A Handful of Oats

Intellectual heavyweight Remittance Girl gave a session on writing long-form fiction at this year’s Eroticon. One of the techniques she discussed was the snowflake method, where one begins by writing the short story, and builds out from there to create a longer piece. With that in mind, here’s a little ice-crystal I’m working on:

“What are we to think about witches who shut up penises in what are sometimes prolific numbers, 20 or 30 at a single time, in a bird’s nest or some kind of box, where they move about in order to eat oats and fodder, as though they were alive?”

Malleus Maleficarum (1487)

The wind blew dark and loud through the trees, scraping at window panes and chasing foolish wanderers home.

She stood at the threshold, sucking in the cool night air and wondered, would he be alone in his chambers yet? A grin twitched her cheek at the thought he might not.

She unfastened her hair, letting it fall about her shoulders and shrugged off her shirt, stepping out into the garden clad for the sky. The earth was hard beneath her feet but her skin didn’t dimple, nor her muscles tremble, except with excitement.

It was only a short walk to the hutch, at the end of the garden, behind the chicken coop and half hidden by an unruly hazel. She sang as she came near, half-words and coos. The hutch was small, the hinges stiff and wood buckling from too many winters, but she kept it well filled with fresh strawberries.

“Come now sleepy one,” she whispered, drawing back the bolt and opening letting the little door fall open. Something rustled, the straw shifting like a slumbering breast. She reached in with a hand, gently probing the straw until something warm and soft brushed her fingertips.

“Come now little one,” she said. Her fingers slid around the cock, gently pulling it out into the moonlight. It was already stiffening at the touch of her hand, or perhaps at the chill night breeze.

“It’s ok,” she said, stroking her palms over its skin, alternately basking each inch of flesh with the warmth of her hands. It responded in kind, swelling, growing hot in her grasp.

She closed her eyes, imagining the look on his face, perhaps reaching futilely between his legs, perhaps laying back in quiet obedience and hope, fists clenching as she continued stroking her pet.

Eventually, she felt the quivers drawing close, the cock trembling, pulsing and finally filling her palm with fresh hot seed.

She carefully gathered the liquid in a glass phial, then lay the shrinking cock back among the straw. It squirmed a little, but she tossed a handful of oats in too and soon it was contentedly rumaging about in the depths of the hut.

She closed the door and turned to go, pausing only to blow a kiss in the direction of the hall across the valley.