by bob county
Is the Pope right about morals?
| Sherry is a beauty. "The soul that journeys in the light fears no shame."
she spoke as she entered naked into the happy brook. . She had left her
dress on a bush along the bank...
Hidden in the briar; a group of young lads watched her... . They had not
grown their first beards.. They rubbed their loins with excitement. ...
Sherry dove deep in the center of the happy brook...
Her lovely round ass glissened in the sun.. rising from the brook. ..
"Are you laying a bed of feathers for me?" she stood infront of the lads and
pointed to the milk that they had cast upon the ground. +
"Nay, we have not seen a naked maiden before." spoke one of the lads..
They were all blushy with shame; save Sherry: "You have done me no
injury. Your injury is borne in meekness and silence. It is proof you are
The lads let their tartans drop over their loins.. One red headed; shook
his long hair over his face and threw it back, "I cannot stain you with my
hands, but I beg you for a kiss."
Sherry laughed, "There is a heavy burden between us!" She said this
as she placed her left palm firmly under the red headed lads loins..
His face blushed, "I am in your hands."
"More feathers for my bed." Sherry looked down as the milk dripped
from under the red haired lads tartan... "I am undone! I will be born to
hell!" the lad cried with tears.
"Nonsense. It is the sweet yoke of your virginity that will make us strong."
She spoke softly as she kissed his tears... The other lads had returned
to rubbing their loins... "Let me lie upon your bed of feathers." she smiled.
Sherry was covered in their milk and suckle each lad's udder... ..
"All men desire peace, but very few know how to enjoy it." her voice
was soft and soothing and their milk covered her face...
They were all naked and every lad took his turn between her soft thighs.
"Are we goats? What in Jesus name have we done?" one lad protested..
"Love and the whole world bows before you." replied Sherry ..
Sherry rose and bathed in the happy brook... She was alone again.
They had put on their tartans and taken up their muskets and gone.
She put on her dress, "Dear God, the day is grey.. My house is not
in order."* and walked back to her cottage.
*Anne Halley; 1928.