TheFerret's Points Story | Three Princesses: Finnia, part one

Connin had become boastful in his old age. He told many stories of his own cunning, and the dozens of princesses he’d bedded--though he never named names. But as his mother said whenever she was in earshot, that was hardly true. In Connin’s more than 900 years, there had been only three.

The first was Finnia.

Finnia was the daughter of King Warin the Second, called Wise, and Queen Emmae. As the last of twelve, she was much petted, but never spoiled, and given many freedoms as long as she remained within the safe boundaries of Tremont Keep and its grounds. Whenever her father wasn’t waging war on another kingdom, she was even allowed to walk in the King’s Woods, so long as she kept clear of the Travelers who camped there. Her father would always say, “The Travelers helped me gain my throne and your mother, and they have the run of the Woods, but I’ll never turn my back on them. Stay away from them, Finnia.”

Finnia did as she was told--mostly. Along with blue eyes and a straight nose, Finnia had inherited her mother’s stubborn chin, and her father’s guile. When her curiosity was aroused, she satisfied it, and was rarely if ever found out.

Even so, she avoided the bright wagons, or at least stayed out of sight. Finnia was not averse to climbing trees, and would clamber up an oak to watch the Travelers in their camp; they played and sang with such sprightliness that it was all Finnia could do sometimes to keep herself from leaping from her refuge and dancing with them. The women’s brilliant skirts twirled as they stamped their bare feet, bells jingling at their hips and ankles. It was like nothing at court, and Finnia loved their wildness.

She spent several summers like this, eating apples and cheese in the boughs of the oak. She was never caught by either her family or the Travelers, until one day in her sixteenth year. She knew she was too old for climbing trees, but she did it anyway; old habits died hard with her, and she’d grown used to spending summer days watching the people she’d come to think of as friends. Children who’d been babies when she began watching were now darting through the camp, chasing each other with sticks and rolling around in the dirt and leaves like puppies.

On the day she was caught, all but one of the band had gone early into town to trade and entertain, all crowded onto three caravans. One man was left to mind the fire and the remaining horses, the rusty-haired one named Connin. Finnia thought him quite the best-looking of the Traveler men, handsomer than the nobles at court who’d begun to make noises about marrying her. Odd, though, that he’d be the one left alone; Finnia knew he was the son of the Travelers’ leader--how strange, to be ruled by a woman!

When he seemed sure he was alone, Connin snagged a pottery jug cooling in the nearby creek; Finna had to crane to see what he was doing. To her surprise, he didn’t go back into the camp, but laid himself out in the clearing near her tree, lying in the dappled sun on a bed of grass with a cushion under his head. He took a swig from the small jug, let out a long, contented sigh, and then did the last thing she ever expected. He unfastened his leggings, and took out his cock.

She knew that’s what it was, because she had six brothers. When the younger ones had still been small, they had all played together naked in a dammed-up bit of the creek that ran closer to the Keep. She’d never seen a grown man’s before.

Once she got over her initial shock, she leaned forward, wondering what on earth he was about; as she watched, he pulled at it, again and again, until it stuck straight out. I had no idea they did that, she thought. She’d always wondered how it all went; her mother had told her somewhat how it went, and that she shouldn’t have anything to do with it until she was married or else she wouldn’t pass her Sister’s Temple examination, and that when the time came she wouldn’t find it unpleasant, and that in the end she’d have a baby from it. She reflected that her mother had twelve babies, so she must have liked it at least that much.

Connin gave it a long, easy stroke, playing with the loose skin around its tip, and groaned--almost a growl. The tip was quite red. “You’d have an easier time looking at it, Princess, if you’d just come down from that tree,” he said. “I’ll let you look your fill. You can even touch it if you’d like.”

Finnia shrank into the branches, hoping to avoid being seen even as she knew it was too late. “Finnia,” he said, “we’ve always known you were up there watching us. Come down.”

“You knew?” she squeaked, peering down through the oak leaves.

“Of course we did!” he said. “Who d’you think we are? Bumpkins? We’re always on our guard--we’re not well-regarded, you know.”

He stroked himself lazily, rolling the skin around the tip up and then down again. It was nearly hypnotic, and Finnia was intensely curious about it. “Does it hurt?” she finally said.

“Hurt?” said Connin. “No, girl, it doesn’t hurt! In fact--” he arched up slightly and shook it at her, his fist at its base-- “it’s the source of all pleasure. Come down, pretty Finnia!”

“If I come down, Traveler, do you promise not to hurt me?” she said as imperiously as she could.

Connin laughed. “With your nose in the air, you remind me greatly of your mother.”

“My mother? You’ve never met my mother!”

“Oh, indeed?” he said. “I promise if you come down I won’t hurt you.”

“You won’t tell anyone I’ve been watching you, will you?”

“Never in life would I do such a thing,” said Connin. She climbed down, holding her dresses closed as best she could; just before she reached the ground, though, her hems caught on the bark and lifted high enough that she was certain he’d seen more than he should have. She hastily tugged them back down. “Now, tell me,” he smirked as she hung back against the oak, “why have you spent your summers sitting in a tree and watching us?”

Finnia colored. “I just like to watch you all. Your life is very different from life in court.”

“Better?”

“No,” said Finnia thoughtfully. “No, not better. I don’t think traveling from place to place and wondering where your next meal will come from is better than living at court. But court is boring. It’s stuffy. No one’s having any fun. You can’t speak your mind, not really. I envy your women, it seems as if they can do fairly well as they please.”

“And you can’t?”

“Of course I can’t!” she laughed, forgetting the situation entirely at the absurdity of his question. “I have to be good and stay quiet and nod politely when these muttonheads who want to marry me prattle on about how important they are back in their own holdings, as if I didn’t know exactly who and what they are.”

“I should never have suspected such a restricted life, what with you up in a tree eating apples all day.”

“How d’you know I eat apples!”

“You throw the cores down, goose.” He said nothing more, and went back to stroking himself, while she watched in blushing fascination. “Come now,” he crooned. “A little closer, don’t you wish to see better? I promise I won’t so much as touch you. You can watch your fill.”

“What will happen?” she said, creeping forward.

“What has your mother told you?”

“I know enough to know I shouldn’t come any nearer to you, else I won’t pass my examination.”

“Ah, Finnia, no, no! No, there are many ways to find pleasure that won’t jeopardize your exam! This is just one of them.”

“But I don’t have a--I’m not--”

“Hush, I’ll show you. Just watch me now.” Connin spit in his hand, and stroked himself in earnest; his gaze shifted from his straining cock to Finnia’s transfixed face and back again. How fast his hand moves, she thought.

Why was it so thrilling to watch him? An urge built inside her, welling from between her legs up her body until she brought her shoulders forward in a shiver. She’d felt this before, when she first started noticing men, but never this intensely. He was pulling his foreskin over the head of his cock now, over and over, so fast and so brutally she couldn’t believe it didn’t hurt. As if in answer to her thoughts, he said, “It feels very good, Finnia, look at me, you bring me such pleasure just standing there, so beautiful, ah...” His words disappeared into ragged breaths, then groans, then full-throated shouts as suddenly something white spurted from his twitching cock, covering his hand and belly. His strokes lessened, slicked with the fluid now, his cock still hard but softening even as she watched. Connin lay his head back against the cushion, sighing. He closed his eyes, and almost appeared dead.

Finnia had unconsciously moved much closer, and now she dropped to her knees. “Are you all right?” she said, touching his shoulder timidly.

Connin opened one eye, blue and merry. “Never better, love, never better. And how are you?” Finnia jerked her hand back. He laughed, pulling a great linen kerchief from around his neck, and began mopping himself off. “Well? Was that what you thought it would be?”

She shrugged minutely. “I didn’t know what it would be. I’m still not entirely sure,” she said in a small voice. “You say I can do that?”

“You’ve never touched yourself there, I collect?” said Connin. She shook her head. He clacked his tongue. “If more mothers taught their daughters to do so, it would save the world a parcel of grief. You do not have one of these,” he said, shaking his now-soft penis at her, “but you do have what the Mother gave you, and what the Lovers wish you to become well-acquainted with. May I see? I promised you I wouldn’t touch you, but if I’m to teach you what I can, I need to see.”

Finnia moved an arm’s length away. He was a stranger. She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t show any man until she was married. But he wasn’t a stranger. He was Connin. She’d known him for years, or so she felt, though they’d never spoken. And who would know if she showed him? The Sister’s Temple examination looked only for virginity; there was no way to test whether she’d shown a man her body. She lifted her knees enough to free her skirts, then slowly pulled them up to her waist.

“Oh, very pretty, love. Now, the first thing I want you to do is slip a finger just inside those sweet folds between your legs.” She did so, and pulled it out almost immediately; she was burning hot inside, and gushing. “Ah, you found my little show inspiring,” he laughed as he saw her wet finger. “Back between with it. I want you to find the little knob at the top of that pretty slit of yours.”

It didn’t take long. As soon as her finger brushed across it, she knew she’d found it. The urge that had crept up her body now rushed down at once to the little knob and then out again, more fiercely than before. She gasped, and nearly doubled over.

“That,” said Connin, “is your little pearl. I believe the Sisters call it the clitoris, but I prefer the other.”

“If I touch it,” she quavered, “will it do what yours did?”

“No, no,” he said, “though you may wet yourself thoroughly--you already have. Your pearl cannot be handled so roughly as I handle myself. Circle your finger round and round it, without quite touching it--try that.” She did so; a melting warmth flowed from the finger’s circles that paradoxically built up a tension inside her like a bowstring. She groaned, and her dress grew tight against her newly swollen nipples. “Move your finger any way you please,” he murmured. “You’ll find which ways are your favorite.”

She used two fingers, desperate to reach the place that seemed to be rushing toward her and away from her at the same time. Her breasts ached--why do they ache when nothing’s touching them? she wondered dimly. Thoughts broke into bits she couldn’t piece back together; instead, she focused on the quick movements of her fingers, closing her eyes. She could almost touch that place, it was within reach; sweat trickled down between her breasts and her legs trembled, until suddenly she had it--she was there. The bowstring inside her released; her hips rose up as she cried out in astonishment, eyes still shut tight.

She circled her fingers slower and slower; one finger brushed across what Connin had called her pearl; she nearly shrieked at its tenderness, and withdrew her fingers altogether. She collapsed onto her thighs, holding herself up off the ground with both hands. “Here, now,” said Connin. He made her sip from the jug of cool wine, and guided her head onto the cushion. “I said I wouldn’t touch you, but it’s unfair to leave you in a little shaking heap, when you could be at rest and comfortable.”

Finnia lay on the grass, still trembling. Her breasts throbbed, her nipples hard against the linen of her underdress; she realized Connin could see them even through her overdress when he casually circled one of them with his thumb, sending shocks through her. “That’s a sign there’s more in you, you know--more of that pleasure. Men need time before they can spend again--what I did, the great fountain of it, that’s called spending. But women can spend many, many times for a man’s one.”

“It’s sore now,” she whispered. “I couldn’t touch it again.”

“May I show you something? I promise it won’t hurt, and that the Sisters will never know. I promise it will give you great pleasure, even greater than what you gave yourself.” Without waiting for an answer, he slipped down between her legs, raising the fabric of her dresses higher. He kissed her soft round belly, then slipped his tongue inside her.

She sighed, first in surprise and then in contentment as his gentle tongue lapped soothingly over her, delicately avoiding the sensitive spot, until the sensitive spot demanded it become part of the tongue’s path. She shifted, and Connin caught her meaning; he slid his hands under her hips and grasped the cheeks of her ass. He nuzzled in closer, his tongue probing everywhere inside her.

Never had she experienced anything so pleasurable. Never dancing, never wandering through the woods, never in any of the things she loved had she found anything like this. I want this forever, she thought. I want this feeling forever. Warmth, waves of warmth that soothed and agitated in equal measure, radiated out from his tongue. She lay with her eyes closed, moving against his face to guide him, until finally he gripped her tightly, focusing on her pearl, sucking at it just enough to make her pulse beneath him. Her knees rose involuntarily toward her shoulders. She cried out on each breath, until he took one finger and tickled her just inside her inner folds. The waves of warmth broke over her, burning her; her legs pulled up as high as they could go, and Connin held on to her hips to the end.

As soon as her sobbing ended and her legs relaxed, though, he began again, the slow lapping that lulled her into languidness until the intensity built and released again. Three times he brought her that way, until she begged him to stop. “Please,” she said, “I must go home.”

Connin watched her stand and brush the grass and leaves from her dress. “Will you come back, pretty Finnia? The rest will be gone for two more days, and even when they’ve returned, we can meet away from the camp. There is so much I can show you.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.” She turned and fled toward the Keep.
But in her bed that night, her hand kept creeping down between her legs, or to her breasts.

The next morning, she set off early for the Travelers’ camp, and she didn’t come home until nearly dark.