The Shepherd's Daughter

Moira wandered along the rocky ridge that marked the edge of the downs, demarcating the place where her family had kept a farm for as far back as anyone could remember. There had always been Larabe's along Loch Lyra and there always would be. Just as there had always been sheep on the broad, grassy downs that stretched from the edge of the loch to this rocky ridge that was the last whisper of the far away mountains. She turned her head and looked north at the high, white-capped peaks that looked an easy walk away. But she knew, from when she was a girl, that once you crested the top of that first hill that the foothills stretched out forever like a thorny blanket tossed down upon the land. Her tail of long red hair streamed in the wind and her simple dress flapped as the breeze carried the scents of the loch out toward the mountains. She could tell that a storm was coming and she would have to get away home as fast as she could if she didn't want to be caught out in the storm. But she had come looking for a lost ram and duty and generations of shepherding wouldn't let her turn her steps back toward the house. She moved along the ridge and toward a patch of rocky torland that lay ahead. She had retrieved sheep from among the stones there before and she knew that that was most likely where the missing ram had gone. Why they were drawn to that place where no food grew, where there was little shelter and a sheep could perish in just a few hours she did not know, but every fortnight of so she or one of her brothers would have to come and guide the lost animal back home.

She rounded a boulder and the tan and gray stone columns stretched out before her. As the wind died down she could hear a distant panicked bleating and with a sigh she unwound the sling from around her wrist and then bent to snatch up some small stones that would be suitable for casting. She could take a hare running through grass, but her eldest brother, Sean, could take a bird on the wing. A sling was a simple weapon that any child in this part of the world learned how to use soon after they could walk. A well slung stone could chase away the long-tailed hunting cats that sometimes came out of the hills in search of food and even ward away a lone wolf. And Moira was mostly worried about the træg, the large weasel-like predators that seemed abundant this time of year. Not much larger than a house cat, a træg alone was a danger to few aside from a carelessly attended babe. But a nest of them could and sometimes did bring down sheep or even the occasional shepherd. But she knew to look for their spoor and avoid them, and she wasn't afraid of them.

She walked quickly among the stones, past places where the tors had been quarried to glean rock for fences and homes for hundreds of years. Her sturdy boots crunching among the sharp castoff of the old quarries and the gravel and rock chips slipped under the stiff leather. She could feel how sharp some of them were and she was grateful for the sturdy footwear. She passed a pair of columns and the momentary shadow turned nearly pitch black as the fast running storm clouds covered the sun. She heard a terrified bleating up ahead, echoing strangely among the rocks and a moment later it was drowned in an ocean of thunder, making her start and crouch protectively in against herself. She should have turned for home as soon as she saw the dark clouds, and now she would be caught in the storm. She moved a little faster, still seeking the lost ram and as the first of the rain started to torrent down she espied a cave as a bolt of lightning sizzled overhead followed quickly by a blast of thunder that must have been the voice of some angry god. Moira almost ran into the shelter, the rain like a curtain now, soaking her to her skin and swirling around her ankles to flood her boots. As soon as she stepped into the cave the din of the storm lessened and Moira stopped, relieved for the shelter but wary as well. There was something about this cave and as the wind died down, the scent of something animal reached her nose. There was a feral, dangerous quality to the scent and the hair on her neck prickled as she looked around in the still darkness.

Another bolt of silver-blue lightning illumined the cave for a moment and she saw that it was deep, far deeper than it had looked, far deeper than she thought it was possible for a cave to be in this area. As the darkness descended again she gingerly felt her way forward and the hungry, animal smell got stronger. Her fingers, trailing on the wall, encountered a wetness and she thought perhaps there was a trickle of water in the cave until another flash of lightning lit the cave and she froze as she saw the blood painted across the floor and wall of the cave. Her heart was hammering and she thought about turning back out into the storm. Some predator lived here and she had no desire to find out what kind. A she-wolf with pups would protect her nest fiercely and a family of hunting cats was more dangerous still. She began to back away when a voice from the darkness ahead froze her in her tracks. It was deep and rich and masculine, as if from a man with a great barrel chest and Moira was unable to force her feet onwards for the power that the voice carried.

"What is this I smell within my home?" Came the words from ahead of her and Moira felt a hot tear escape her to run down her cheeks. "I know this smell..." Said the voice and Moira heard a deep snuffling, as if some great animal nearby. "Yes... this is the smell of a maiden, freshly washed by the rain."

Again came the snuffling sound, from much closer and Moira felt a warmth against her front as the stink of whatever called the cave home drew closer. There was a strong masculinity to the scent, as of an unwashed labourer, sweat and dirt and the maleness of his musk. It was overpowering, revolting and at the same time somehow intoxicating. She found herself gulping for air as a shape began to take form in the darkness. At first it was merely a darker shape against the black of the cave, but as her eyes began to adjust she saw the size and rough shape of it and her heart hammered in dread.

"Fear..." It spoke again, and Moira felt an almost tender caress against her cheek. "Such dread and terror from one so lovely. You have nothing to fear from me, tender maiden. I've sated my hunger for flesh on tender mutton, a strong ram driven to me by yon storm. No, my hunger now is for something... different... indeed."

The tender caress on her cheek moved down and she felt it pass her arm and then down until there was no touch remaining. But still the presence of the speaker was close, so close she could feel the warmth of him, so close that she was bathed in the hungry animal stink of him and something within her twisted and turned at the scent. It was a feeling like nausea, but different, lower down and more primal, instinctual. She gasped for breath and when the voce bade her to follow, she couldn't resist. For a long time she walked after the speaker, unable to make herself stop, unable to make herself speak or disobey in the slightest. It felt like an hour passed and suddenly she rounded a corner within the cave and there was smoky, guttering torchlight in a huge cavern. She looked around, there at the entrance, and her heart hammered in her breast at what she saw. Hanging from the ceiling, appending from roots and creepers were all manner of decorations. There were crystal glasses and polished stones, bits of horn and bone, the skull of a hart and another of a ram, still gory and wet with blood. There were dried butterfly wings and here and there she could see braids of long hair in all different colours. The floor was strewn with hides and pelts from many different animals and among the soft wools and furs were cast dozens of twinkling jewels and gems, nuggets of gold and silver and brass. The walls were hung with more pelts and dozens of torches and candles lit the space.

But it was the body of her host that drew her eyes. He was lounging already on a pile of furs, mink and marten, sable and hare. He was huge, taller than any man she had ever seen yet no man was he, though there was no mistake that he was male, for his great turgid member was bare and visible, shining with sweat and as she looked at it she felt that clench down in her core, below her stomach once again. He had legs like a goat, back-bent knees and cloven hooves, a dark mat of fur covered his legs and his obscenely bared manhood nestled among another, darker nest. His chest was broad and powerful and his head was crowned with a great rack of antlers above a thick mane like none she had ever seen before. His arms were overlong for his body and his hands were broad and strong, tipped with wicked looking nails. His face looked human enough, though his eyes were yellow where a man's were white and his pupils were slit like those of a cat with irises that gleamed emerald and gold in the ruddy light. He was smiling and through that smile she could see his wolf-like teeth and smell his breath, which stank of blood and meat. She had heard tales of the fauns that had once danced among the ancient stones that were erected at the shores of the loch, but this was no faun, for he was at least eight feet tall and as powerful as any creature she had ever seen.

"What is your name, maiden fair?" He asked and she faltered for a moment, but could not stop herself from speaking.

"I be Moira Larabe, o' the Loch Lyra Larabe's." She said as she swooned where she stood.

"And was it you who gave me the offering of that ram?" He said with a gesture at the gory skull hung near his shoulder.

"T'was me father's ram, wandered off from our flock. I ha'e come to retrieve him." She said as she stared at him, fascinated and enraptured, unable to look away and that tightness kept coiling within her, defining itself into something she felt she should understand, but that she could never really define in words.

"And who was it that gave you leave to take from my realm, Moira Larabe, of the Loch Lyra Larabe's?" He asked and she looked puzzled until he gestured to her hand, where she still held the five stones she had picked up for her sling. As she looked down and her hand opened, she saw five gemstones there, glittering like a rainbow and casting light across her face. She gasped at the sight of them and then looked up at the monstrous figure that was watching her with a deep hunger in his eyes and a wicked smile on his lips. "For this trespass you make reparations, Moira Larabe, of the Loch Lyra Larabe's. Five gems stolen, five deeds to make amends. This is only fair."

He gestured casually with a hand and she passed the stones to him. He set them aside and adjusted his posture then reached out and hooked a single fingernail into the neck of her dress and the fabric parted under that nail as if it were the sharpest of blades. She shivered as the wet cloth parted and slipped from her shoulders, rent both front and back, and it pooled around her feet, leaving her bare. Even her sturdy boots were rent asunder as he reclined back into his bed of furs and looked her bare flesh over. Her hair had come unbound and she was dry and warm. Her skin was lightly tanned and scattered with freckles across her cheeks and shoulders and breasts.

"The first of the five has been paid, Moira Larabe, of the Loch Lyra Larabe's. You have given me your name, and I shall never forget it. Not should the stars burn out and the mountains tumble into the sea. Not even unto the end of time or the time past that. Not should a thousand others over ten thousand years bear your name will I forget. For I am immortal, and my memory is flawless." He took up a pan flute then and smiled as he looked her over again. Her bare flesh was pleasing to him, though she was much smaller.

"Now the second. Dance for me, Moira Larabe, of the Loch Lyra Larabe's, dance for the king under the hill." He said and her heart hammered in fear and excitement as he began to play his flute. She moved into dance, unable to stop, unable to make herself even think of stopping. The exhilaration of his music was more intoxicating than any liquor and she spun and leapt, moving around the room with a fluid grace and speed that she did not have in reality. She was the daughter of a shepherd, and she knew few dances, and those only fit for a fireside at Beltane. Yet she moved with grace and beauty, her hair streaming out around her and her skin warmed by the torches and her activity.

No, she knew not what dance she stepped, but she knew now who she danced for. He had told her the name that shepherds all along the downs had known for thousands of years. The King Under the Hill, the last of the great faerie princes. Long ago when her folk had first settled this land the faeries had already been there and they had danced away wives and sisters and daughters, they had fought with and killed the men and for centuries they had been at odds with her people as they carved out a home along the downs and valleys of this land. In time they had been driven back and killed or exiled one by one until at last there had been peace among the folk of the downs and swords were traded for ploughs and spears for staves as the need for warriors was replaced with the need for farmers and shepherds. None had heard aught of the faeries for two hundred years, though the stories of them would never die. The legends of the King Under the Hill were some of the most vivid, how he would seduce away young maidens to his home and they would never be seen again. Some said that they stayed forever to become his lovers, and other said that he devoured them and scattered their bones among the thorny hills, never to be seen again.

But now Moira danced for him, as graceful as any woman could be, and he piped for her. She never tired, never hungered or thirsted and never gave a single thought to the bareness of her flesh under his watchful gaze. When finally his piping stopped she danced on, unable to make herself stop, until she came to stand before him again and she realized that she was sweating freely, that her hair was stuck to her skin all over and her heart was hammering with the exertion of her dance. It had taken all of her energy to keep going and as the King Under the Hill looked her over, she could feel the heat of his lust, the power of his passion and she knew what his demand would be for her third payment.

"Long has it been since a maiden so fair has graced my throne room, Moira Larabe, of the Loch Lyra Larabe's. Long has it been since I have felt the flesh of a mortal."

His hand reached out then and caressed her side, from just above her knee the hand moved up, stroking along her sweat-damp skin. It turned at her hip, tracing the ridge of the bone across to her tummy and then up, between her breasts and then back down, his hand reversing, the hot palm stroking her skin, pausing to knead one breast, the pad of his thumb caressing her nipple and drawing a gasp from her before his hand continued down, across her belly again and down to the thick tangle of red curls between her thighs. She moaned at the touch and leaned into his caress. She looked up at him, the musk of his scent curling around her, no longer a stink, but now an arousing scent that she couldn't escape as he leaned forward and kissed her deeply. She moaned into the kiss, her first, and while she felt clumsy and inexperienced, he did not complain, working his mouth against hers and when her lips parted to allow a moan to escape his tongue slipped in and a moment later she was on her back amid the furs, his great form leaning across hers and his hungry mouth devouring her with a kiss.

He was heavy and the bristles of his hair were rough against her skin, their sweat mingling and his flesh so hot that she thought she would be burned, scalded by his heat as the oily musk of his body soaked into her skin and hair and that clench in her belly began to twist and surge, instinct ruling her as her legs spread in invitation and the King Under the Hill snarled, a bestial, animal sound as he surged over her, pressing her back into the furs as the scent of her growing arousal overpowered his own scent, as it filled his nose like sweet ambrosia and drove his passion to greater heights. His already swollen member seemed to grow further as it sought her center. She gasped and moaned into the kiss as she felt the slick head of it caress her sex, slip through the tangle of her pubic hair and his sweat mixed with her wetness and their scents mingled, strengthening the effect that they had on both of them and soon all rational thought was fading as the need to couple, to mate grew ever stronger.

"For the third I will take your maidenhead." He growled as he released her mouth, leaving her gasping for breath and barely able to think. But a stronger compelling came over her as his mouth sought the sweet flesh of her breasts, sucking hard at a nipple and nearly taking her entire breast into his cavernous maw.

"The fourth..." She managed to moan as her hands tangled in his mane and drew him closer, as her legs bent round his waist and held her close to him, close to the thick, hot rod of his manhood, now leaking clear fluid from the tip across her belly and legs.

"What..." He demanded, his mouth poised to again devour her breasts, but his mind was momentarily clear enough to comprehend her words.

"Tis nae the third, my King Under the Hill... tis the fourth that ye would claim here with me on me back." She said in a husky voice full of lust and with no denial or reprobation.

"No, I have claimed but three..." He protested, though he was still moving, his hands braced on the floor and his hips moving, pressing his rod against her increasingly wet sex, grinding them together and spreading their mixed nectar across them both.

"Tis nae..." She insisted as his mouth wavered at her sweet flesh, as his breath caressed her breast and his hunger raged and surged. "Twas me first kiss ye claimed without the takin' o' me leave. The first kiss of a maiden pure. And anow ye would take me maidenhead as the next."

He snarled, angry at having been thwarted for Moira had remembered the tale. Should the King Under the Hill claim five favours, the last would be to devour the flesh of the maiden. She had managed to outsmart him though his anger was great at the deed. He accepted her words with a snarl and braced himself, crouching over her as his back flexed and she felt the thick, slick head of his rod at her entrance as his mouth opened and his teeth engulfed her breast, sucking hard at the full, soft orb. She tangled her fingers in his mane and she trembled as she felt his weight shift. Suddenly his legs pushed and his hands held her in place and she felt his press at her entrance a moment before he tore away her virginity. There was pain, a sharp tearing, and then the feel of his thick rod spreading her womanhood tight around him as his thick rod pierced her deep. She cried out once, a cry of pain and passion intermingled and then he thrust again and the pain was gone. Her cry turned to a feral moan as he mounted her and thrust. Her breast slipped free from his mouth, slick with his saliva and his spittle slicked her skin as he growled like a great bear and thrust again. Had his hands not held her still, she would never have remained still for it, for he was too powerful, too large for her slighter frame and with a final hard thrust she felt his length seat firmly against her womb, drawing a scream from her of such passion and rage that it nearly matched his own.

There were no words remaining, no room for them existed in that space. For as large as the cavern was, it was too small to contain anything more than their mutual lust. And even then the power of their passion shook the walls of the cave, made the stone waver and run like hot wax as he roared and she cried out, no fear existing between them, no hatred or terror, just passion and anger warring for the upper hand until finally passion won over and she seized his mane with her small, strong hands and drew him down and into a kiss. She amazed him with her strength, with the power that she displayed and he thrust again and again into her slighter form, something of his magic keeping her from harm and instead a powerful pleasure overtook her, making her arch her back and break the kiss she had claimed so that her scream of passion could escape. She gave it voice and it echoed back, driving him to greater heights of lust, greater hunger in his passion and he snarled as he bared his fangs and rose up over her, thrusting hard, making her body dance and jump with the power of his lovemaking. She cried out again as pleasure lit her from within, so powerful and primal that it burned as she felt him reach his climax and spend his seed into her belly.