Weaving Witch
Part 1
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
She worked her leaf covered slipper out from between the deadwood and cautiously set one foot on the spongy ground and the other on a less slippery looking branch and held her . They were hiking through the forest, off the road.
Above them through the thick boughs a flying raven cawed. The only other sound she could hear not being made by them were the wind rustled leaves.
“No, I’m sure this is right. See, over there!” And the other young woman pointed toward nothing in particular.
“What? I don’t see anything.”
“No, that bigger tree. I mean, it’s not a lot bigger. It has a queer look, or kind of less straight. I’m sure it’s that way!”
The Princess seemed unconvinced.
“Um… I’m not sure. I don’t see anything beyond it.” And she squinted to get a better look. “Shouldn’t we start heading back? I know mama will be asking for me, and I’ve already missed tea in the garden and they’re sure to notice by dinner…”
They were scrambling down what to her seemed a very steep slope, down into the cleft of the mountains, almost an hour after leaving the road. She couldn’t even see the sun, so dense had the trees become.
It didn’t help that the billowing white clouds shaded the sun as they flitted by, growing taller and broader and more darkly foreboding as the day went on, causing what broken light the thick canopy let through to dim intermittently, back and forth, and making it harder and harder to see. The same clouds which the mountains knitted on their brows into summer storms this time of year and which left the woods smelling fresh and feeling damp and caused the little mountain brooks to bubble and flow on their way down to the valley below.
The Princess had only ever seen the mountains and clouds and trees and streams from afar. She had never felt the rush of mountain wind or heard the strange crack of forest branches or smelled the ice cold waters of a mountain brook. And today she had done them all.
“Of course, whatever your highness wishes!” The other young woman said with familiar formality, curtseying without a hint of cant.
The Princess blinked. Her thick golden hair, plaited on either side of her face, caught a glimmer of sunlight through the quivering boughs as she looked about with a long practiced instinct of self preservation. The fresh garland of wild flowers her maid picked and wove for her sat happily on her head and complimented her soft eyes and pink cheeks. Her skirts had dipped and bobbed through the dewy foliage all day, their hem already soiled from their little expedition.
They hadn’t seen anyone for hours. Not even the little rattle of a Gypsies’ wagon or the wooden ring of a loggers axe. But then when they scampered over the barriers declaring the road closed, what did she expect?
“But wouldn’t we come back with a basket of truffles and meadowberries? And I saw such a waterfall there, shining in the sun!” The maid spun around with her arms out, picnic basket swinging around. “Oh, your highness, it was so beautiful! I swam in its pond…”
The Princess gasped. “Without your clothes?! What if someone saw you?”
But her maid kept going.
“… and then fell asleep in the grass. The sun was warm and there were no bugs, not one! Not a single stinging biting creepy crawling thing! Listening to the waters, I sang so loud!” And she laughed and flushed at the memory.
“We must see it together, we must!”
The Princess toed the ground with her slipper.
Her maid thought she was quite lovely for such a sheltered young woman. There was nothing firm about her at all after living so long in her gilded cage, tended and fed like some table-bound goose. She often had to stop and catch her breath as they walked uphill, and she perspired in the moist air. She was as weak as a kitten and as soft as one as well. It was charming to see her riding side-saddle across brooks and brambles and broken hills. The Princess wrapped both arms around her waist for dear life as they galloped on. Her maid noticed how weak her grip was even in playful fear, and she had to hold the princess’s clasped hands tightly against her to keep her from falling off.
Not firm and fit like her maid. Her own hair was also thick, but not so fine, dirt brown and not golden yellow, and her face was ruddy and not peachy, her skin a little less clear.
But that didn’t stop some people from finding the maid attractive nonetheless. The maid thought she was quite the catch herself. Not that the Princess wasn’t shapely and pillowy as her downy beds, with fulsome soft curves. You are where you sleep, her maid had ruefully reflected at times before.
“Oh that does sound nice! No insects, urgh, I hate them, really! Hmm.” She bit her very full, soft lips.
“Ok, just a little bit further!” And the Princess smiled playfully, and her maid playfully smiled back, and led them both further in.
Nothing firm about her at all.
Hiking through the forest was not at all like walking through the manicured gardens of her palace. Even the well tended trails around the low hill nearby people called “Lovers’ Lee” were just the facsimile of wildness. It was such slow going, one could barely walk though the tangles and brambles and sideways trees and loose, slippery leaves and the ever so awkward and inconvenient rocks and streams. It was like the forest was not at all made for strolling through. The princess thought these things, and many more such, as she huddled next to her maid under, or maybe in, a large fir tree.
It was pouring rain. Occasionally the thunder would crack, and it was so close.
It had been three hours since they left the road and the Princess Constance, third heir to the Kingdom and all its domains, vassals and assigns, elector-in-exile of the former Imperial College and defender of the Right Speaking God, was tired, sore, scratched and sopping wet.
There was no way she wasn’t getting grounded.
“Don’t worry, your highness! I’m sure the rain won’t last forever.” Her maid leaned in to speak loudly.
Her maid had removed her own long skirt and had lifted it above them both like a makeshift tarp to try and keep the drip of water away. At least the thick and sappy fir tree they huddled behind broke the worst of it. The princess caught a scent of her maid’s body as her skirt flapped against her face. She dared not turn around in fear she might catch view of more.
“You can call me Constance. There’s no one else around.” Constance yelled back.
“Ok Constance, this is totally ridiculous!” Muriel shouted with a laugh. Rain was pattering over everything.“This is all my fault!”
“Of course it’s your fault and I blame you!” Constance laughed back. “I know you made it rain! I always thought you were witchy! Now we’ll never get back in time. Father is sure to come looking for me!”
“Why are you worried? His Majesty is going to maybe kill me! The King will just built a taller tower for you!” And they both laughed at the fantasy of her being locked away in a tower, and the reality of her being locked away in a palace.
Muriel laughed again at the reality of the danger she was now in for what she had done, and at Constance’s obliviousness to it. She held her skirt a little further towards Constance to keep her dry at the cost of herself.
“Really though dear, how are you going to get us out of this mess?” Constance looked at her with the imperious curiosity of a cow.
Dear.
Did the Princess still not remember her name?
Muriel was never sure about Constance. Sometimes she caught herself feeling protective over her, and sometimes jealous, and sometimes angry at her careless dismissiveness. Constance had so many maids and Muriel was just one of many, yet Muriel had but one Constance. She knew this was just their separate fates and didn’t want to begrudge her for being shallow or indifferent when she was born and raised to be that way. But sometimes Muriel couldn’t help her own contradictory feelings roiling and curling and hissing around inside. But she, like all maids, learned to keep her feelings tightly up.
And like all maids, Muriel couldn’t help when all those feelings unraveled and sprung out in the most inconvenient ways.
Sometimes Muriel worried how horrible Constance’s wedding night would be. All gossamer undergarments followed by trembling nakedness, all for the enjoyment of some old lech she had barely met, who would clove and delve her royal softness to his and not her contentment—a privilege he paid dearly for in land and gold and promises—making her cry in pain and fear until she fell asleep, too tame to speak up, too dutiful to resist.
And then Constance would forget her name and Muriel would grow angry and resentful at her again.
And sometimes when she was angriest and most jealous, Muriel would curl up in the hay stables where she often slept with the other maids on ratty blankets, surrounded by heavy smells of unwashed young women and animals and coarsely cut hay, and put herself to sleep imagining Princess Constance’s body bouncing up and down, up and down, jiggling and wiggling as she was being taken, eyes closed and face flushed, lips parted, breasts bouncing, bottom quivering, moaning and moaning… crying out…
It was nights like those she would sneak into a darker corner of the stable with another maid named Eirin and keep each other awake until the first glow of dawn. She was so inconstant with Eirin, sometimes showering her with gifts pocketed from parties and storerooms, sometimes ignoring her as if she didn’t exist. Eirin would smile or cry or ignore her back in return. It was all so feminine and small and tangled, but no matter where they stood on any particular day Eirin had never turned down an invitation to join her in the whispering hours of the night.
A sudden crack of thunder shook Muriel from her daydreaming, startled Constance enough to make her squeal, and also probably woke the dead.
“We should stay here until the storm breaks. It’s not safe to move around now.”
“Are you sure?” Constance asked with trepidation.
“Yes!” Muriel said with reassuring confidence and even daring to touch her arm. “We’ll probably be fine. And look there!” Muriel noticed far away where the trees changed to dark timber and the light was all but choked out. “There’s a game trail there! We can follow it to the waterfall and truffles, I’m sure…”
“Yes, I see! Is that a trail the animals made? Oh that looks lovely, why didn’t we find that sooner? But…should we keep searching for your truffle-falls? What about the day…”Constance looked worriedly at the sky.
“Yes, we must! We’re so close, we can’t give up now!” Muriel said with unexpectedly enthusiasm. Constance blinked at Muriel’s sudden determination. “Whatever trouble we are in now is same whether we find it again or not.”
Giving up now was just not possible. She would take them into the woods to find it, she would, she knew this, she accepted this, she wanted to find this again, she had to find it again.
She must.
“Oh, of course we mustn’t quit now! We must go forward.” Muriel noticed how deliciously easy Constance assented to her desires. “But now… I’m not sure I can…” She lifted soggy layers of clothes. “I can barely lift my arms, my clothes are so heavy and damp… what can we do?” She looked with genuine helplessness for Muriel to find a solution.
Muriel dared to lift the end of Constance’s layered skirt herself. The waterlogged folds really were quite heavy. “Princess, you’re just going to have to take them off.”
She may well told her she’d have to cut off an arm.
“But… no… I can’t… what if someone sees...”
It struck Muriel how childish Constance was even at her age. She remembered that more than two arranged marriages had already fallen through for her. No fault of hers, but because some army lost or won some battle somewhere or something like that.
“Constance, there’s nobody here! And we have to keep going, we have to!, either forward or back down. We can’t just sit here and wait, we’re so far from the road now no one will ever find us! If you can’t walk with your wet clothes on then we must get them off you!”
“Well, when you put it like that… I suppose they do need to come off...” Constance quickly agreed.
Muriel looked around. “We’ll wait for the rain to stop first. But keep your slippers on!”
After a while, perhaps half an hour or so, the showers had diminished to a sprinkle and the thunder had passed. All the water had mysteriously vanished, running down or slipping through the matted leafs and needles and broken rocks, but everywhere above the wet leaves dripped. The clouds were still grey and thick, and the sun had arced full into the late afternoon.
Finally they popped out of their tree. Muriel looked around at the scene, then at Constance. They looked completely drowned. Constance’s plaits at least remained civilized; Muriel matted hair was wild and pasted to her and undone.
“Turn around, Constance!”
Constance gazed steely ahead and lifted arms and legs as Muriel undressed her, as if going through some unpleasant medical operation. Muriel peeled off layer after layer after layer, leaving her with only a very indiscrete and very plastered to her skin silk camisole for a pretense of modesty that hid little and revealed much. She couldn’t help herself when she smoothed a little piece of the camisole around Constance’s waist with her fingers as she worked.
She handed the laundry back to Constance and then shed the rest of her own less layered, less fine clothing, leaving only her very form fitting and unbelievably intricately woven corselette.
“Well, don’t we look fine! Ok, now say goodbye to your stuffy skirts, Constance!”
“What? We’re not going to leave them are we?!”
“Um… yes? What’s the point of taking them off if we’re just going to carry them?”
“But dear, they’re so expensive, I can’t just drop them!” She caressed the damp clothing with the intimate fondness that the wealthy develop over their things.
“You must carry them for me!”
The sudden firmness with which she said this, and the way she looked at her, told Muriel this wasn’t up for debate.
Muriel sighed, dropped her own clothes into the mud (never to be seen again), and took the bundle from Constance. She walked in front of her, groaning and cursing with their weight, and led them onto the forest trail. Unbalanced now as she walked, Muriel slipped and nearly fell.
“Oh Ariel, do be careful with my clothes!”
Muriel bit her tongue and walked on.
Now she couldn’t wait to show Constance the waterfall. Swimming together might be nice but drowning her might be better!
They walked in silence as the day grew long, for the forest seemed to dislike noise.
The trees now were thick as thieves. On the ground there was a carpet of pine needles and above hardly a spot of sky could peak through. The thick branches made it darker and quieter and the day was already growing late. Even the wind had died down.
At least was path was easy to walk down, free of rocks or fallen timber or any brambles.
Muriel began to worry.
It was now impossible to leave the trail. Except from the trail the forest around them was an almost unnavigable tangle of branches and dead trees almost thick as a hedge. It would take hours just to crawl a short distance through it. They had to stay on the trail, wherever it led.
And no matter where the trail led, it always led down. They would see the trail dip and rise, yet when the got the base of a slope and were ready to climb up, they found the trail was really going down again.
They were always going down.
They came to where the trail crossed a small, languid creek. Just to watch it made Muriel feel strange. Herbs that she couldn’t identify grew nearby. They took off their slippers and carefully made their way across, feeling the cool water kiss their bare ankles. They made soft splashing sounds with their feet as the crossed, barely audible above the sound of the quiet creek’s gentle bubble.
Constance was worried too but about different things. She was glad the trail always seemed to go down because it was much easier to walking down than up. She did worry a little about the light; but what worried her most of all was Ariel’s…
She meant Maerel. Or was it Maryal? Wait… oh, of course, it’s…!
What worried her most of all were Muriel’s clothes.
Constance had been trying hard not to catch a glimpse of something indiscrete since Muriel removed her skirt earlier that day, but it was impossible not to stare at Muriel’s back and bottom as she led them forward; and that’s when she noticed… Muriel’s corselette.
And it was breathtaking.
She had never seen such a fine fabric or such fine work, and she had seen quite a lot of finery! Her own silk camisole looked like peasant woven straw by comparison. It was so fine she couldn’t even make out a single thread…
And the way it clung to her, so shear and shaping and stretchy, hugging her hips with such scandalous lusciousness… so many tiny filagreed woven details, so many unnecessary but delightful embellishments…
How did a maid have such an expensive piece of clothing? And yet it had clearly been made to fit her…
…and so damp she could see right through it like it wasn’t even there…
She looked away ashamed and afraid Muriel would notice her gaping.
But Muriel could hardly notice Constance’s gaze now.
Ever since they crossed the little stream the strange feeling grew and grew. It surrounded Muriel and filled her, and the ease which it filled her both worried her and soothed her.
It was uninvited and yet so welcome.
It was confusing and yet made so much sense.
It was a stuffy feeling, like sleeping with too many pillows on her head.
It was a comfortable feeling, like being wrapped in the softest, thickest blankets.
It was a constricting feeling, like those blankets were so tight and full that she couldn’t move.
It was a warm domestic feeling, with familiar smells and sounds, a crackling fire in a snow covered home, tea and biscuits and comfy chairs.
It was an intimate, inviting feeling, like a lover’s soft breath on the back of her neck, whispering…. whispering…
It was a… feminine feeling… full of deep passions and desires that just grew and grew… and not holding them back, not for a single breath…
Her head in fog and daze…just walking forward. It was all she could do, just keep walking forward.
Keep…walking.
She had to… keep walking… keep… must get there. She must get them there. She must. She would…
Oh, she would.
Muriel began to feel… began to feel… why do I feel… feel… mmm…
She must… she must… must…
Muriel suddenly understood what she must do. Oh, it was so clear now… so clear… it made sense, she thought… oh of course… of course…
Muriel half closed her eyes, listening, feeling, opening.. accepting…
… and let go…
She spread her petals wide and let the feelings rush in.
And the feelings eagerly, so eagerly, rushed in. And she felt them, felt them… oh she felt them… oh…
“oohh…” Muriel let out a soft, rich sigh as she let the delicious feelings completely in.
yes…
… Muriel suddenly stopped walking…
… and dropped Constance’s clothes.
“Mmm…” and she rolled her head back and forth.
“Oh, dear… are you all right?” Constance asked. “I think you may have dropped…” And she placed her hand on Muriel’s back, against the fabric of her corselette…
It was… unbelievable. Her whole hand tingled… her whole arm… more than her arm, the tingle feeling slipped down past her shoulder… and kept going and going… down toward her…
It was like a hundred little feathers each kissing her skin in a hundred different ways.
Constance felt dizzy at this most slight touch, and pulled her hand away.
“Um… dear… darling… Mu… Muriel?
Muriel turned around.
“I’m… fine. So… fine…” She said in a voice more like breathing than speaking. Her face was flush. “I’m sorry Constance, but I can’t carry your clothes anymore, I just can’t.”
“But… are you sure?” Constance asked, trembling suddenly.
“Yes, I am. Come on!” And she took Constance’s trembling hand. “Here, we can walk together faster now.”
“Oh… Muriel… I mean… it’s just… “ Her hand was very soft and clammy. Muriel’s hand was very warm. Muriel just looked at her, with calm, loving patience.
“Oh… yes. Yes. Of course Muriel! You’re just… you’re so…” She looked around with embarrassment.
Muriel held her hand, turned and began to walk again. Constance held on and let Muriel guide them both, walking just behind her. Muriel’s fingers threaded through her own then gave her hand a loving squeeze.
Constance had dared a fleeting glimpse of Muriel’s body when she turned around, only to see that her garment had almost melted against her body… her breasts… her… sex. And she was so… Her nipples weren’t hidden at all but peaked through, like her corselette was made to show them and not hide them, like it wanted to show them…
And between her legs… every fold, every crease, perfectly hugged and kissed by the rich, wonderful fabric. And so, so damp… oh what the…
…what the rains will do! She forced herself to think before averting her eyes.
Constance wondered if Muriel was feeling that tingling, amazing fabric all over her body… everywhere now… around her… in her… every fold… every… oh…
They walked hand in hand deeper down the trail into the nearly dark forest.
The light had nearly completely gone out, and they were almost to the point of walking by feel then by sight. The forest seemed to be never-ending and entirely still.
Constance had gone beyond worry to something like wonder. Muriel’s warm hand, the strange endless forest, the stillness… it all seemed like a dream.
“Look there!” Constance pointed in the distance, stopping them both. Something strange and out of place.
High in the trees flapped what looked like very large, very tangled spider’s web. It seemed to almost shine in the nearly-night of the forest. It looked like the kind you saw in dusty old castles, not a delicate web but a matted, old tangle. It hung loosely from a branch and swayed with an unfelt breeze.
“Oh… yes… we’re getting close now! I… remember…” Muriel said in a queer way. “Just a little bit further now!”
Constance felt too unsure to say a word back.
They passed the tangled web and kept walking and walking until suddenly, almost like shutting a door -
- night fell on the woods.
Muriel stopped, they both stopped.
The forest slumbered, shrouded in the deepest darkness. No sounds, no wind, no light.
And it was now so dark Constance couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.
“Oh… Muriel… I’m scared!” She said with desperate truthfulness.
“Constance, can you see anything? I can’t see the trees now, or the forest… I can’t even see you!” Muriel whispered for the first time in fear.
There was nothing else to be done, so they sat down. Muriel snuggled up to Constance and put her arm tightly around her waist. Constance reciprocated… and felt her whole body shudder as she felt the tingling sensations run through her again. It seemed a comforting feeling now, and she lay her head on Muriel’s shoulder. As she relaxed she became aware of how tired and hungry she was.
“We’ll be ok!” Muriel said bravely. “The morning is always wiser than the evening!”
Constance settled in for a terrifying night, but exhaustion was creeping up all around her. She’d never been out so long in her life. Her heart pounded and her ears perked, listening for the slightest sound… yet she still closed her eyes. There was no point keeping them open after all.
She slowly calmed sitting there with Muriel, feeling Muriel against her, feeling the tingles of Muriel’s corselette rushing through her arm and into her.
Time seemed to drift by, but whether it was a short or a long time she couldn’t say.
She wasn’t quite asleep yet wasn’t quite awake. She heard… felt… Muriel’s breathing against her, and it was comforting and regular. In fact it was the only sound she could hear at all. She felt Muriel’s hand gently caressing her side, felt Muriel’s warm body against hers. Constance slipped deeper into their mutual embrace, felt her body become still and heavy as she drifted into a half-waking dream.
Time drifted by.
She was thinking about that wonderful tickling feeling… how nice it felt… so nice… did Muriel feel this way all the time? Did it always feel so… good… to her? So intimate… so knowing… who made it for her… who…
…who…
…w…
…
…
…
“..ance..”
…
“Const…”
…
“Constance!”
Constance woke to Muriel gently shaking her. She felt very heavy and settled and had been sleeping very deep. It took a few moments for her thoughts to gather.
Muriel was standing over her, trying to get her up. She was so not ready wake up, until she began to feel all the sticks and leaves poking at her again.
Yet she could hardly tell up from down. It took her a moment to get her bearings before Muriel helped her stand up. She yawned and then looked around.
The forest was bathed in an eerie pale light.
They could also see again.
Muriel gave her a cheeky peck on her cheek but Constance barely noticed. “It’s a full moon, I’m sure of it. We can keep going now. In the mountains the moon is ever so much closer and brighter…”
“Should… we… (yawn)… just… wait till morning?”
But Muriel had already taken her hand and was pulling her along.
Constance’s eyes adjusted to the bright moon light as she went, though most of it was still blocked by the trees. Occasionally she would catch glimpses of tree tops bathed in pure white light, so clear she could even catch hints of color from its branches and leaves.
It wasn’t long until she saw more cobwebs in trees nearby. She and Muriel wondered at what sort of spiders could make such things.
And as they kept going, more and more cobwebs appeared.
The forest seemed less to grow thinner than it did grow taller. The branches seemed almost to make a roof and then a sky.
The cobwebs kept appearing. Here some, there in two trees, then in five, ten, twenty? Sometimes Constance thought she caught in the pale light faded glipses of color in them. The further they went, the thicker the cobwebs became. It wasn’t long before seemed like they were surrounded by cobwebs in every direction.
Muriel suddenly froze.
Across the path was a large tangle of cobwebs. The young women knelt down, afraid to go further.
They sat staring at the cobwebs in deathly silence, afraid to summon whatever monster made it, until Muriel plucked up enough courage to make the dare. Constance hung back and crossed her fingers. Muriel looked around, hesitated, then reached her hand out to the web… so slowly… slowly…
“Oh, Constance, it’s alright!” She suddenly said loudly and brightly.
She gathered up a large bungle of webs, and brought them to Constance.
“Look, they’re not webs… they’re threads!”
They were both astonished and passed the threaded bunch back and forth between them.
Constance noticed, unlike Muriel, that it was finer than the finest silk she’d ever seen, and spun in the most masterfully way. Merchants would have paid a fortune for a bolt of such cloth.
And here she was holding a handful of silken gold that had been tossed away like trash.
Then, for the briefest moment, the silken threads disappeared to both sight and touch. Both of them gasped. And just as suddenly reappeared. They dropped the eerie tangle and hurried on.
It wasn’t long before the forest was all but draped in threads, like overgrown ivy. And as they went on, the threads stopped being matted tangles and became pieces of cloth. Flapping here and there were frayed and strange fabrics, hanging off limbs like flags, covering bushes, draped over young trees, sometimes piled on the ground like snow.
They kept walking, and the moon kept rising.
Constance noticed the cloth seemed to catch the moonlight despite the trees, and as they went on the forest was becoming brighter and brighter from all the glowing fabric.
And when they came around a curve, when almost every bush and every tree was covered in strange cloth that shone bright and pale as the moon, they saw it.
The path had come to an end. It ended at a strange building.
The building looked like a large, comfortable home.
Around it was a kind of low fence, with every part of the fence draped in fabric. There was a little covered gate and a path with stones that led to a front door. The door was wood, and the house was wood, and the fence was wood. There was a second story, and a warm light could be seen leaking through every heavily draped window. The windows had no glass panes, just drapes and shutters. On the first floor to the right of the front door, a window was opened, and a wonderfully earthy smell rose from it, and they could see what looked like a well-tended kitchen. There was something like a chimney, and a hint of smoke or steam could be seen rising from it.
Fabric was piled everywhere. On either side of the front door were large piles, and underneath each window the piles of fabric had grown to reach their sills. At the fence corners piles of fabric almost reached the top. Aside from the path to the door, there was hardly a place left uncovered.
“Oh!!”
Suddenly the most guttural and unexpected sound drifted out of the house. It was the sound of a woman; not a girl’s voice but a woman’s voice, fully, perfectly, completely a woman. The voice rang with a thousand beautiful women’s voices mixed into one, a voice you could lose yourself in her, listening to her resonant tones, her lilting accents, the soft sounds made by her mouth…
Muriel shuddered at the sound of the woman. Constance could almost feel Muriel’s heart skip.
Then she squeezed Constance’s hand and led them toward the gate.
“Muriel!!” Constance whispered. “We can’t go in!”
But Muriel was absolute.
“We’re starving and tired and lost and all but naked, Constance. We have to go in.”
Despite Muriel’s insistence, something held Constance back. “I just… I don’t want to go in there. Nothing here makes sense.”
Muriel opened the gate and passed through it, letting go of Constance’s hand.
“I want to go in.” She said with such certainty Constance gasped. Muriel walked up to the front door and gingerly took the handle. Looked around, paused… and turned. The door swung open and without a glance back, stepped in.
Then the door quietly swung shut behind her.
Constance would have cried at being left had everything not been so strange. She paced and paced, worried and paced by the strange moonlit glow of tossed-off fabric covering everything. What was happening? What would mother say? Would she have to sleep outside alone? Would she have to now go through the whole forest back alone? Back where? The path led nowhere… she was so lost… oh…
She held the gate and stared at the house for a long time, waiting for Muriel to come back out and get her. But she never came.
Finally she did the bravest thing she’s ever done. Alone, by herself, she cracked the little gate open and stepped through. Her heart leapt as she did.
She walked the little stone path to the front door. The smell of rich cooking was stronger here. Constance looked at the door. It had bronze hinges and a bronze handle, not iron or steel. She reached for the door handle and it almost seemed warm to the touch. She closed her eyes and turned.
The door swung open in the most ordinary way, revealing… Muriel standing in front of her with a bowl. “There you are!” she said through a mouthful of food. She grabbed her hand again and pulled her in with a laugh.
Muriel plied Constance with a kind of nutty granola, laced with herbs and honey as she eagerly showed her around. Constance chewed with an avidity she never knew she had, for she had never really been hungry before.
The kitchen was well stocked, and a fire burned near the stove. Everywhere were earthen pots and herbs, glass bottles and glass vials and jars, whole walls full. A large wooden counter in the middle, and a pile of wooden bowls and spoons to the side. Constance noticed the forks and knives were made of bronze, like the hinges were.
“Oh, it’s wonderful! To be out of the forest! I’m sure she won’t mind if we help ourselves to a little snack!”
She
Constance asked “Who do you mean… she?”
“Oh, I’m sure you heard her outside.” Muriel was rummaging through the kitchen looking for something sweet. She came across a pile of torrone, each one wrapped in the same sort of fabric that lay about everywhere, gobbled a couple down without a second thought, then unwrapped a couple more and handed them to Constance.
“She is… whoever lives here!”
Constance noticed the house was something of a mess. It wasn’t dirty but it wasn’t organized. Like outside, if a bit less so, there were bits of fabric everywhere, although now the fabric seemed more like bits of clothing. The bowls were piled together, clean but disorderly. The jars were turned and completely unsorted one on top of the other. Everywhere reigned a kind of sanitary domestic chaos.
“Haha! Ohh!… mmm…!!”
The woman’s voice rang out again, fresh like spring rain, uninhibited and unselfconscious, full of pleasure and delight.
They walked into the middle hall. On one side was the kitchen, on another some kind of living room. In the middle the hall lead only to a wide, spiraling staircase. Bits of clothing were tossed all over it.
“She’s upstairs, we have to see her!” Muriel insisted.
“Muriel… it sounds like she’s… well… preoccupied?” Even Constance instinctively knew certain things that she hadn’t herself experienced.
“No! It would be rude! Of course we have to go find her.” They began to climb the stairs together, Muriel calm, Constance unsure.
The stairs were… strange, and the air through them felt strange. They climbed up a flight yet were still on the ground floor. They climbed another flight again and yet hadn’t even taken a step from the start.
“Oh my! Hmm.. haha!”
Her voice seemed to be driving Muriel a bit crazy. Every time the woman’s voice rang out Muriel shuddered and even started to moan under her breath. Muriel almost seemed to be panting. She even tried running up the stairs and leaving Constance behind. But when Constance looked behind her, Muriel was there. She had run ahead of her only to go backwards instead.
Constance noticed the candles all around lighting their way flickered and yet did not burn, no smoke left them and no drip of wax could be seen.
Constance went to the foot of the stairs, and thought. If walking forward brought you backward… then walking backward…
She grabbed the railing and looked behind her. Closed her eyes, and stepped backward.
And felt a step underneath her.
She kept her eyes closed, and kept stepping backwards, using her feet and hands to feel. One foot after the other. Step, step, step. Suddenly she heard Muriel’s voice—a little further away.
“Hey, you’re above me!” Constance opened her eyes to see Muriel on the ground floor—and herself on the second.
She held the railing and looked around. There was a door cracked open, and she could see through it piles and piles of shoes, all kind and sizes, one for any desire a woman could have, all tossed in together. She could hear Muriel yelling below her.
She closed her eyes again and stepped backward. Step, step, step.
When she opened her eyes again, she was two floors above Muriel now. There was another door cracked open, and she saw the most breathtaking clothes she’d ever imagined. Dresses and skirts and bodices, there must of been at least hundreds, of every color and design.
She closed her eyes again and stepped backward. Step, step, step.
Step, step, step, step.
She stepped backward onto solid ground. She opened her eyes. She was now not three but four floors above Muriel, whom she could hardly see.
There were doors on either side of the stairway. Both were closed.
“Ohh!… oh!!.. ohhh!!….” But behind one, a woman voice cried out in the deepest pleasure.
Constance hesitated for only a moment before walking toward the woman’s voice. She felt the wooden door with her fingertips and it was warm to the touch. With her heart beating wildly, she pushed the door open.
And even expecting the worst, she couldn’t help but gasp at this.
There in the center of the room was a spinning wheel. The spinning wheel was not on a stand but on a kind of long, sloping wooden saddle.
And sliding up and down on the saddle, draughting thread and laughing, smiling, gasping… was this she.
Her.
She was the most beautiful woman Constance had ever seen. Not just seen, but even imagined. Thick long waves of hair danced in half curls down beyond her neck. Her thighs were wonderfully full, her hips were perfect, her waist was narrow, her legs long, her breasts perfect, her neck lovely, and her face… her face was timeless like the moon. She wore the thinnest sort of shift which shimmered like fish scaled and changed colors in strange waves. She had pulled it down below her breasts which were bouncing happily along with her. She had pulled her already immodest skirt well over her hips, leaving everything below her waist bare. She had no shoes.
She was sliding up and down the wooden saddle-pole between her legs with unconcealed delight, rocking her hips back and forth, gripping it with her thighs. Laughing and sighing with perfect contentment and half lidded eyes.
As she rocked and slid on the saddle-pole, the spinning wheel spun.
And even as she smiled and laughed playfully, her silvan fingers defty draughted a very large pile of airy, tangled wool-like material which sat in her lap and spilled to a larger pile beside her, feeding and helping it twist to the wheel.
“Oh! … Haha!” She laughed and cooed playfully as she felt an especially nice feeling and gripped a bit tighter with her thighs. The spinning wheel picked up a little more speed. Back and forth, back and forth, her hips never stopping, her legs and thighs always moving, she always feeling, the wheel always spinning.
Constance could see even from here the saddle-pole and her thighs were shiny with dampness.
Suddenly the woman turned and noticed her. Constance’s heart leapt into her throat.
Yet she didn’t even slow down or change in any way. She laughed with dreamy eyes at Constance and kept sliding and spinning happily.
“Hmm.. Oh my overripe starling, please come in! I’m so glad you’ve come to me!”
Constance stepped through the door, and into a web of threads.
The threads got everywhere, fine as spider webs, softer than silk, all over her, over her face, her arms, her hair, her body.
The woman stopped sliding and got off her spinning wheel. She pulled her dress below her hips again but left her breasts exposed. Smiling she walked to Constance, and her body radiated warmth.
Constance began to thrash a little against the threads until she came to her and calmed her. She could feel the warmth of her body, she could smell the warmth of her body. She smelled like endless spring, and she smelled like endless desire.
“Breathe, lovely girl. Shh. Just breathe. Breathe and let them in.” She held her face with one hand and petted her arm with the other.
Constance gazed into her face, her stunning purple eyes… and breathed. And breathed. And breathed. Soon she was calm and the silken threads had disappeared.
“Good. So easy, isn’t it? Come with me, darling”. She took Constance’s hand and led her out of the room.
She was taller than her. Constance watched her perfect body as they walked across the hall. Constance’s head was spinning now, round and round.
She opened the door to a kind of lounge. There was a lovely fire on the side, and in the middle carpets and blankets and pillows beyond description.
The woman led Constance to the middle of the room and then went to the wall. There were dozens and dozens of glass and crystal vials along the walls, filled with every color and hue. The woman paced back and forth, pulling open drawers, pushing aside vials and bottles, humming happily to herself, peeking over and under and around.
“Oh, dear, I’m such a mess!” She laughed. “I know I put it somewhere… wait here for me sweet, I won’t take a moment!” She kissed Constance full on her neck and quickly left the room.
No woman had ever really kissed Constance anywhere before like that. Her full, lush lips, soft and warm… so full of desire… her head could only spin more.
It felt like more than a while before she came back.
“Here it is, love!” She said cheerfully and showed her. It was a long bronze sewing needle.
She ran her fingers across Constance’s arms and face, she leaned close and pressed her body into her, she lingered for a long moment, and then pulled away.
“Oh, I know just the right ones for you!” She walked to the wall and picked a couple of crystal vials with deep reddish hue.
She unsealed one of the bottles, stepped behind Constance, and dipped her needle into it. “Tell me, love, what is your name?”
She spun the needle around and around. “Oh, I’m … Constance!” Constance said dizzily.
“Constance! What a lovely name!” She drew the needle from the vial. “Where do you come from?”
“Oh.. the court! I’m the king’s daughter!”
And dropped the needle.
“That silly girl! She never told me that…” And she laughed again. “Oh, Muriel! Whatever am I going to do with you!” Then she reached down and picked the needle up again, and dipped it into the vial once more. Then pulled out a long thread… and began to weave.
A thread snaked out of the vial, light as smoke but as thin as silk, with a rich vermillion tint. The woman pulled the needle up and down around Constance’s head, pulling the smokey thread with the tip of her needle, snaking around the back of her head until it wrapped around her to face, to her eyes…
And suddenly slipped inside her through the corners of her eyes.
Constance gave a deep, body shaking sigh.
“So wonderful, isn’t it?” The woman hummed to herself. Constance tried to turn around but the woman stepped behind her even faster She kept her needle dancing, kept the threads spinning around her.
The smokey, velvety, vermillion threads slipped inside Constance’s eyes, her nose, her ears, her mouth.
She was still turning around to catch the woman but was always too slow. And with every moment she felt slower, heavier, and sleepier as more and more threads slipped in.
Catherine began to feel the threads now. Feel them inside her, feel them being woven in.
She was close to losing her balance now. The room was spinning, her vision was spinning, and the threads that kept slipping in tugged and tugged deep in her very thoughts… feelings… her…
Constance’s eyes rolled into her head and she fell lightly into the woman’s waiting arms.
The woman cooed happily and guided her down to the pillowy floor. Constance’s eyes were closed and she was breathing deep. The woman straightened her and made her comfortable by the crackling soft flames with pillows in all the right places. She pulled Constance’s camisole down to expose her pillowy, full breasts and delighted with them caressed them happily.
She then put three vermillion tinted pot downs; one by each breast and one by her head. She dipped her needle into one by a breast, and began to weave.
The smokey, mysterious thread danced up and around Constance’s still body. It curled up like an animal, inched up her side, and upon reaching her breast began to snake itself around it. One turn and another, and another and another, a long dancing spiral around and around her breast, the woman’s needle waving to and fro all the time. It snaked around all the way until it reached the nipple, then stopped. The woman now reached down with her free hand and with the most knowing caresses touched her breast until her nipple became swollen and sensitive and peaked happily up again. The thread resumed its snaking path, wrapping itself up and up, round her nipple, reaching the top… and then slipping in.
Smiling, the woman began to work on her other breast. She didn’t needn’t play with her first breast any longer to it keep it aroused because she knew it could feel the threads coming in now. And it would happily peak up to receive them.
As her second breast was prepared the same way, the threads snaked around it and then slipping deeply into it, the witch went back to Constance’s head and continued her work there. She straddled her face with her knees, and sitting above her, wove her magical threads into her with the most perfect care.
Threads slipping into her breasts, into her eyes, her ears, her mouth. Being woven into her.
Into her body and mind.
For the first time in Constance’s life, her flushed lips parted just a little, and from them escaped a rich, feminine sound she had never in her life before made.
It was the sound of woman feeling intense pleasure.
This response so delighted the Witch. She reached down and kissed Constance with the most warm, passionate, moist kiss on her forehead, and then continued weaving until every last thread had disappeared and been woven into her.
The distant glow of a dim dawn peaked through the trees when the Witch finally looked up from her work. She bit her lip then shut the window tight. She in no way was ready to end with such a delightful canvas to work with. Constance was quite still, letting out the softest sighs. She went to the wall and picked a few more bottles.
How good would it feel to this young woman to feel golden threads in her at the same time as vermillion ones, the Witch wondered? She popped the bottles open, and began to weave.