the sand of a beach half a mile away. "Yes, Dougal" she said, distracted as always by the sight of the wild sea meeting the green land.
His hand moved from behind his back towards the sound of her voice, and his thick fingers found her upper arm and caressed along it, following it down to the cup of water she held. The girl shivered and turned back towards him, remaining still as he took his drink from her hands and sipped from it. "Are you still afraid of me, little Farrah?"
At first she was tempted to lie, but maturity had taught her to hold in her rebelliousness and provide honesty instead. "You used to hit me, Dougal. Very hard, when I was a small girl."
"Aye, I did. I was an angry man back then, and full of cares, but that's no excuse. Now I'm old and I depend on you for my well-being, and to be quite honest with you... I don't know what made me behave like that to the servants. I should not have punished you so severely, my lovely doe." His hand held itself out to her, holding the empty cup for her to take away. She nervously reached for it, but his grasp found her wrist, pulling her closer. "How old are you now?"
Farrah looked up at his face, seeing how he was still in the habit of looking towards where he thought her eyes were. Or at least facing that way. His milky eye looked at nothing in particular, though his face was still expressive. "I'm twenty-one, Dougal. Sir." She couldn't help but tack on his title, given how for her entire life he had been the king of all the lands she could see. And now he was holding her by the wrist, wishing to know her age.
Every time the man had taken her to his bed in the past, back when he was still the king in this castle, he hadn't cared who she was. To him she was just another warm body from among the servants he kept, and she'd never once told him her name, nor had he asked for it. On that day on the ramparts, however, he seemed interested beyond that, and it frightened her. Carnality she could deal with – that was over with within minutes, and most often she took pleasure in it. But to know about her, that would let him further into her mind. The only other person she'd allowed to go there had been Lachlan, and that had left her heartbroken.
"A fine age for a maiden..." he rumbled, pulling her closer. The man smelled of leather and furs, smoke from wood fires and the roasted meat of his meals. He smelled, too, of soap and clean skin and the provocative scent of a large, strong man. As he drew her so close that she was pressed up against his cloaked, muscular body, his hand slid up along her arm to touch her face, his caress gently as he admired her beauty. Just as she was closing her eyes and tilting her head as he slid his fingers along the side of her throat, Dougal the old king asked softly "You were Lachlan's lover, weren't you?"
The girl tensed and pulled away, but the old king's reflexes were still quick. His hand dove into her hair and balled into a fist, pulling her back towards him even as she tried to run away. Farrah pressed her hands back against his chest, trying to push herself away even as he held her carelessly captive, and she said softly "Yes."
"I thought that's why they... Queen Avalbane, rather... sent you to care for me."
Farrah lowered her gaze, her eyes wet as she refused to cry or snivel audibly. Yet the sudden lack of fight in her body was enough, and Dougal loosened his grip on her hair, caressing the fine white mane until it lay smooth. "Fate is cruel, Farrah. Even to kings as well as servant girls." Again his hand took hold of her hair, pulling her down to her knees before him. Beneath his tunic and his cloak, trapped within his hose, Farrah could still see the shape of his arousal plainly. She gasped as he pulled her face in towards it, her head turning just enough for the bulge to rub against her cheek and neck rather than her lips.
"You know what I like, Farrah" Dougal muttered, and it was true. She did know.
Her bare knees scraped on the stone as she shifted position, until her back was up against the wall of the parapet. Hidden by his cloak and enveloped in his darkness, she unlaced his hose and pulled out his engorged member, suckling it greedily. Above her she could hear him grunt deeply, his stance widening just enough for stability before he gripped her hair tightly and pushed until her skull was against the wall. And then he slowly pressed himself into her mouth, further and further until he could feel the head of his cock push past the rise of her tongue and sink into her throat.
With his voice thickened by arousal, he muttered "yes, good girl" and began to slowly take her mouth, pulling out now and again to let her breath. Such use only lasted a short time, but that was only because the old king wanted his pleasure to last. He pulled out of her mouth and commanded her to lace his hose once more, then took her to his chambers and locked the door. There he removed his cloak and pulled off his tunic, revealing the myriad scars on his broad chest and back. The truncated stump of his left arm moved at his side, helping to brace him as he pushed Farrah onto the bed and moved in beside her, pushing up her dress and reaching in between her legs with his right hand.
She struggled, half out of nerves and half because she knew he liked it when she fought. The sudden feel of his rough, thick fingers rubbing slowly over her delicate folds made her gasp, and her dress rode up to her stomach as he moved her to lie on her back. As his middle finger began to push inside her, Dougal growled "Which one of us fucked you first, little doe?"
Farrah moaned and arched her back, her thighs tensing as he slid his own leg in between her own to keep them parted. "Y... you, sir" she whispered, gasping as he suddenly slapped her sharply on her most tender flesh. "Dougal!" she barked, realizing her error too late.
His hand slid up along her stomach to her chest, his dry thumb caressing the knot-work embroidery at the neckline of her dress before summarily demanding that she remove it altogether. Farrah gasped and pulled her summer dress up and over her head, tossing it to the floor as the old king gripped at her smallish breasts, pinched at her nipples, and then struck each mound of soft flesh hard enough to leave a welt there. It made her cry out and writhe, but she could feel herself growing wetter by the moment.
"You like this, don't you?" he murmured, catching the scent of her arousal thickening the air. When she refused to answer, he struck her across the face hard enough to turn her head.
The girl gasped at the feeling of it and swallowed. "Yes Dougal" she breathed. Truth be told, when she had been struck by the king in her teens, it had felt oddly good as well as bad. It had hurt and had secretly aroused her just as much, which was why she had misbehaved so often. When she had been more or less new to lovemaking and generally inexperienced, the king had used her roughly, wanting his use to be painful and terrifying to punish her. To his surprise she had cum hard, the bruises on her legs and arms aching pleasantly as he'd plunged into her over and over again. Later that same season, she had convinced Lachlan to practice being a man with her out in the barn, though secretly she always wished he would handle her more roughly.
Again the king struck her, pulling her from her daydream with another gasp. "On your hands and knees" he demanded as he moved to sit up against the headboard and guided her to brace beside him with her head over his lap. She unlaced him once more, setting his rigid shaft free. The sight of it made her mouth water and her cheeks flush. Again he gripped her hair and pulled her mouth down onto his cock, and as she suckled him and swallowed at him he released her hair and reached over and struck her backside hard, each slap leaving her cheeks and thighs redder and redder. Every so often he would plunge his digits into her wanton sex and finger her roughly, making her moan and shiver around his cock, but then he would pull his fingers away moments later and hit her directly on her slit, making her jump and scream around his flesh and gulp at him eagerly.
"Ride me, Farrah, you little whore" he hissed, feeling himself grow close within the velvety clutch of her throat. The girl moved herself to straddle his lap, her tingling fingers sliding to grip his broad shoulders as she lowered herself onto his hard shaft. At first she wasn't sure he would fit, though like every time he used her in the past, that moment of tight tension relaxed away and she finally sank onto him, filling herself completely. Farrah and the old king both groaned hotly, the girl not bothering to let herself acclimate before she started to ride him with aggressive fervor. Dougal's large hand clapped to her hip and slid around to grip her ass, squeezing it and slapping it as she moved.
"Faster" he commanded, and Farrah's thighs burned as she worked to obey him. His hand slid up from her ass, sliding along her taut, tense stomach and up between her breasts to her throat where he clutched and began to squeeze. The girl gasped and felt her neck clench shut, denying her breath as she was still made to ride him. Her hands moved to his wrist and gripped at it, and she struggled and trembled, feeling her vision start to haze. At the last possible moment, just before the blackness at the edges of her vision closed in completely, the old king groaned and his cock pulsed, filling her with his seed. His hand released its hold and the girl coughed, shaking and on the verge of tears as her sight returned. Even as her chin quivered and her lower lip trembled, the king drew her in for a passionate kiss.
His tongue was more adept than Lachlan's had ever been, and he invaded her mouth as if he owned her. Which, of course, he did. The girl, beside herself with fear and arousal, melted against him, her hands bracing on his shoulders before sliding up into his dark, gray-streaked hair. Pulling away just enough to part the kiss, he rumbled against her lips "turn your back to me."
She carefully did as he commanded, moving to straddle his lap with her back to him. His cock, albeit having cum once already, was still hard and he pulled her back down onto it. Farrah cried out, feeling his hot seed gushing out down her legs and his as he filled her again. The sudden, sharp press of his teeth into the subtle and elegant inner curve of her shoulder made her gasp and tense, and as her stomach sucked in she could feel his hand quickly move around to her front to start rubbing in circles at her inflamed pearl. Immediately she shuddered and tensed, gasping as she gripped his strong, immovable arm and began to ride him once more, wanting the stimulation. Yet on one of her upward lifts, he cupped his hand around her pubis and lifted her off of him, tilting her hips and pushing her back down so that his cock, slippery with his cum and her own nectar, would push into her star.
Farrah almost sobbed as he forced his way inside of her, taking her without any preparation. It hurt but felt so good as she sank down onto him, shaking and shivering every now and again as her feverish body acclimated to his invasion. More of his seed spilled out from her heated pussy onto his thighs, dribbling over his fingers as he began to rub at her pearl once more. And once more she began to ride him, sawing his fat prick in and out of her small, arched body, feeling herself get closer and closer to release. Every so often his hand would slap hard over her blushing hot, wet, drooling sex, the strike making her grit her teeth and quiver. Each time he pulled his hand away, gossamer strands of her need came away with it. At her shoulder his teeth sank into her skin, crushing the muscle firmly until a deep bruise began to blossom around his white teeth. A drop or two of her blood rose from where his teeth had broken through the skin, her own frantic movements cutting his bite in deeper.
As she grew closer and closer, his hand lifted and wetly struck her in the face, leaving her cheek welted and glistening with her own nectar. Tears of passion slid down her cheeks, until his hand struck her sex one last time and gripped it tightly. Again he came, filling her other passage with seed just as she cried out and found her own finish, her hands gripping his arm tightly. Time seemed to stand still as Farrah arched her back sharply, her mouth and eyes opened wide. She thought for a moment that she might split apart upon the old king, but the pain he'd given her kept her grounded.
A single trickle of crimson red slid down her back from where she'd been bitten, the wound angry and red, bruised and sore and wet with saliva. Her face stung and throbbed from where she'd been struck, and her slender throat was already sporting a bruise from his crushing grip. Very slowly they both began to relax, though every once in a while the king would rub at her tender pussy and make her whimper. Her sensitivity made him chuckle, and he sent her off to fetch a wet rag to clean him with. Pulling herself off of his slowly softening prick made her ache as her body tightened up once again, and her legs could barely support her as she set her feet to the floor.
The wash basin was kept on a small table by the hearth, over which hung an impressive rack of antlers. As always, the girl looked up at the mounted display, tracing the lines from the base to each point as if each antler was a small tree made out of ivory. To her eyes, it almost looked as if the antlers were inlaid with silver or mother of pearl, glimmering in the low fire within the hearth. With the rag in one hand, she reached up with the other towards the display, her fingertip almost close enough to touch it when she heard Dougal's voice. "Farrah! Don't dawdle."
Immediately she withdrew her hand, glancing at the old king guiltily before she plunged the rag into the water to soak it. Within moments she was back, cleaning him of the signs of their congress, even going to far as to wipe a small smear of her blood from his mouth. Just as she went back to the basin, the old king chuckled and rumbled "You were looking at the antlers again, weren't you, my pretty girl?"
She soaked the rag again and bathed herself, biting her lip as she washed the painful bite on her shoulder. "Yes, Dougal. They are beautiful."
"Have I ever told you about the hart I took them from?" he asked as she returned to sit on the edge of the bed.
"No. I haven't heard that story."
He shifted to lie down, sighing pleasantly as he gripped her by the arm and pulled her over to him. With her pale body cuddled up against his, and her hand idly sliding from his soft cock to his chest and back again in a lazy circle, the old king sighed. "It was a killing winter, and there was little food. I was a younger man then and led a hunting party out into the forest for deer, when this white hart, this glorious creature, was just standing there in the trees. It was as if he had been waiting for us. For the dogs, for the horses, the hunters, and for me."
Farrah rested her head on the pillow of his shoulder, closing her eyes to imagine it.
"I knew that this hart was no normal deer. Some, deep within the wood, are not truly deer, but wild things that can take the shape of men. In my heart I dared not kill it, for it's poor luck to defile the wood with a murder. But my family was starving. The land was starving. We needed food, and he gave himself to us. I saved his antlers so that I wouldn't forget him, sentimental as that sounds."
"Is it true? Are there creatures that can turn themselves into men?" she asked softly.
"Haven't you enough cock to satisfy you, girl?" Dougal asked with a chuckle, and Farrah flushed hotly in embarrassment. Perhaps out of pity, the old king caressed her back and gently shrugged. "There are some. There are stories of deer prints leading up to the doors of lonely women in the village, and the footprints of a man leading away. The white hart was a legend in this region for a very long time, but now he is a legend no more." Ruffling her white hair, the old king laughed and mused "With such beautiful white hair, one might think you were one of his many bastards, hmm?"
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The old king died peacefully in his sleep half a year into his retirement, the heart of the old warrior having given out. By then Farrah was finally with child, carrying the last of his progeny. As Farrah was his only real attendant, his death was blamed on her. She begged Lachlan to spare her, but in his grief he ignored her pleas and cast her out into the deathly cold of winter, not knowing that she was carrying his brother, for she wasn't showing yet. Many thought that Farrah had died, for she had fled from the castle but hadn't made for the village lower in the valley. The last that anyone had seen of her was a trail of foot prints in the snow leading deep into the wood, and the remnants of a dress hanging like a grim banner at the very edge of the ancient forest.
Yet in the night, Lachlan would ride out alone searching for her. He'd regretted his cruelty and hoped against hope that she was still alive and could be saved. All season he looked but found no trace, and in the spring he had all but given up. His own son was healthy and his kingdom was blessed with good crops and bountiful harvests from the sea. But he was lonely. Avalbane's ego had swollen as a queen, and they had grown distant. They were not hateful towards one another, but where once there had been some affection there was now only duty and honor, like two lone soldiers left to maintain their stations with little hope of relief.
There was news that spring of a white hind, a doe as pale as the snow. Lachlan had heard his father tell him the story about the antlers in his chambers, though he had only been a quickening in his mother's womb at the time that the hunt had taken place. Again he rode out, though not with a hunting party as his father had done. He was alone on those night, riding through his woods to see if the stories of the white hind were true.
And then one day he finally spotted her. Upon a hillock in the sunlight there she was, with a pelt of snowy fur glimmering in the sunlight and smooth as satin. Lachlan quietly dismounted his horse, looking with wide eyes at the beautiful creature. Deer were majestic creatures, but her beauty surpassed them all. A star of pink, a gleaming scar left by a hunter's arrow, shined at her shoulder and didn't seem to bother her. He watched her for hours as she gently cropped the grass, her slim legs idly carrying her forward as she fed. As the sun began to set she lifted her head, narrowing her dark eyes against the glare before turning an ear directly towards Lachlan himself.
"Where is my invitation?" she asked softly, turning her head towards him expectantly.
The king held his breath. That was Farrah's voice, and as he looked at the doe he could see that those were her eyes, and the delicate features of her face were still there, blended in with her new form. "Farrah... I've looked so long for you." His voice was barely more than a whisper.
She remained where she was, looking at him imperiously even as he got to his feet. Having been king for little more than a year, she could see how the weight of it had aged him. There were wrinkles by the corners of his eyes, and his dark beard, even now, bore the first silver hairs of age. Out of pity she folded her ears back and said "Yes... I know. I hid from you. I was angry with you."
"Forgive me, Farrah. I'm so sorry." He dared not approach her, not this magical creature. It was obvious to him then that Farrah was one of the blessed people of the woods and she always had been. That was why she had been so different, and so silent.
As the sun began to sink and the land fell into twilight, the doe turned her head towards the meadow and grunted softly, listening carefully. Again she grunted, and soon enough a dark little shape darted through the grass, cavorting capriciously upon its long, thin legs. A little fawn, black as coal, bucked and galloped and pranced through the meadow until he was at Farrah's side, nuzzling against her shoulder affectionately. And then he saw Lachlan and froze, trembling. The doe stepped gently between her fawn and the king. To the fawn she dipped her head and nuzzled his cheek, murmuring "This is the king. He has come to see you, Tam."
The little fawn trembled, and whispered "He has come to see me?"
Lachlan chuckled and slowly took a seat upon the grass, holding out a hand gently for the fawn. Farrah nodded her head. "It's alright. He won't harm you."
As the timid, black fawn stepped over to the king, Lachlan remained still, just as gentle as he had been when he was a very young boy. The little black fawn sniffed at his fingers, nibbling on them curiously, never having seen a human hand up close. He then dared to get closer, sniffing at the king, stepping nearer and nearer until he nipped at Lachlan's cloak and bolted away, laughing and leaping with excitement. Farrah just watched him with gentle amusement, and Lachlan laughed.
Farrah smiled in quiet adoration as she watched Tam play in the meadow, saying softly "He is your brother."
The king nodded thoughtfully watching the little creature bound about. "He is quite spirited. I suppose my father still had some life left in him to get one more handsome son into the world." The doe chuckled and moved over to the king, settling down beside him to lay her head in his lap. As the king's large hands slid over her slim head and slender neck, he murmured "Can you ever forgive me, Farrah?"
"Only if you accept Tam into your family and raise him like your own son. He deserves better than this. He's the son of a king."
Lachlan nodded, his hand gentle upon her fur. "Should anyone ask, I will say that Tam is being brought to the castle as my foster son, to be raised with my own, as my own."
The doe nodded and closed her eyes. She would miss her child, of course, but Lachlan assured her that she would be given a cottage in the wood, and the right to visit the castle whenever she pleased to see her boy. The king was an honest man and good, for later in the season Farrah had her cottage and reigned within it like a proper lady of the wood. Her reputation spread, and many other magical folk came to see her, and came to know Lachlan. He was forgiven for the crime his father had committed that fateful winter's day, and the forest people pledged to live in peace with his kingdom forever more. Tam was taught how to change into a boy and was fostered lovingly at the castle, raised as a prince. He and Lachlan's son became the best of friends, loyal to each other and good to their subjects as they grew up into men.
As for Farrah herself, whenever the moon was full Lachlan would visit her, and for one night they would stay together. Every time he would knock on the door and open it, then hold out his hand in invitation. And every time, in the silvery light of the moon, Farrah would accept his invitation warmly, her hand slipping into his own. Since that spring the king was good to his word. While he lived his life as a king in his castle, his heart always remained with the white hind in her little cottage within the wood.