A long time ago, when there were a lot fewer people on this earth the great forest of Bruneswald stretched from the valley of the river in the south to the mountains and river valley in the north east.

Bruneswald was not all trees as the word ‘forest’ suggests, in fact forest is probably not really the right word to describe it at all.

No, some parts were scrubby desolate grassland while others were stretches of boggy swamp with pools of brackish water surrounded by spindly, broken down reeds. Neither of those descriptions are really accurate either but there it is. Bruneswald has disappeared now, back into the land, into the rivers, the valleys and more importantly, into the subconscious minds of man.

This will be, of necessity, a complicated story so if you are in any way put off by that then now is probably a good time to stop reading it and go back to your telly. I won’t waste my words but I shall not use them sparingly either. I don’t much care if you read what I write. It is written to be written and that is all that really matters.

It was around the time of the lady of grace Gifiende, which you will know, those of you who know, that this may be equated to September, to the time of Gift Giving and of the getting of the village maidens with child

The turf cutter’s work was done, well done, when daylight drew to a close and though tired he was more thirsty and hungry, more thirsty and hungry, he felt, than he’d been for days.

In the tavern there was a jug of ale on the counter and his tankard filled ready to hand alongside steaming sausage rolls on a willow pattern plate.

There was a basket of red apples next to it, as red as cherries though larger but not larger by much. Read the spaces as well as the words, the commas, semicolons and the full stops and you’ll get the rhythm of it. Hungry but not for apples, even red ones and thirsty for ale and for the nectar a lusty serving wench might serve, more from between her legs than out of a jar.

Then there was old Annie, fresh of The Foul Anchor, playing whist, picking her nose and confiding in her cronies whilst displaying rather too much leg. You could talk to her in backslang and she’d answer, sometimes with a clip round the ear, sometimes with a sniff but always with the ayes and the whys in all the right places.

The turf cutter said hello, bought her a drink but she still ignored him. He didn’t mind. He knew she’d let him eventually in spite of everything.

“Found a silver spoon in the ground today” he’d tell her “Georgian it was when I read the postmark!”

“Out of someone’s mouth no doubt!” he suggested, talking bollocks to get her attention.

And so on.

You’ve all seen the haywain in the river, watering its wheels because they have shrunk but did you see the sly figure walk by, nonchalantly in the background. Did you? I told you! You must watch for these little things!

He’s the whistling poacher and stealer of memories, the man who stumbled over a leg in the grass and cursed softly. But his words soon transforming into a laugh when he saw whose legs they were. He’d know the girl anywhere, dressed or not and her consort too, likewise! And in the sunlight’s reflection on the rippling river he smiled and grinned and doffed his cap.

“Seems I am to be well served this day!” the maiden chortled “First Ed then Ted, now you are here!”

It was not Ted who lay with her however, that much was clear when he looked closer at the tangled limbs.

“Since when did Ted bear a woman’s breasts?” cynically he asked.

Further……

“And who at first light this morning was at it with you?” a singsong voice enquired “Do not deny it. I heard your cry!”

Then Ted got up onto his knees, present ‘tis true but alongside another and further over to one side.

“That would have been my brother Ron!” he said.

Well served indeed, the poacher conceded, imagining sperms a plenty swimming within.

“Does your belly burst with it?” he asked impolitely, wanting.

“With desire!” the maiden said “but it will not burst for some time yet!”

Triplets in the grasses lying, all female and twice that number and more of men.

Listen!

“I would join you” he offered swiftly, softly, still holding his poaching hat in his hand.

“What bring you?” the maiden asked “Good cheer? Ale? Moorhens eggs?”

“A coiled eel” he said “in slime’s basket and a cockatrice’s tail feather, fresh from it’s nest!”

Of the three she was the largest and the most talkative. She also had, he noticed at once, by far the biggest breasts.

He’d a warm gun for her, newly heated by the vision, heavily loaded with wriggling, long tailed interest.

Receptive, he thought, she is. Ready!

“Would you? Will you?” she entreated.

There was no hesitation.

“My pleasure!” the poacher said. “Though I am desirous of a shady place not one as bare as the wold’s far sands”

………………

Afterwards, at noon or a few minutes after, the naked ladies rose and surveyed, scornfully and without wonder, the men sleeping around them on the grass.

“Are they more or less than they claim to be?” one asked in merriment.

“Less I fear even when in unison!” all knowingly the maiden said.

“Their parts fail” confirmed the third “See observe how, how slack this one is!”

“Broken!” the maiden confirmed sadly “Upon the wheel of a day scarce half done!”

(Enter Fescue and Bent. Stage right)

“What ho Ladies!”

“Well met! Well met!”

“Oh! Oh dear!”

“Braggart and Selfcentre isn’t it”

Both men laughed.

“Soapy spittle? What lies there?”

“Nay, tis the bubbles of life within!”

“Ah yes! And then?”

“And then nothing!” the maiden sniffed “Come”

The trio turned away.

“Wait!”

“Why wait?”

“For we are newly come, though not yet cum, from the forest you understand?”

“Oh yes! Bruneswald is giving up her dead again!”

It was like water off a duck’s back.

“Maybe so, but ‘tis that time of the year is it not?” they chorused.

“You know, I think it is!” the maiden said.

They found a fresh place along the river bank where, even half hidden by reeds two might have outnumbered three had they had the chance. For man is generally stronger physically than woman, most times. Stronger in muscle maybe but they had no chance at all with this trio.

Read on!

They took one each while the third watched, open mouthed, open legged, hovering, not hoovering, waiting her chance. And when green clad gave way to suntan, pale banded, she watched breathily while their bodies writhed methodically.

“Not soapy, spermy!”

“Not spittle!”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“What did you do? Bathe in it?”

“Took my pleasure” the maiden told them “as I have every right to do!”

They bowed together, grunted, groaned, ejaculated copiously, so copiously, did suntanned, green clad Fescue and Bent.

(Enter Boy Tom, the fishmonger’s son. Stage left. Stumbling)

“What the bloody hells that stink!” the unattended woman wondered, when, with a whoops which could have been heard in Beaconsfield, Boy Tom fell head over heels over his own feet.

“Cockles and mussels” he mumbled his face full of newly churned earth.

“Cock and balls I hope!” she challenged.

It became their lucky day soon after that. Boy Tom’s in particular.

Three into three did go then, perfectly and impartially matched. He’d the large balls and she the outsize knockers and though the rest of him was only average she made the very best of it.

Even his cum was fishy tasting, she discovered but the moon was wrong, all wrong, to conceive a Piscean.

Green clad then and grey and blue, suntanned, moonwashed and scaly skinned. And when they’d done they might have seen the sunset from where they lay, except that the dark loom of the forest stood standing in front of it.

“What brings you here?” long shadows asked.

“Same as you and you and you” answered two men and a boy.

“Are you of the village? I haven’t seen you!”

“Nay, we’re of the forest green!”

“And I am of the river deep!” the scaly fishmongers son said.

They tickled him until he fell over, made him stand up then tickled him again, this time paying particular attention to his large balls.

“You’re out of balance!” the maiden told him, mounting him as soon as she was able, while the others attended briskly to Fescue and Bent.

Three into three went once again though this time in a slightly different combination and evening’s promises sprawled in a dark cave by the time they’d finished.

The third time was more difficult, for the men at least, the women for the most part really didn’t care.

“Twins it’ll be” the maiden mused, wiping sweaty secretions all over her breasts.

“Triplets by the time we’re done surely!” one of the other women said.

They took their time, they had to for there was little left of anything else to be taken, but as the evening grew ever darker their demands grew more stridently incomplete.

Once a year is once enough, the elders of the tribe had ordained but the younger, in bravado’s bold thrusts asked nay urged it be three or four.

Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter they wished and if some died from their efforts they didn’t really care.

“May times the Gay time!” a little bit of doggerel went and the boys disappeared hand in hand with their catapults while the girls sat in windows cat calling and giggling. Four times? No man alive could have managed it!

But many had a damn good try!

Fescue and Bent, up from the forest were worn to a shadow six hours shy of midnight and Tom the fishmongers boy fared little better, fainting clean away lifelessly before the trio had half done with him. And so at seven o’clock or a minute or two before depending upon whose watch you were using, the maiden and her sidekicks got up off the ground once again.

There is still time a plenty afore midnight they agreed in unison.

I could eat a nice juicy cock, one of them said.

“I’m not sore, are you?” they asked each other mildly

“Noooooo!” jointly they shook their heads.

Scenting the air a trio of men came out of the forest and it was true, as might have been seen. Bruneswald was indeed giving up her dead.

They were coarse and brusque, unshaven and smelling heavily of pigs but maiden and her sidekicks greeted them eagerly, knowing brusque and unshaven men often have very nice cocks.

This year by midwinter the tribes will be struggling, burdened by six feet of snow and three score pregnant women. By springtime however there’ll be an improvement and come Maytime not only will the thorn bushes blossom but those women will too, then you will see, you will see. Pagan rites, you ask? Rights sure enough!

Now the turf cutters day is done. His belly is full and his purse empty while at home a wife of some kind impatiently waits.

“There’s no place for the old out in the woods tonight!” she tells him “Not for you and certainly not for me!”

That he’s been to see and indulge himself freely he doesn’t dare tell her. She’ll hear about it soon enough anyway. That kid looks exactly like my hubby, she’ll think in a year or two. Now I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.

Bruneswald sleeps through the winter, keeping herself to herself without hindering the hunters more than necessary. Did sleep, rather, because it has all gone now, didn’t I tell you? I thought I had. Never mind, don’t worry! The woods are gone and the meres have grown houses out of their mud. Brickbats and tiles, burnt umber, straw, earth and too many other people have wandered in. But the tribes are still thereabouts, quietly waiting, six fingered, web footed, looking just like me………..

© Aahlu. Septemble 2011.