She watches a woman ahead in the high barrows. Thunder breaks. The deep rains soak through her dress. The woman ahead bears her thighs, the winds pulling on her black tresses. She walks idly, though the storm, and holds a wooden stick. Orlaith recognizes her to be an exile. She tries to hurry on by her camp but she slips in the wet grass before her.

“Strange girl, my pardon, but ‘tis no weather to be out in.”

The stranger offers her hand to the girl, but she rights herself. “So I hurry on,” she says, curtseying and adjusting the bundle of sticks on her back.

“You’ll get soaked,” says the stranger. “My cottage is just below that crag. Wouldn’t you rather be waiting out the rains by it?”

The girl is hesitant, reluctant to trust anyone she meets up in the barrows, being young and raised on Hiberian superstitions; but the more the stranger prods, the more at ease she feels. Soon she feels as if she faintly recognizes the woman, and wonders at what a fool she’s been.

“Sure it’s better than to get taken by lightning out here, is it not? Come now, dear thing, this way, not long now…”

The stranger leads her down the slope, both women taking elliptical routes to avoid trodding on the mounds. They pass the somber stones of the crag and sure enough a little thatch round-house, the roof steeply sloping to almost touch the ground.

“There now. Sure we’ll set up the fire for you, that’ll warm you up, for you’re soaked through to your skin.”

Orlaith sits among the furs of the little hovel and the stranger tends to the fire. Soon the heat of the flames tickles her flesh and her eyelids begin to grow heavy.

“Thanks for all the trouble, miss, by the way, and sorry for how I was before.”

“Sure it’s no trouble. You can never be too careful - with the mad women that live in the mounds, meaning this one!”

“That’s what they say,” Orlaith says, slipping her feet out of her little leather shoes and reaching them out to the fire. “But today I learn it all an old wives tale.”

“Good girl,” says the stranger. “Get warm by this fire - here, why not take off that frock? Let me get it dry by the fire, you’ll never dry off that way.”

Orlaith blushes. She hesitates. She’s soaked through, but she doesn’t want the woman to see what’s under her skirts. “I’m ashamed,” she says.

“Come now,” says the stranger. “You’ll catch a plague that way, a wet heap over there. I’ll dry it off by the fire and you can be home in no time.”

Orlaith keeps protesting but as the woman goes on prodding she finds herself feeling more and more soaked through, cold and uncomfortable, and desiring more to be out of her frock.

“Here, I’ll tell you what, let’s just loosen those ties and you may dry off your shoulders. You’ll get ulcers by your wet shoulders, sure.”

Orlaith agrees and loosens the ties, peeling the wet frock from her broad, softly freckled shoulders. Loose locks of dripping-wet hair fall over her breast and stick to her skin.

“Good girl,” says the stranger. “Let me come and do up your hair, or you’ll never dry off under that wet mop under there.”

She comes up close to Orlaith and runs her hand over her shoulder, getting beneath her hair. Her hand feels like hot coals on the girl’s cool skin, but her touch gives her goosebumps all over. Orlaith’s cheeks flush, and she feels her stomach tense up with nerves, but she cannot stop herself from saying it.

“I’d really like to take my frock off,” she says. “Ah, now that I really feel the water through it.”

“Good girl,” says the stranger. “You’re just right! Let’s get that silly thing off you before you catch the chill.”

The woman puts her hands at the bottom of the girl’s skirts, by her feet, and rolls it up. She exposes her ankles, then her knees… Orlaith winces as it rolls up her thighs. As it comes up over her dick, it springs out, splurging a bit of precum which runs down her thigh. What was I thinking? she thinks. This woman will turf me out instantly. But she doesn’t. She goes on lifting her frock unti it’s up over her head.

“There’s a good girl,” says the stranger. She rolls out the frock by the fire and sits back beside Orlaith among the furs. “Now you sit back and don’t worry yourself,” she says. “I’ll put your hair up so you may dry off.”

Orlaith lies back as the woman ties up her hair. Her eyes grow heavy with the heat and the woman’s fingers and soon she falls fast asleep.

When Orlaith awakes the moon filters in by the thatch. The fire has run out and she’s alone in the room. Her clothes are gone, as is her bundle of sticks. “Perhaps she’s just gone out for something,” she says, but when she tries to move she realizes her hands are bound behind her back. “Shit!” she says. “I knew it.”

“Careful in there,” calls the woman from outside the hut. “You mustn’t knock about or hurt yourself for it.”

“You bitch! Let me go!”

“Ah, I just need one wee thing from you, sweet girl, then I can let you go.”

“Aye, I know what it is - my name, that you’ll steal. You’re a witch.”

“A-hah-hah, so and so it is.”

“Well, I’ll never give it to you.”

“First you won’t give me your company, then you won’t give me your frock, and now you won’t give me your name. Sure you’ll make me think I’m not worthy of your company.”

“It was a spell before, I know it was. I would have gone on home.”

“A-hah-hah, I wouldn’t be needing a spell to get the frock from a nubile girl out gathering. But be stubborn and keep your name, for I know just the way to get it out of you.”

Orlaith goes on screaming at her but the witch doesn’t reply anymore, and soon enough the girl’s eyes grow heavy again and she passes out into the furs. When she wakes up she hears the sound of rushing water and feels the spray on her naked body, and realizes she’s close to a waterfall. After her eyes adjust to the dark she realizes she’s bound to a tree stump.

“A-hah-hah, you woke just in time. You’ll need this,” says the witch, stuffing a rag into the girl’s mouth. “Only I know about this place. No others can find it. You’re going to meet some friends of mine.” She fixes the rag by tying leather around the girl’s face.


“Well, almost meet them.”

Orlaith looks over the river and sees a pale mist come over it. The mist is bright, as if lit by some other sun. Soon she hears something come over the river; the gentle peal of womens voices, all speaking the words together.

“Oh, sweet little lamb, you have found our home. Long have we waited for you. We keep these waters, and welcome you to them. Step into the waters and embrace us.”

The girl trembles at the voices, and she feels something deep in her wishes to go into the water, like a rope around her waist that pulls.

“Oh, our little lamb, come to us and embrace us. You may caress us, lay with us and rest your head on our bosoms. Just come over to the water.”

The girl tugs at her bonds. Her dick springs up on end, waggling in the air as she flounders. “Mmf!”

“A-hah-hah, why don’t you go join them? Don’t you want them?”

“Sweet little lamb, hear our call…” Each voice in turn describes her own body; how the waters part for her fingers, how her feet cut the surface, how her buttocks embrace the deep beds. On the softness of their skin, the contour of their breast, the fineness of their hairs they recite in vivid details no bard could ever equal. “Come to us, sweet little lamb, embrace our bodies. You need just step into the water.”

The girl’s ghastly moans are muffled by the rag. Her limbs shake like harried dogs. She twists, she pulls, she thrusts her hips up into the air, her clit bouncing against her stomach, soaking herself with precum.

“Oh look at you! You’re all given over. Good girl, there you go now, sure let it out. Just tell me how it feels.”

“Sweet little lamb, you needn’t step into the river. Just call out to us so that we might find you. We shall come to shore and embrace you there, little lamb, only call out to us.”

The girl tries her hardest to yell, scream, howl through her rag, but it stops her up and only muffled sounds come out. The voices go on tempting her and she strains against her bonds all night, the witch laughing and teasing her. It keeps going until dawn breaks in the heavens. The girl exhausts herself from all her struggles and soon passes out.

When she wakes up she’s back at the hut, still bound. Her dick is still throbbing and dribbling from the temptation and she instantly calls to the witch, begging her, pleading with her. “I’ll give you anything,” she says, “just take me back to the river.”

“A-hah-hah, sure you know I’ll take you back to the river. We’ll be back at that river every night ‘til you tell me your name.”

“If I give you my name, will you take me to the river?”

“A-hah-hah, good girl. I swear by my mother’s grave. If you give me your name now, I’ll take you to the river as many times as you like.”

The girl sighs a heavy sigh. “Orlaith, of the Moens.”

“Ah, sure, there you are, good girl. You’ve done your bit. Just let your eyes get heavy and I’ll take you back, for I must keep its place a secret on my word.”

Orlaith is so excited to return that she can barely sleep for her tosses and turns, but she eventually gets over. She wakes up back at the river. Her heart wells and she begins to stand but she’s pulled back hard. She’s bound to the tree again. When she tries to call out that she had been tricked the gag in her mouth stops her.

“A-hah-hah, there you are awake and all, good girl. I took you to the river as I said. Now listen for their voices.”

Soon enough the voices come back over the river. “Oh, sweet lamb, our hearts are glad of your return. Come to the waters, come to lay with us, come and feel our embraces.”

The girl twists and turns, fighting against her bonds. Her clit swells and aches, leaking terribly.

“There there, good girl, you’re almost there now. See how well you can sit for me now.”

“Oh little lamb, if you won’t come to the water, call out for us so that we might find you on the banks.”

“Here I am, Oh gentle nymphs, here by the fall.”

“Oh, sweet lamb, we hear you, we’ll be with you. Only let us know that it is really you, the one we look for.”

“A-hah-hah, as it pleases you, gentle nymphs. My name is Orlaith, of the Moens, the one promised to you.”

“Oh, little lamb, it must be you. Wait there on the bank for our embraces.”

The witch loosens the fastens of her robe and slips it off. She walks over to the bank and the nymphs appear by the water. No matter how much the girl twisted and turned, pulled or pushed, kicked or screamed, she could not attract the gaze of the nymphs. Without a word the witch steps into the river and she takes one by the hand, the other three circling them.

The witch’s hands run over the nymph’s shoulders. Her lips run over her skin, her face cradle into her neck. Orlaith feels goosebumps up her sides. Her knees begin to shake, so desperate is her longing. The witch’s hands disappear under the water and she pushes the nymph back against the river bank.

“Sure there’s a good girl,” she hears her say. “You just lie back now, and watch your head.”

She begins to move over her vigorously, the water splashing, as the other nymphs sing their irresistable song. The girl cannot look away, her hips lolling uselessly in the air, her stomach soaking as dick throbs and leaks.

“Ah, one more for the pot,” she hears the witch say. She isn’t sure how long it’s been now, or how many embraces she’s watched them share. “A-hah-hah.”

As the dawn breaks the nymphs depart and the witch collects the sleeping girl. She awkwaes long after in the witch’s hovel, no longer bound.

“There you are back in the land of the living,” says the witch, kneeling over her bed. “Good girl.”

Orlaith looks up to her, unsure of what to say.

“You may go on, then, I won’t keep you any longer. I left your bundle there, and your frock is dried off by now.”

“Witch…” says the girl, whimpering in her exhaustion. “I want one last thing.”

“A-hah-hah, do you now? What is it you’d be wanting?”

“You said you’d take me to the river as many times as I’d like. Please… go on taking me. Even if it must be bound and gagged.”

The witch cackles. “Oh, good girl!” she says. “Good little thing, of course I’ll go on taking you. Move over in that bed, sure, and let me in beside you. Give me that sopping wet thing, after all, and let me do it for you. What was it they called you? Oh, sweet lamb... That’s what you like hearing? Oh, little lamb… You never had a chance.”