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Subject: NEW STORY: Nottamun Town 1/MrSpraycan
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Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means where you are reading. This
story is fiction. All persons, places in it are imaginary and little
resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. Or, this is real
and you are imaginary.

(c) 1997 Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes and the author, MrSpraycan, who chooses
to remain 'anon'. For entertainment purposes only. No commercial use is
warranted.  Archive only with this notice intact. Do not repost.

Intelligent feedback will be responded to.


NOTTAMUN TOWN, Pt.1
by MrSpraycan


The explanation I keep hearing is that there was acid in the fruit punch.
What else would explain it? All I can tell you is I woke up shivering,
totally disoriented. Stark naked, sitting on a park bench on the Victoria
Embankment. At seven in the morning, with traffic rolling by, people
staring in total disbelief. In the pissing rain. Two policemen were eyeing
me cautiously, awaiting the ambulance men and their restraints. And I was
singing.

	It's pleasant and peaceful here at St. Ethelred's. Out in the
country, somewhere near Epsom, loonybin capital of southern England. You
don't feel as though you're in a mental hospital, except when you start
talking to the other patients. Then, you suddenly understand. Some are
quite deranged, others just gently misguided. But the more you listen to
them, the more you see why they are here. Many are quite institutionalized,
and would like newcomers like me to become that way too. Some are sullen,
brooding: it comes from within them, or the doctors' love of pills for all
ills. The few jokers here call these 'the real Epsom Downs.'
	I wish I wasn't here. I want to get back to my engineering course
at Queen Elizabeth's. I mustn't drop out. But I fear I may, if I lose much
more time. Just think of the course work, the lab work. There's so much
every week. I'll have a hell of a time catching up. My god.

	My own special doctor is Lillian Howett. Specializes in 'induced
disorders of psychotomimetic drugs and their associated epiphenomena.' Try
saying that in a hurry.
	I ask her repeatedly why I'm still being kept there.
	"Because, Brian, you insisted on telling us that this experience of
yours was real," she explains gently.
	"You mean, if I'd lied to you, I could have gone, is that it? Funny
old morality you practice here, Dr. Howett. Don't you agree?"
	"Brian, we've been over this before. Look at it from our point of
view. You vanish from a party with your friends, with no explanation. First
you're asleep, then they look around and you're gone. No one sees you for a
fortnight. And then you show up, stark naked, raving about visions, singing
to yourself, on a bench in the middle of London. How normal is that, would
you say?"
	"Not very but . . . where was I for the whole two weeks? Answer that."
	She ignores this gambit, completely. "We don't know a lot about
these chemicals like LSD-15, or the analogs that are coming along. Not to
mention tnigs like peyote, psilocybin, other hallucinogens. And when people
are using them in combinations with marijuana, all sorts of things are
possible."
	"That's what's fun. It's not like brown ale."
	"I'll ignore that irresponsible comment. But I'll remind you that
since you were detained by the police, it's possible some charges could
still be filed. At the very least, indecent exposure. You could stay here a
long while, young man."
	"Alright. I get it. So I'm a bad boy. I admit it."
	"So, you're a misguided boy. And you'll stay a little longer. We do
know it is very dangerous to just take a 'so what' attitude to people
who've had 'bad trips.' We've seen serious deterioration, strange
psychoses, schizophrenia, major depressive fugues. Even had some suicides.
We don't take chances any more. These drugs are powerful, and can really
change your life."
	"Why didn't anyone else at the party freak out? Everyone was
drinking the punch."
	"People's physiology and reactions vary. I've not interviewed all
your friends, but some said they felt a bit strange, too."
	"I feel fine now, really."
	"And this Nottamun Town of yours?"
	"I told you. It was as real as, uh, Waterloo Station. Tell me, if I
wasn't there, where was I?"

	I'm back at the party. The stereo is playing, loud. The cheap
Algerian red wine is flowing. Raj brought some hash, but we've toasted and
puffed our way through that hours before. Expensive habit. We're back to
boozing.
	All evening, we've been flipping between the acid-crazed music of
Hendrix's Are You Experienced and Axis Bold As Love, and Zappa's Freak Out
and Lumpy Gravy. Dipping into the diametrically different English sounds of
the Incredible String Band's 5000 Spirits, Or Layers Of The Onion and
Fairport Convention's What We Did On Our Holidays. Over and over,
Fairport's "Nottamun Town." It's the latter's trippy, Indian-flavored
acoustic guitar that is sticking in everyone's brain tonight. Davy
Graham-like ragas and riffs, buzzing and droning. The song, of course, is
traditional, but lyrically obscure, freaky and Bosch-like as they come. The
vehicle stolen by Dylan back in 1963 for the simple fingerpointer Masters
Of War.
	What's it about? We've discussed it a lot. Lynni thinks it's about
a dreamworld, where only women live. "Not A Man Town."
	To Amanda, it's about Nottingham, her home town. Very imaginative.
	To trippy Carla, it's about some Magician's world: KnotterMan Town.
	 To Felicia, deep into mysticism, it's an antiworld of the
Egyptians, not-Amon Town.
	I decide to try the fruit punch. The red wine is killing my throat.
That, and the Piccadillys. Maybe this'll help. The girls say it's good.

	As I drink, I hear a distant gonging. What's that? Now it's not
there again. Just speaker resonance maybe. I sit on the floor. My first
clue something is wrong is a feeling of oppression, powerlessness. I can't
speak. Even move my jaw. I sense a huge weight on me. My hands are in my
lap, but I can't will them to move. My body is as heavy as a stone Buddha.
No one seems to notice as I begin to slowly sunk into the floor. At first,
I don't panic. But soon, I realize I'm going to vanish. My head is level
with the carpet, I can see up Lynni's short skirt. No panties, her cute
ass, her hairy pussy. A last beautiful sight that brings tears to my eyes.
No one hears my sneeze as my nostrils fill with carpet dust. Then, I'm
gone. Falling on my back, slowly spiralling. Through total darkness. Oh no.
I'm dead dead dead, is all I can think. Soon I lose consciousness.

	A bright flash of light. I'm standing in the middle of  a country
lane, tottering on my feet. Dizzy, confused, dazzled. No, not a lane. A
rutted, unpaved track. Impossibly green country, free of the hand of
agriculture. No fences, no ploughing. Some Ur-England, unlike any I've ever
seen. Not even in the wilds of Wales or Scotland do you see such pristine
landscape.  It's unreal, two dimensional in some ways, as though
hand-painted. There's something wrong with the light: it's too bright, too
shadowless.  And quiet. Just the gentle wind in the trees. No birds, no
traffic.
	I stand there looking in disbelief. Where am I? After a minute or
two, there's a prickling in my scalp. I slowly turn, look over my shoulder,
and jump in fright. A naked woman is standing a few feet behind me. Not a
raving beauty, by any means, but attractive enough in her nudity. In her
thirties, maybe? But not too old for me. Chestnut hair, large, slightly
sagging breasts, wide hips. A shaved pudendum. She's a little taller than
me, even barefoot. But then, I'm only about five foot six. Where had I seen
her before?  She reminds me of someone in an art gallery. Then it hits me.
This is the stereotypical look of the women in late medieval paintings,
Rubens and the like. Or the lynx-eyed woman on the cover of Heinlein's
'Glory Road," just out this summer in paperback. A country kind of look.
But naked?
	For lack of anything profound, I say: "Hi there."
	She stares at me in dumbfounded silence, her eyes widening.
	"Do you speak English?"
	She shakes her head in confusion, then asks me, with a flourish of
her hand toward the sky: "High, where?"
	"Where is this? Where are we?" I ask, frustrated by this non-linear
response.
	Another blank stare. She has beautiful green eyes. Then, she says,
in a flat child-like voice: "Here? It's Saturday."
	"I'm sorry, but, uh you made me jump, you see, I wasn't expecting .
. ." I wave my hand at her naked body.
	"Yes I did. Welcome."
	I guess I've gotten used to braindead hippies and the sozzled
ramblings of my friends in recent months. This dialog is pure Ballad Of A
Thin Man. So I ignore this and say: "I'm Brian."
	"What is 'brying?' Oh, it's your name! I'm, Dahzelthza."
	Uh oh. This absolutely is not the Home Counties. As if her
nakedness hadn't given that away already. What kind of name is that?
Hungarian? Persian?
	I step towards her. She isn't in the least bit offended or
frightened. I feel my cock hardening. It takes my decision for me. I reach
out and hesitantly cup her right breast. She stares into my eyes, then
says: "I'm sorry, traveler Brian. I have no milk for you."
	I grin in confusion. "That wasn't what I meant. Uh . . ."
	"Then why touch me there?"
	"Because it feels good?"
	"Oh." A long ruminative pause. "Yes, it feels, friendly. Methinks
you have some intent that is not gallant, young man."
	What kind of nonsense is this? I put my arms round her, pull her
close to me. Stare into her eyes.
	"Oh? And where are your clothes, Dahzelthza? Tell me that."
	"On Saturday, we don't wear clothes."
	"You don't?" I ask in amazement. Oh, I may join right in, I find
myself thinking. My idea of a fun weekend. In the back of my mind, I think:
maybe Saturday is the name of the place, dummy.
	"Only nobles and magicians wear clothes. So you, sir, must be a
magician, for your nobility is betrayed by your stiff trousers."
	"That's me, the magician of, uh, Finsbury Park . . ." I offer.
	"Finnzbuhreepuk!! Oh! What a horrible sounding place!" She recoils
from me. I hold on tight. "Please, mercy. Don't turn me into a toad or a
snake!"
	"Hey! Calm down! What's wrong? No, of course I won't do that. I was
just testing you. I'm uh, Prince Brian, in disguise."
	Her eyes widen. And now this gullible woman is falling to her
knees. "Oh, forgive me, Prince Brian. Forgive me for not recognizing you!
Please, I beg you. Let me kiss your sacred sword."
	And to underline the meaning of this, she is tugging at my jeans, a
baffled look on her face as she finds the zipper. "These strange bindings,
like sorcerers' work . . ."
	This is too good an opportunity to miss, so I unzip, unbutton and
let the eager Dahzelthza seize my erect prong with both hands, and take it
reverently into her warm mouth. She sucks expertly. Should I let her go to
completion? She will, I can tell. And that would be delightful. I've been
struggling to get Lynni to suck more in recent months. Some reticence she's
developed.
	But, stroking Dahzelthza's hair, I tell her: "That's wonderful, my
dear. But I would prefer to put it in your pussy."
	Her eyes widen, she chokes. Pulls back, and clearing her throat
with difficulty, splutters: "No!!! Not my poor Zazzipoo! Please! I'd rather
you put your sword in me, or my old mare!"
	I laugh aloud. "Not your damned cat, you crazy woman. Your cunt,
your juicy fuckhole." How about that for plain, unequivocal speech?
	She grins slyly. "Oh," she says thickly, licking her lips. "I
understand now." I'm unbuttoning my shirt. She waves her hand, "No! Don't
lose the protection of your magical garments out here, my lord. We must go
to my cottage, where we can be unobserved. Else a magician might come by
and steal your shadow, or put a spell on your sword . . ."
	I'd just as soon fuck her right here and now, but I pull up my
jeans and say: "Lead on then, beautiful maiden. Let's see how fair
Dahzelthza will like a good shagging."
	"Very much, I expect, my lord. That's why I'm banished to these
woods. I was judged too nymphlike and lustful for the Lord of the Town, or
his Dark Lady."
	"Well, I personally am a big fan of nymphos and lusty women, so
let's get rolling, shall we?"
	I follow her through some narrow pathways, down a steep hill. To a
tiny cottage, just a windowless lean-to really, by a dark and silent,
waveless lake. To make conversation, I joke: "The monster out today, or can
we go skinny-dipping?"
	She looks at me in terror. "Skinny-dipping? What's that? No, pray
leave me my skin, Prince Brian. Only the Flagellators covet a damsel's
skin."
	I wave my hand reassuringly. "No, that's fine. I can see you're,
uh, attached to it."
	She turns toward the dark lake. And in a quiet voice says: "The
monster is a good friend to me, and will not harm you."
	Well, that's good to hear. Well, my monster is in the mood to be a
good friend too. On a bed inside her tiny cottage, a black cat is staring
at me with universal feline arrogance. "Zazzipoo? Hi." I greet it, in my
best animal lover way. To my amazement, a baritone voice emerges. "Just
plain Zaz to you. And you are Brian, I presume?"
	Dahzelthza claps her hands. "Off. Shoo. We need this."
 	The cat then leaves with dignity, saying no more.
	Dahzelthza is tugging at my clothes, doing her nymphlike best to
distract me from this puzzling chain of events. Something is not quite
right here, I know. But then again, my 'magic sword' is doing my thinking
for me now. Soon I'm naked, and bouncing up and down on top of Dahzelthza
in my best, romantic English way. She seems averagely pleased, but later
tells me with a shy smile: "Let me keep you here a few days, strange
prince. There is much I would like to teach you of the arts of love." This
may be a mild criticism, but seems an admirable plan to me too.

	Days pass. And I think I can say she does a great job as a teacher,
though some of the specific memories are long since lost to me, due to her
use of some magic potions and herbs to make the 'magic sword' larger and
more to her liking, but that cloud my mind.
	She favors strange positions, and long leisurely sessions. The sort
of thing you don't get to practice in student digs, always wondering when
there'll be an uninvited knock on the door. No wonder some of my friends
ended up being treated for premature ejaculation problems. She likes to
suck, I already knew that. And she likes to be licked, and shows me just
how and where, with remarkable lack of inhibition. In my place, I learn to
treat her with lack of inhibition too. She bathes twice daily, and is the
cleanest woman I've known. Getting her dirty is part of the fun.
	We fuck indoors and out, though she cautions against straying too
far from the cottage or lake. Some kind of magical barrier protects us
here, in her miind at least. I doubt it, but I don't argue with a woman who
is so generous with her charms. Her little cottage is an industry, in its
own way. She prepares spells and potions, sells them to travelers from a
wayside stand, near where we met. She has a collection of farm animals,
which she keeps as pets. Three pigs named Sausage, Bacon and Pork Chop. I
laugh at those names when I hear them, but she explains with great
seriousness that she, like most Saturday folk, is a vegetarian, and has
named her companions thusly, as a reminder of their holy status. In return?
Well, I have my suspicions later, long after. Her relationship with Pork
Chop seems rather intense. Have you ever seen pigs smile? When they see me,
believe me, they smile.
	My liking for Dahzelthza grows as time passes. To be here with her
is a pleasant outcome. I want no more.
	And then one day, I learn.

	I am sitting naked by the lake, perched on a rock. I toss in a
couple of loose coins I'd been playing with. What use would they be here?
The lake, dark and oppressive as ever, swallows them. A black mirror of the
soul, you might say. Zaz is licking his ass and purring, nearby. Dahzelthza
has gone berry-picking, deep in the woods. I hear a faint tinkling. A
distant sound like a horn, far away. Then, there's a rippling in the water.
A frog hops out and sits on a lilypad, just a few feet away.
	"Ribbit," I say softly.
	"Ribbit to you too," a young girl's voice replies. I look around.
No, it's this frog.
	"Uh, so what's newt with you?" I say lamely.
	"Nothing. Thanks for the money. Nice gesture, but my advice is
free. Don't waste time, Prince Brian. Your mortal soul is in danger. Listen
carefully. You must leave Dahzelthza. She is a sorceress. I know. She
bewitched me. The monster of the lake sent me to warn you."
	"I'm confused. Isn't it her friend?"
	"Creatures behave ethically here, for the most part. Only people
are deceitful."
	"Sounds like somewhere else I know."
	"Then be gone. Her potions and berries are ensnaring you. And her
constant demands for love are draining your vital essence."
	"Well, she's certainly fucking the living daylights out of me, if
that's what you mean."
	"That's precisely what I mean. I could not have phrased it better,
O Wise One. Go, today. Go, now!"
	"Hmm. Maybe I will. But where?"
	"Take the crooked path up through the woods, then head west."
	I look puzzled.
	"Men!" she says. "Turn left at the top, then."
	"And? Where am I going?"
	"Don't you want to return to your own dimension, traveler?"
	"My own dimension?"
	"Where you came from? Oh dear. It's too difficult to explain to
you. You don't have the language."
	"Oh, how do you know I'm from somewhere else? Does it show?"
	"Naturally."
	"And, uh, where am I going?"
	"To Nottamun Town."
	I stare for a minute. I'm having a conversation with a frog about a
fantasy song from English folk music.
	"Is there such a place?"
	"Believe me."
	"Alright, I will. Is there anything I can do for you, Sir Frog?"
	"All will be well, when it should be well, ribbit," the frog
replies. And plunges back into the lake with a tiny Zen splash.

	I realize I must go before Dahzelthza returns. She'd make me stay,
one way or the other. I dress up in my Prince Brian clothes, look around
for a weapon. There's nothing suitable, as far as I can tell. Zaz is
watching me.
	"You figured it out, then, huh?"
	"A problem for you?"
	"No,  go quickly though. You got it all planned?"
	"Not really, just head for Nottamun town, then . . . I don't know."
	"Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me."
	"You have a better idea, I suppose?"
	"Take me with you, and I'll have one."
	"Oh, and what about loyalty? What about you and Dahzelthza?"
	"You don't know a lot about cats, do you?"
	"Okay. So, then tag along, Zaz. Welcome to the fool's crusade, huh?
Should I bring some food for you?"
	"I can catch mice with the best of them," the cat says with an
aloof turn of his head, a little shake of the tail.
	"Anything else I need from here?" I'm still looking around.
	"Can you use a bow? Are you a real swordsman, outside the bedroom?"
	"No. Isn't there a magic ring, a helmet, some shit like that?"
	"Sure. And you'd need a five year course to learn the incantations,
stop you from turning yourself into a centipede, or permanently grafting
your mouth onto a horse's rectum."
	"More complicated than engineering?"
 	"The Enjinia Ring? I'm not familiar with that one. Well whatever
that is back home, magic here is more complicated, yes. Only for the adept."
	"Then, bare hands, pure soul, brave smile, stiff willy it is," I
laugh.
	"Great. You have some of that stuff together, anyway. So, let's
move it."

	We bustle off. I imagine we'd gone about five miles or so, back on
the broad cart track where I'd first met Dahzelthza, over a couple of
rolling dales. Suddenly, there's a distant rumble of thunder. And from the
direction we'd left, a shimmering glow and a bolt of turquoise lightning
shooting from the ground, up into the evening sky.
	"Her?" I ask the cat.
	"Who else?"
	"She's mad?"
	"You know what women are like . . ."
	"What can she do?" I'm a bit worried. I've not pissed off a woman
who had magical skills before. Let alone one who could send thunderbolts
soaring into the sky. Even the volatile Brenda . . .
	"Not a lot, right now. But she'll be watching you, seeking her
chance. You see, in some ways she brought you here to Saturday. And she's
got a lock on you. With all that semen you pumped into her, yes? So,
breaking free won't be as easy as just pulling your pants on, waving your
hand, and walking out, Brian."
	"Is she, uh, malevolent, Zaz?"
	"No more or less than any sorceress. I find her quite agreeable.
But our roles in life are different, Brian. She wants to own you. Really
own you. To make you her slave. And I have to tell you, there are plenty of
men who would accept that fate gladly. To share her bed and her
perversions, until the end of time. Endlessly renewed, constantly
challenged by her lusts and desires."
	"You're tempting me," I warn.
	"I don't think I am. I'm not sure, but those pigs of hers? I think
they may have been men, once. Not an existence I'd care for, even if they
do pork her from time to time . . ."
	I stare at the cat in amazement. "Really?"
	"I've seen it myself. No, that's not the life for you. You're one
of these free spirits we see here occasionally. It probably wouldn't have
worked out. And she can't hold you, if you're unwilling. Which you seem to
be,  if you're really being honest with yourself."

	We camp that night by a stream. I'm hungry. Zaz shows me some fruit
and berries I can eat, if I wash them first. He comes back with bloody
mouth and says: "Can I interest you in a hedgehog?"
	"No, the fruit will be fine. I don't eat raw meat."
	"Unless a good looking woman's sitting on it?"
	"That's right! Ha ha. You were watching, weren't you?"
	"Cats don't get that much entertainment usually. Yes, of course I
watched. You really did a good job of fucking her, Brian."
	"And that's a compliment, coming from a tomcat, isn't it?"
	"Yes it is. She's going to be a miserable sorceress. And that's not
good news."
	"Will she follow us?"
	"It goes without saying. She's out there somewhere. There'll be no
confrontation, if you don't invite one. Just don't say her name, aloud or
in your mind."
	That's easy. I'd never gotten the pronunciation right anyway.
	Zaz continues: "If we're off at dawn, I think we should be there by
midday. In time for a decent meal."
	"One problem, Zaz. What do we pay with?"
	"Ah, you really do know nothing at all about Nottamun Town, I see!
Well, I'll tell you when we get there."

	A restless night. And yes, I almost say her name. I can see her
face in the back of my mind. I have a big erection, I can smell her
delicious cunt. I . . . the treetops near us are shaking. There's a patter
of rain, some hail. An electric glow in the air, orangy pink flashes.
Drifting will o' the wisp lights. A deep rumble of distant thunder. I start
to masturbate, banishing all thought of her. Just concentrating on Lynni's
blonde pubes, hairy, wet, her juicy pink lips, her tiny tits and their huge
nipples, the taste, the taste . . . A huge flash of lightning as I come, a
distant scream of pure frustration.

	We walk all morning. I don't know about Zaz, but I'm getting tired.
My shoes are unsuitable for this, and killing my feet. It's hot, and I'm
sweating. We get to the crest of the umpteenth hill, and he lets out a
miaow.
	"This feels right. You should be able to see it from here." Zaz
leaps up on to my shoulder, purring. "There."
	And in the distance, a little town on a bend in a meandering river.
Looking just like a medieval burg, with a high wall all round. Towers, a
moat. At the center, a tall keep in dark stone, with a couple of flags
flying.
	"Nottamun Town."
	I begin to hum the melody under my breath.
	"No!" Zaz warns me sharply.
	"Why not?"
	"It's the key to a powerful spell, and if you know it, save it. Do
you know words, too?"
	"Some."
	"Try to remember as many as you can. It may be your key to going
home, Brian. But no more singing, until the time is right."



[continued in Pt.2]



Copyright (c) 1997, MrSpraycan. All rights reserved.
Contact, e-mail: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com> or
<http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan>



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