tagSci-Fi & FantasyF5: Lorelei's Call

F5: Lorelei's Call


F5: Lorelei's Call

(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. Every story for this FAWC begins with the exact same line. Where it goes from there is up to the author.)

* * * *

Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife. Lambert may not have marked this as anything unusual if they hadn't become animated shortly after Alaric left his tower workroom.

Alaric, the wizard, had laid the items out on the table, preparing to show his apprentices, Lambert and Ewal, a new spell. His preparations for the lesson were curtailed, however, when Ewal huffed up the stairs and, nearly out of breath because of the height of the tower, with Alaric's spells room at the top, declared, "The count needs you, sire."

"Count Karl always needs me," Alaric, muttered. "What now?"

"He is bleeding, sire."

"From which orifice this time?" Alaric queried.

"From the mouth, sire."

"Ah, it progresses then," Alaric said with a sigh. The third count of Katzeneinbogen, master of Shloss Burg Reinfels, stronghold of the rulers of the region since 1245, had been dying for three months now. "I suppose I must go," he said, and he did so, following Ewal down the winding staircase, but not before glowering at his other apprentice, the young Lambert, and muttering, "Do not touch a thing in my absence."

Upon the wizened wizard's departure, Lambert's attention had, in fact, initially been arrested by the hint of the siren song wafting across the Rhine from the Lorelei to the towers of Reinfels Castle.

Having only heard the legend and never having experienced it, Lambert rushed to the window facing the Rhine and looked for the ship that the Lorelei was trying to entrance onto the rocks from the cliffs at the bend on the other side of the river. But he could see no ship. Surely one hasn't wrecked already, he thought.

There had been no wrecks in many years now, the pilots of the river having learned the best way to navigate past the danger the Lorelei cliff and submerged rocks below held for river boats. Rather than assuring Lambert, however, this observation made him start to tremble, as he remembered that the song, by legend, was only supposed to be heard by the ones the Lorelei was trying to entice to their destruction.

In fear and confusion, Lambert covered his ears—to no available—as the tune seemed to be coming from within his own brain. He turned from the window, only to have his attention arrested by the handkerchief, book, and knife on the long wooden table in the center of the chamber. The silken handkerchief was rippling, the bejeweled silver dagger was glowing and rattling against the table surface, and Alaric's thick book of charms and spells had opened and its pages were ruffling.

Until the pages weren't turning anymore. As the leafs of the book stopped moving and the dusty volume lay open, nearly in the middle, the revealed pages began to glow. Even from where Lambert stood, he could see the ink of a passage of text turning to blood red and appearing to raise up on the page.

Lambert moved gingerly over to the book. "Take up the knife," the raised text read in bold letters. The young man, of course, had no intention to do so, as the wizard quite clearly had told him not to touch anything. But he felt a nudge of cold metal on his fingers and looked down to see that one of his hands had brushed the surface of the table and that the knife had moved to nudge against his thumb.

And then, in Lambert's involuntary loose grip, the slim dagger was in his hand and moving to, and under the edge of, the rippling handkerchief.

Lambert no longer felt in control of his actions. He sank to his knees on the bench beside the table as he watched his hand slide the point of the dagger under the edge of handkerchief and begin to raise it. And as the dagger raised the handkerchief, the silky material expanded, rising up and billowing outward, until Lambert was forced to rise and stand on the bench to continue raising the knife. When he had lifted what was now a silken tent to the level of the top of his head, the material fell in folds—down to the ankles of a beautiful young maiden, raven-haired, voluptuous, with entrancing eyes of emerald green flecked with gold—and naked.

The dagger fell out of Lambert's hand, clattered to the table top, and, its purpose apparently satisfied, slowly lost both its luster and its shimmer and became unnoticed.

Although barely nineteen, the classically Germanic blond Lambert was as much a man as any man—and more handsome and firm of body than most. Although transfixed with shock and surprise, the young maiden's beauty and the perfection of her nubile body mesmerized him, and his body betrayed his arousal, tightening at the center of him, legs feeling they would surely turn to jelly, eyes lighting up and jaw dropping. His hands instinctively reached out toward, but, in his innocence to the arts of love, dared not touch the milky white curves of her body, contrasted by the jet-black hair cascading to her shoulders and forming a trim V of dark curls at her mound, the folds of her labia puffy and enticing as they peeked through the tight curls.

Surely I am just dreaming this, Lambert thought, but, if so, he didn't want to be awakened. His ears were ringing with the siren song of the Lorelei. His staff was pressing hard at the inner confines of his codpiece and was throbbing.

Not being able to move for himself, the maiden, first, pulled at the cords of his jerkin, causing it to part across his tanned and muscular chest and then moved her hand to the strings of his codpiece and released his erect phallus. She then reached for his hands and moved one to a melon-plump breast and the other to the folds of her labia. Her moan as his fingers slid into her folds served to slice into his trance, and his knees now did give way and he sank down to the them upon the bench.

Which put his face at the level of the maiden's center. Encasing his head in her delicate but surprising strong hands, she pulled his face into her mound. Here, even though he had never known a woman in this way before, Lambert's tongue, by instinct known to all males, moved up between the labia and found, and began to lick and suck on, her clitoris. He continued to work her breasts with one hand, and the fingers of the other found their way inside her as she spread her thighs to give him ever-deeper access to the secrets of her luscious body.

Her moans grew louder, but the song of the Lorelei continued to weave its way through Lambert's brain, serving as a opiate to any senses of strangeness and alarm that he otherwise might have experienced.

All he could think of was the perfection and openness of her curvaceous, milky-white body.

She too sank to her knees on the table, pulling his head out of her center, coaxing him to kiss his way up her belly and to pause at length for his mouth to suckle at her breasts before gliding up to the hollow of her neck, and thence to her rose bed of a mouth, which opened to him and enveloped all of his senses into the sweet nectar of her all-consuming, control-stealing kisses.

Her hands were on his buttocks cheeks, coaxing him into a crouch between her legs, which encased his waist as he leaned into her body, and, still instinctively in his innocence, he guided the sensitive bulb of his stiff member to between her folds. With a sigh from her and a deep moan from Lambert, her labia closed on the sides of the staff and pulled it in, in, inside her dark passage, where the muscles of the channel's lining undulating over the virgin, throbbing phallus.

Answering the primeval call of virile young men everywhere, Lambert's shaft began to move inside the sweet darkness, backward and forward, moving ever deeper, revolving, while his lips worked her taut, nectar-leaking nipples. Finding all of the sensitive spots that made the maiden shudder and sigh and moan—and tremble and tightened and explode, over and over again.

She clinched her passageway tight around the staff, pulling it farther inside her and squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, pulling from his jerking body spouting after ejaculative spouting. A cry of awe and victory rose from Lambert's core and spread out through his yawning mouth to encompass the whole chamber and briefly, if only briefly, silencing the siren cry of the Lorelei.

But the song of the Lorelei, stronger even than the young man's virility, returned to his ears with a vengeance and resonated through his head.

Rising up through the strains of the song, strangely sounding now like a victory cry of its own, was the low, honey-toned voice of the maiden, speaking for the first time, "Come, help me with the covering of the handkerchief."

"Your name, I don't know your name," Lambert murmured from inside her lasting embrace, his staff still moving gently in and out, inside her, sliding through his own cum. They held there momentarily, to share another climax, ending in a sigh and a moan. Still, in his youth and arousal, he remained stiff inside her.

"I don't want you to leave me."

The young maiden laughed. "We now never will be parted. You may call me Gisela," she continued in a whisper, "Although sailors know me by another name altogether. Through the generations we have a secondary name—one other than the one legend has known us all by. Our daughter's name will be Maia. She will continue the calling down to the next generation—when both of us are gone."

"Our daughter? Both of us gone?"

"Come. Take the hem of the handkerchief. Help to raise it above us both."

"The handkerchief?" He could barely hear her through the now-mirthful strains of the siren's song. But obedient, locked in the power of her mesmerizing beauty and sexuality and the sweetness of his first sexual encounter, Lambert reached down to take the edge of one side of the handkerchief as Giselda took the other, and with a shared smile, the two still locked in the connection of his still-erect shaft inside her undulating passage, pulled the material over their heads.

* * * *

Mere moments later the apprentice Ewal entered the chamber, breathless, from the top of the spiral granite staircase into the tower room, muttering under his breath the complex name of the potion Alaric had sent him to fetch to aid the pain of the dying count in the castle keep below.

As soon as he entered the chamber, however, the gentle strains of a song stole into his head and increased in volume, fighting for his consciousness and against the remembrance of the potion's name.

Looking around the chamber for what he now could not remember he sought, he eyes fell upon the wooden trestle table dominating the center of the room. Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife. Before his eyes, the items on the table languidly came to life. The silken handkerchief was rippling, the bejeweled silver dagger was glowing and rattling against the table surface, and Alaric's thick book of charms and spells had opened and its pages were ruffling. As the pages of the book stopped moving and the thick volume lay open, nearly in the middle, the pages began to glow. The ink of a passage of the text turned to blood red and appeared to raise up on the page.

Ewal moved gingerly over to the book. "Take up the knife," the raised text read in large, red letters. He had no intention of doing so, but already the coolness of the sliver dagger was pressing into the side of the thumb on his fingers as they brushed against the surface of the table.

Sometime later, angry that the apprentice had not yet returned with the potion he'd been fetched to bring, Alaric huffed into the chamber from the top of the spiral staircase. He looked around the chamber in confusion and alarm at not finding either one of his apprentices. There was no where they could have gone and escaped his notice, even if they had descended the tower stairs, as the lower opening to that would have taken them right past the open doorway to the count's bedchamber.

He had arrived at the top of the tower as the items on the surface of the table were still quietening down from their last infusion of ensuring the continuing generations of the Lorelei legend. The handkerchief was still, if only barely, ruffling. The silver dagger was still dully glowing and shimmering on the table top almost imperceptively, and the book of charms and spells had not yet closed.

The red ink on the page was fading and the letters were receding again into the page. But Alaric was able to see the page and the highlighted passage of "Take up the knife."

Knowing both the meaning and effect of the three items on the table, Alaric lowered his weary body on the bench and covered his face with his hands. It wasn't the pages of the book he meant to be exposed. It wasn't the spell he meant to show to his apprentices at all—and now he would have to start all over with the training of new apprentices.

And, worse, the perpetuation of the Lorelei for this time—into the next generation—was now all his fault.

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