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From: "chrutli patrona" <chrutli@hotmail.com>
Subject: RP:isle1.txt 1/2 [cons snf]
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     Disclaimer: This is a rather grisly fantasy about secret druid 
rites on an isolated North Sea Island. Don't read it. If you must read 
it, neither the author nor the poster takes any responsibility for your 
having done so; legal and moral repercussions are yours alone. Live well 
and love gently- Chrutli 


                        ( M/f; cons snuff; other stuff)


                                   Our Island
                                    Chrutli
                                       1


     Our island is isolated in the harsh North Sea. Indeed, it doesn't 
appear at all on most maps. We are nominally a bit of England, but 
geographically closer to Norway; both countries rather ignore us. That, 
more than anything, is why the ancient customs here have persisted. We 
are isolated from radio and television. Though with the satellite dishes 
now, television is a possibility, few on our island can afford the 
luxury. What radio signals we can receive are Norwegian, and we listen 
mostly for the music; we are, after all, english-speaking British 
subjects. Farming, sheep and fishing sustain us. We have relatively few 
visitors.
     I had come to the island to assume the practice of Dr. Thomas 
Stewart, who was retiring. It was Dr. Stewart who initiated me into the 
circle. I was a worldly and sophisticated man then; I can admire in 
retrospect his skill and insight regarding me. I know more now, and 
less. I have regrets, but they are not those you might expect.
     My wife was the first, my dark-eyed Robin. Robin was a lovely 
woman, black-haired, olive-skinned, tall; on the slender side of 
voluptuous, the beauty of the Mediterranean, though she was British. She 
had been reserved and a bit prudish when I met her. She had been an 
indifferent lover as well when I married her, but her physical beauty 
compensated. I loved her breasts, and I know that she was proud of them, 
of the effect her beauty had on me, and on other men. She was prudish, 
yes, but not foolish; she enjoyed being so desirable. The birth of our 
little girl neither compromised her beauty, nor melted her reserve. I 
was, despite her passionless nature, quite in love with her.
	Dr. Stewart was a lean, vigorous man in his middling sixties. He 
was retiring from practice, though he was staying on the island. It was 
perhaps unusual for me, a young doctor, to chose such an isolated place 
to take up practice, but the very isolation appealed to me. Robin was 
less enthusiastic, but she was a good mother and satisfied with her role 
of housekeeper; as the islanders warmed to her, she grew happy and 
content.
	Stewart was retiring; I took up the practice with him, and matters 
seemed unremarkable until the day he took me off to the bluffs for a 
chat. Stewart had an extensive library on primitive religions and ritual 
sacrifice. I recall we discussed pagan beliefs and druids over a bottle 
of greek wine; the christian eucharist, and then the sacrifice of nubile 
young women. I argued broadly and naively that such a thing could add to 
the strength and vitality of a community; one woman chosen from a 
community, honored, then slain and perhaps even communally devoured, I 
said, might well provide a sort of soul and focus for a primitive 
society.
	Stewart seemed amused. "Suppose it was your own wife, or your 
daughter about to be slain. Would you feel the same?"
	It gave me a chill; I sensed he meant more than he said. "I love 
Robin and Katherine with my all," I said a bit indignantly.
	"Hypothetically, of course. If your wife was naked on some pagan 
altar, and you were handed a ceremonial knife. For the good of all, 
could you do it then? For the good of the community?"
	"It's a hateful notion," I protested. But somehow I could picture 
it; Robin, the darkness, the knife descending into the olive skin of her 
naked breast, the welling of hot blood. It was curiously and shamefully 
arousing.
	"It needn't be hateful," Stewart said reasonably. "Mostly certainly 
erotic, though, don't you think? Powerfully, darkly erotic. And yet it 
may be loving as well." Dr. Stewart shrugged and laughed, dismissing the 
topic. "Quite a discussion, don't you think? Here in the very soul of 
druid country?" He dropped it; I was grateful. I did indeed find it 
arousing.
	We discussed other things, and eventually returned to our homes, a 
pleasant afternoon away from the demands of the surgery. I liked 
Stewart. He was eccentric, but a gentle sort. His patients were devoted 
to him. When I let him off at his cottage, he touched my wrist. "Do 
this. The next time you're with your wife. Between the fifth and six 
rib, say, a deep cut from the side to the sternum. That will open her 
chest adequately. Then her heart; you know the anatomy."
	"You're a filthy perverted bastard," I said, laughing dismissively. 
My face grew hot.
	He laughed himself as he got out. "I am at that. You'll have to 
come see my library sometime. Well then, I'll see you in the morning."
	I thought nothing of it the next morning when Dr. Stewart saw Robin 
as a patient. Such things are a professional courtesy; one generally 
doesn't treat family members. It was busy in the surgery, as it always 
is. Robin left again before I had a chance to say hello.
	After lunch, Stewart and I walked to the square; he lit his pipe as 
we sat on a bench. "Let me see. You took off her pyjamas under the 
pretext of fondling her, you discovered that to get to her heart 
properly, you'd have to more or less cut through the mass of her breast. 
The idea inflamed you, and you made love to her a bit aggressively, yes? 
Pinned her arms over her head, bit her breasts perhaps?"
	I flushed deeply. "That is indecent, Stewart," I gasped. I had in 
fact more or less done what he said. Robin's breasts were large, full 
and elegantly firm; they would have gotten in the way of any incision. 
And the secret exploration had aroused me.
	"Yes, but accurate? And she surprised you, didn't she? She rather 
liked the truculence, multiple orgasms and all that."
	That too was true; a first for Robin, who often had no orgasm at 
all. "Robin told you this?" I demanded. "I know you saw her this 
morning."
	Stewart laughed heartily. "No. She did not. You told me yourself, 
Jon; it's not so much that you're transparent, but the simple fact that 
most men have that dark impulse. A small handful of women find it 
terribly arousing. If one is observant, he can recognise these women. 
Robin is such a woman. I'm sure of it."
	"Stewart, damn you, what are you getting at?"
	He looked at me shrewdly. "You'll see. In good time, you'll 
understand me. You're a bit muddled by civilisation, that's all. We're 
past the edge of civilisation on our lonely little island. You'll see 
soon enough."
	"Riddles, Stewart?" I was more muddled than upset; the shameful 
notion had been exciting, but I wanted to drop the subject altogether.
	"I've a one o'clock. Shouldn't we get back?" That was all he said. 
I had been aroused, and a bit rough with Robin, handling her a bit, 
pinching and forcing her. She had responded with astonishing, violent 
orgasms. After, she had been resentful; I was apologetic. But she had 
had orgasms, not a simple, hard- won orgasm, as was often her response. 
It wasn't, at any extent, something I wanted to discuss with a 
colleague.
	Stewart showed me a bookcase in his office before we left for the 
day; dozens of books on paganism, sacrificial rites, and the like. "So 
you're a filthy, perverted scholar?" I asked.
	He laughed. "I'll have you and your wife to my cottage some 
evening. That's where most of my collection is. I have some remarkable 
artifacts as well. You see, it is more than a hobby with me. Your 
premise of the other day may well have validity, you know."
	"My premise?"
	"That sacrificial rites can be a benefit for a society."
	"So much blather, Stewart," I said impatiently. "You didn't tell me 
you were an authority."
	"You didn't ask," Stewart smiled without disdain. He offered me 
several books on Druid practices; I took them, a bit embarrassed at my 
presumptuous pronouncements of the earlier afternoon. 
	He distressed me, but I quite forgot about the exchange by the time 
I got home, and spent a pleasant evening with my young daughter and my 
lovely Robin. Kat had made cakes that afternoon with Robin's help; she 
was quite proud of herself. After dinner the two of them read story 
books on the porch swing. It was a vision of happy domesticity, and I 
was indeed happy.
     I perused the books Stewart had given me. I was mildly surprised to 
discover two of them were written by Stewart himself; one on the Druid 
faith, and the other on Druidic sacrificial rites. Stewart wrote at 
length on the social and moral implications of the practice. He saw such 
it as positive and sustainable in the fabric of a society, and his 
arguments were quite compelling. The other book gave a more general 
description of Druid beliefs, and I was surprised to discover that the 
tenets of that faith were good and wholesome, the sacrifice of women 
notwithstanding. I read until Robin put Kat to bed, and then my thoughts 
turned to my lovely wife and her passion of the previous night.
	Robin was curiously reluctant when we retired. I tried to remove 
her pyjama; she fussed and protested. I was a bit aggressive; she had 
responded to that the night before. I actually tore buttons, and thus 
exposed what she had been trying to conceal. There were grey marks on 
her chest; I recognised them immediately. They'd been done with a 
surgical marker, black lines to delineate an incision on the skin. They 
were faded from much washing and scrubbing, but still apparent. One line 
described the shape of her heart where it lay beneath her breastbone. 
Another started beneath her armpit, curved under her breast where her 
breast met her ribs and traveled upward to her breastbone, above her 
heart. A third line started the same, but traversed her breast, crossing 
her bulbous nipple, ending again above her heart. "What is this?" I 
demanded, furious. "What the devil is this?" I knew: her heart, and 
prospective incisions to reach it. Stewart had done this.
	"Jon, don't be angry. Thomas was naughty, that was all. I 
encouraged him. It wasn't anything."
	"Then what the devil is this? Explain it to me."
	"It's my fault. I was curious. Dr. Stewart studies pagan rites, you 
see. And I. I asked him."
	"You asked him to draw on your chest?"
	Robin lay back, her eyes dark. "There used to be Druids here, you 
know. On this island. And they sacrificed young women. So I asked him, 
how did they do it? And I- well, he's an old man anyway, and he can be 
charming. He was rather playful. So I took my blouse and brassiere off 
and he showed me. He drew my heart where it lay in my chest. Then he 
said my breast was in the way, and they might have to cut it away. That 
was the first mark-" she guided my hand under her breast, following the 
line along her ribs, curving up to her sternum- "said he'd have to take 
my breast away to expose the ribs, then cut between my ribs."
	Robin swallowed, watching me. "He was so cheerful, chatting me up. 
He rather fondled me a bit- I should have stopped it, I know, but he's 
old and I saw no harm. Then he said the other way was to cut through my 
breast, and he pushed it around on my chest so his knife- his marker 
went directly through my breast, through my nipple-" she guided my hand 
across her flesh- "And that would be a bit quicker. Then he told me how 
they would open my chest, reach in and cut this and that, quickly, and 
that if it was done properly I could see my own heart quivering alive. 
Before I passed on."
	Robin swallowed, shivering. "It was my fault; I shouldn't have let 
him, and I should have stopped him. I tried to wash it off, but-" she 
smiled weakly and shrugged. "He'd already done a breast exam, that and a 
Pap smear. He'd already touched me intimately. I'd put my clothes back 
on. It really was my fault."
	"I'll rip his bloody heart out. He had no blasted right-"
	"No. Don't. Please. You'll only embarrass me. Please?" Robin 
touched me, kissed and caressed me urgently. "Please?"
	"I'll have words with him, you can be assured-" She kissed me.
	"No. Don't speak of it. Please? Don't. Not at all. It was my fault. 
I was wicked. Don't blame him." Robin lifted her breasts to me, a wanton 
gesture foreign to her. "You like my breasts, my tennis-ball nipples. It 
shouldn't surprise you that other men admire them."
	"Other men don't draw on my wife's breasts." My anger was giving 
way to lust; Her nipples were erect and her eyes dark. 'Tennis balls' 
she called them, pips of nipples amidst aureolas that swelled 
prodigiously, darkly pigmented, brownish-red and smooth. I didn't love 
Robin for her breasts, but I certainly loved her breasts. I was aroused, 
and she knew it. A line across her breast, ending above her heart. I 
touched her breast; it would be perhaps easier to push it aside to make 
the incision; more truculent to cut straight through, and then into the 
pectoral muscle. I was aroused. I kissed her deeply.
	"Like last night?" she whispered, her lips trembling.
	I'm not a cruel man, but the hunger and outrage provoked by 
Stewart's meddling in our intimate life drove me almost to excess. Robin 
responded as she had the previous night; it was a revelation that crude 
rutting excited her more than tender considerations.
	Afterward, she watched me tenderly, as I cleaned and dressed her 
left breast were my teeth had broken the tender skin. "I do love you, 
Jonathon. You know that, don't you?"
	"I suppose I do."
	"You'll not mention this to Stewart? Please?"
	"Why? Why would you want to protect him?" My anger was spent, but I 
was still indignant. "Did he seduce you? Did he try to seduce you?"
	"No. Not that. Of course not that." She swallowed, looking away. 
"It excited me, laying beneath him like that. Imagining how it would 
feel. And it- I don't know, it frightened me to feel that way. I won't 
see him again, all right? I feel foolish. I want to put it behind me. 
Please?"
     I looked at her darkly; that business had excited her?
     "He's old, anyway, she added. "Too old to please a woman, I'd 
imagine. Don't you think?"
	He was retiring. Perhaps Stewart was too old to function as a man. 
I was determined not to apologise to Robin for injuring her breast; her 
nipple was swollen and discolored as well as bleeding. "I'll let it be," 
I said, a small act of contrition for having hurt her. Had Stewart 
seduced her? She said not. Perhaps he couldn't even achieve an erection; 
perhaps that was why he resorted to fondling women in the surgery. Robin 
had never lied to me before, so I dismissed my suspicions.
	"Thank you," she said. She curled against me to sleep; I was 
aroused again, but my feelings shamed me; I turned away from her and 
slept myself. I slept well; despite Stewart's horrid behaviour, I felt 
terribly virile. I could excite Robin. The dark beast in me had awaken, 
and he hungered.
     The next morning, Stewart himself made apologies. He was delicate, 
sincere, abject and humble. He was almost an embarrassment in his 
excess; he sent Robin a case of good French wine with a note asking 
forgiveness. I accepted his apology with reluctance. The matter passed 
eventually; Robin's breast healed; we resumed more temperate lovemaking, 
and I began reading Stewart's library more widely. He was pleased at my 
interest. I was surprised to discover that the last public sacrifice on 
our island was done in 1934, practically in modern times; in the text 
there was no mention of prosecution, nor any repercussions at all, 
simply that that had been the last public sacrifices, a young woman 
noted for her beauty and her gentle ways. The ritual had been conducted 
on a bluff at the east end of the island.
     I went there one grey afternoon, and discovered a slab of limestone 
set up on a rise, weathered and overgrown, but clearly where the deed 
had been done. My fascination with the rite was neither scholarly nor 
innocent; Stewart had encouraged me cheerfully, both in the study of 
Druid faith and in the dark practices of that ancient religion. Standing 
on the bluff, under that grey sky, I could imagine the event, the naked 
body, the knife, and the blood welling. I could well imagine the young 
woman struggling, screaming; the text, though said she'd given herself 
"gently and willingly, as was befitting."
     Later, I asked Stewart about the slab on the bluff; he confirmed 
that it had been the altar. He mentioned quite casually that Robin had 
discovered a small medallion near the altar, silver and badly corroded, 
but nonetheless a Druid artifact.
	"Robin was there?"
	"I took her myself, just last week."
     "You took her there?" I asked. I was distressed; I hadn't known 
Robin was interested as well; nor had I known she'd been with him.
     "She didn't tell you? She found it all rather fascinating."
     "No. She didn't."
     "An oversight, perhaps. Jonathon, I'm prepared to turn my practice 
over to you entirely. Perhaps we ought to discuss arrangements. I'm 
eager to have my own time, you see."
     I let him change the subject. We discussed arrangements. I didn't 
ask, but I wondered. Why had Robin been with him and said nothing? Why 
had the two of them gone there, of all places? Had she, out of curiosity 
or Stewart's persuasion, lain on that ancient altar? And if she had, 
what then? The questions were endless and distressing; I tried to ignore 
the matter, and to dismiss my own misgivings. Robin was her own woman, 
certainly, but I had the distressing sense of concealment and betrayal. 
Robin had recently come by a small medallion; she wore it on a chain 
between her breasts, the silver too weathered to be recognisable. She 
told me she bought it. I did not, later, ask Robin about the business on 
the bluff. It distressed me, but I didn't dare ask. I felt vaguely 
guilty as well; if I pictured Robin on the bluff, laid out on the 
ancient altar, she was always naked, and the palpebral image was erotic.
     Looking back, I must say I was meant to suspect her; that was 
Stewart's intention. Robin was a pawn. However, I knew none of that at 
the time.
     A short time after we were invited to Stewart's home for a small 
dinner party to celebrate his full retirement. The guests, besides Robin 
and myself, were Eric, a black man who was the butcher in the village, 
and a young woman named Wendy, who was apparently a simple clerk at the 
druggist's. Curious company, perhaps, but each was unique. Eric was a 
handsome, muscular man. He was a butcher, yes, but educated, erudite, 
and charming, though rather blunt and forward. He took to Robin 
immediately, and Robin, curiously, returned his interest. I found 
something oddly cold about him. Wendy, the other guest, was blonde, 
slender, a golden Nordic sort with a face that was cute rather than 
beautiful. She was in her early twenties, and spoke little, though she 
was quite engaged with the conversation. She had a poise, almost a 
serenity about her that was unusual for such a young woman. It appealed 
to me, though I admit I showed interest in her as much because Eric and 
Robin were so taken with each other.
     The evening went along quite pleasantly, really, until Stewart 
suggested we look at the artifacts he had in his study, Druid artifacts 
and oddities from the middle ages. Wendy demurred and asked me to 
accompany her to the garden. I rather wanted to see Stewart's 
collection, but followed her, to Robin's unspoken amusement. There was 
nothing remarkable about Wendy; she wasn't educated, nor witty, nor 
sexual, though there was a sensuality about her. Just the same, there 
was a glow, a serenity, a goodness about her that I fairly warmed myself 
on. We admired his garden and chatted lightly. It was she, finally, who 
suggested we go back inside.
     In the study, Robin was on her back in a sort of stock, fastened 
around her neck and wrists. It was low, no more than two feet from the 
floor, and she was kneeling, bent backwards in the stock, her back 
arched sharply. Eric was resting a massive curving sword on her throat. 
Robin's eyes were fastened shut, her full lips parted.
     "Eric, please. Stop this at once," Wendy said mildly. "You like 
this truculent business far too much."
     Robin opened her eyes and looked at me distantly; she saw my anger. 
Eric lifted the sword, looking at me darkly, as if I'd interrupted 
something. "An unusual way to treat a man's wife, don't you think?" I 
asked coldly.
     Eric nodded a bland apology. I knelt and unfastened the stock. With 
her back arched so severely, Robin's breasts had stretched her blouse; 
the shape of them, and the shape of her erect nipples was quite apparent 
against the taut fabric. "It's all right, Jon, really it is," Robin 
protested as I extracted her and helped her to her feet. She was 
trembling, but perhaps that was only from the strain. "It's all right. 
There's no harm done."
     "Nor any intended, of course," Eric said coolly.
     Wendy scolded him; Stewart tried to smooth matters over; Robin 
tried to catch her breath and her composure. I was far too angry for any 
of that, and we left before I made matters worse.
     We didn't speak for most of the way home. Finally, Robin said, "It 
really was all right. He wouldn't have hurt me."
     "Right. You laid yourself in that device and let yourself be bound 
tight."
     "No, that is, Eric insisted. I let him lock me up, but he was quite- 
well, he insisted."
     "And Stewart? He didn't try to stop it?"
     "He-he made light of it; he found a cushion for my knees. He tried 
to ease my discomfort."
	"You were quite helpless, fastened on your back like that. And Eric 
might have hurt you with that sword."
	"He didn't. Mostly, the two of them discussed how they would skin 
and dress my body once I was properly beheaded; Eric is a butcher, you 
know. Eric said my breasts would be waste, and that was a bloody shame, 
but that my hams would be delicious. He said my breasts were mostly fat; 
I suggested he put them inside my chest to tenderise everything when I 
baked. He was quite intrigued at the notion." Robin smiled at me timidly 
and ingenuously, as if it had all been harmless fun.
	"It's all depraved, Robin. It's not at all healthy."
	"Wicked," she laughed, kissing me, growing amourous as I drove. 
"Deliciously wicked."  All the dark hungers I'd been harbouring over the 
weeks boiled to the surface. I wasn't cruel to her once we arrived home. 
I was aggressive, uncompromising and completely domineering, though. I 
used my necktie to bind her hands, and proceeded from there, ravishing 
her greedily. The dark beast was back, and ravening with hunger. Robin 
responded with the same feverish passion as before. And then she 
surprised me; she took me in her mouth. She had never done that before. 
And then, equally shocking and arousing, her mouth slid to my pubes and 
her throat embraced me. It was a whore's trick. In our years of marriage 
she had kissed my penis only a few times, and then after much urging. I 
used her mouth, and then took her again, with less restraint than 
before. She cried out twice, but she didn't protest my aggression. She 
cried a bit when we were both finished, but she curled against me to do 
so. I had bruised and scratched her body, but something dark and bitter 
remained in my thoughts, and I didn't dress her mild injuries, nor offer 
her more comfort than holding her as she cried.
	Though the night had been sexually gratifying, the events of the 
evening put something of a barrier between us; we barely spoke the next 
morning. Passions and peculiar events had driven something between us, 
something neither of us was willing to discuss. My suspicions of her and 
my cruelty were of the same fabric.  That she enjoyed the cruelty, 
though; did that confirm my suspicions, or prove her love for me?


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