Mischa and Ghordin

There is a saying that roughly translates as “… a man who cannot bear the weight of his wife upon his shoulders is of no more use than a whore without hole… “

Mischa was an elegent young lady. Many of the village boys could recall every inch of her body with their eyes closed. They practiced this. A lot. If it had been possible to harness the power, the heat that was collectively generated each evening the village would not have been poor. If a battery could have been charged or a cistern filled by the furious adolescent rubbing and tugging of he boys as they watched Mischa perform upon the inside of their eyelids the town could have hosted an aluminium smelter. It wasn’t possible. All that was generated was the yeasty fug of discharge.

Ghordin did not join in with the collective but solitary masturbations. He was pure. He told Mischa just this but she did not care. She enjoyed vicariously enjoyed the nocturnal spurting as much as if it had been a warm shower from the gods, cascading over her face. She teased Ghordin ” … why do you need to reserve your seed dwarf? You will never find a furrow into which to plow and sew … ” This was most likely going to be true, but Ghordin was resolute. He would not use his hand. He woudl wait.

The waiting seemed interminable. Each day Ghordin thought each night he dreamt. He could control his mind but he could not control his body. He woudl not put flesh to flesh. This did not stop the bubbling beneath the surface. Fluid was made and fluid must be stored. His resevoir grew. He could hardly walk. He culdn’t work. The village elders advised him ” … take it in hand … relieve yourself …” Ghordin would not listen.

In th autumn of every year was a dance, and for this dance a queen would be chosen. Everyone new that Mischa would be Queen. She was. As she strode out into the festive firlight she was glorious, milky-flesh, ullulating to the rythm of the chanting. The louder they sang the more she swirled, the heat from her cool skin made a glow on the faces of all arond her. Ghordin was not immune to the effect. He felt himself burning as the blood raged through his body. The aching and het in his member became unbearable. It stood alot like a totem to Mischa. She stopped before him, enraptured by his protrusion. She stared down hungrily and felt moisture building between her legs. The sweat drenched folds of flesh allowed easy passage for the internal lubricant to flow. It smelt like sweet. The honey from the rarest flower would be sour by compare.

Ghordin lost control. He took his thumb and forefinger and encirlcled them around himself. One squeeze and that was it. Years of damned emotions flowed. The entire vilages was washed away to their death, leaving only Mischa. An island in a lake of love.