“There was once a girl who trod on a loaf to avoid soiling her shoes, and the misfortunes that happened to her in consequence are well known. Her name was Inge; she was a poor child, but proud and presuming, and with a bad and cruel disposition. When quite a little child she would delight in catching flies, and tearing off their wings, so as to make creeping things of them. When older, she would take cockchafers and beetles, and stick pins through them. Then she pushed a green leaf, or a little scrap of paper towards their feet, and when the poor creatures would seize it and hold it fast, and turn over and over in their struggles to get free from the pin, she would say, “The cockchafer is reading; see how he turns over the leaf.” She grew worse instead of better with years, and, unfortunately, she was pretty, which caused her to be excused, when she should have been sharply reproved.
“Your headstrong will requires severity to conquer it,” her mother often said to her. “As a little child you used to trample on my apron, but one day I fear you will trample on my heart.” And, alas! this fear was realized.” ~ Andersen Hans Christian
Cruel, avaricious, prideful, a much worse fate awaited Inge. Her parents traded her services to the rich brewer for two gold coins a year. They hoped she would make an excellent maid once she had been properly schooled by the incessant demands of working in the cavernous brewery, the tavern run by his sons, and the palatial stone home overseen by his eldest daughter. Other village girls had come and gone, some disappeared completely, but Inge was only concerned that nothing in her position change her appearance or her beauty. Peeking down at her her tiny brown nipples riding at the seam of her very low-cut gown she thought, “I won't be a serving maid for long!” and tossed her excellent curls, innocent fantasy about to become true servitude.
The brewer rubbed his hands together in anticipation of a new girl to break. She would surely appease the Marsh King, fulfilling his arrangement with the Marsh Woman for another season. He would keep her blessing and the power of her underland moor empire, and he would continue to add to his wealth with the ale he brewed following the Marsh Woman's ancient ways. His speculation was cut short as Inge was ushered in by Elise, his eldest daughter. He looked over the sturdy village girl in her finery. She would lose her vanity soon enough.
To his daughter he said, “Bathe her, and place a cotton shift upon her body, bind her hands, then burn her clothes so she may watch the last of her old life go up in smoke.”
Inge vigorously protested, “Sir, I have no other clothes, What do you think you are doing? You will surely owe me at least something pretty for my loss.”
The brewer casually reached up and placing a hand around on her neck choked her until she gasped for air. Selecting a large plum from the meal setting upon his trestle desk, he crammed it into her mouth. He watched her expressionlessly, his actions registering upon her disbelieving face as the slap of his open hand sent her reeling back. Plum juice ran down her chin, dripping purple upon her exposed jutting breasts, hanging completely out of her gown.
She turned her head and gagged as she expelled the fruit from her mouth and sucked in air to draw a breath. “What do you mean by this?” she screamed. “How dare you touch my face, you vile bull?”
He wanted badly to see her at his feet, striped and bleeding from his crop, but she was already spoken for. At this thought, a shudder ran over his stolid frame and he turned his attention to the evening's preparations even as he bellowed for his daughter who swiftly bore the indignant and frightened young woman away. The daughter, Elise, said nothing in return as Inge's scalding commentary rained upon her.
“I am going to pinch you, drudge. You have never even seen how I teased the men to give me finery, no wonder you are wearing servant clothing, you sallow faced spinster!” Inge spat like a cornered barn cat.
Elise bound Inge's hands and in that awkward position stripped Inge of every stitch of clothing, down to her shoes. Every article she placed in a bag to be burned. Only once she responded to Inge's arrogant attempts to regain her tattered finery. “Hush you stupid girl,” she commanded. “Tonight you will have your tongue cut out by my father if you do not please the Marsh King in every way. Every woman in this cotwold has endured and learned to obey exactly. You will do the same. Do you understand?”
Inge could only think of the first thing and had no real understanding of the second thing. “The Marsh King is a story to frighten children on stormy nights, you stupid woman. If I met him, the Marsh Woman would soon be out of a underground palace!” Her mocking laugh was bit uneasy as her mind occupied itself with visions of speechless bloody mouths.
In a large tub of brackish water left from the morning's wash, Inge was glad to remove sticky plum juice but not nearly as glad to have someone else cleanse her sturdy body, the short legs with the dainty feet. Elise paid particular attention to Inge's lightly bushed pubic and shoved a bit of washrag between the girl's legs and rubbed it back and forth slowly at first and then with more pressure until there was a response from the shaking girl. She was able only to lean against Elise for support while Elise frigged her with the rag and a fingers. If there was anything Inge knew how to be quiet for it was feeling good like this, like the boys who had played with her pussy with their tongues in the fields behind the village..
“I..Oh..Stop!” Inge said shakily. “I have yet to lay with a man, and I don't want your fat fingers ruining my chances! Oh, stop, please, you broken drudge!”
Elise's response was to stuff her mouth yet again, this time with the dripping rag covered with Inge's pussy juices. She spluttered but lowered her eyes to her chest where she saw Elise's fondle her pointy nipples. Squeezing a tit hard, Elise's fingers searched Inge's clit and passage. Inge moaned as Elise's hand moved in a circular motion. Her captor was rubbing Inge's finely shaped clit and heavy labia. There was nothing Inge could do or wanted to do about it as she moved her hips more urgently, then her legs slammed shut around Elise's hand and she gasped into the washrag. The hand covering her tit fell away as Inge's pelvis continued to twitch. Elise gave a crude chuckle, “Well, you may have not laid with a man, but I am sure every boy in your village has done that to you and more!”
“What would you know about that?” Inge tried to shout. Elise only grimly smiled at her muffled cry and then proceeded to towel Inge's body vigorously with rough sacking until she squealed in protest and her pale skin turned bright pink all the way up her legs to where fleshy cheeks joined nicely placed dimples. The slightly subdued girl was unbound long enough to cover herself in a plain cotton underdress. It was scandalously short in the hem and the low neck barely covered her breasts. Her feet were forced into tightly woven stockings and fastened at the knee.
Now Elise removed the gag from Inge's mouth but Inge, examining this shocking maid's outfit, did not speak. Elise forced her to drink a wooden goblet of wine mixed with bitter enhancing herbs. Elise found it amazing that this girl with the cruel looking oversized lips still had no idea what a night of sport lay before her as the tavern entertainment. Elise again loosely bound Inge's wrists before her with the same knot used to tie the neck of a sack of brewer's yeast.
Growls and laughter mingled with an occasional crash were heard across the courtyard as the tavern began to heat up with the advent of the cooling evening hours. The brewer and two sons stood waiting at the oaken door as Elise brought the resistant village girl to a halt before them. Her light brown hair waved past her waist, her cotton shift hid no detail of her stocky body and her finely globed breasts were responding well to the drugs and lascivious stares of the sons.
“She is complete, sir,” Elise was matter of fact, “She may not do well, but i have prepared her as you directed.” With that she curtseyed and withdrew into the recesses of the building. The brewer ran a casual hand over Inge and touched the marks on her neck from his hands. “You may want to shut those poutly lips of yours, girl,” he advised, staring brightly at her haughty face. “But i have an idea your mouth will be so full you won't be able to even think of a curse!”
At that his sons chuckled and one of them yanked her by her bonds across the uneven pavement of the courtyard. Inge scolded him, “Watch where you are going you ugly pig! Why you...let go! I can walk just fine by myself!” Her acidity trailed off as he opened the door of the tavern.
Light, confusion and instructions in rough speech met Inge as she was quickly unbound and put to work placing wooden cups of Master Brewer's finest in front of a varied clientele. She was guarded from harm by one son, who restrained the poorest and foulest from touching her shrinking flesh. “She is saved for the Marsh King, so keep your hands to yourself,” he swore as he threw one man back onto the wooden bench.
It suddenly dawned upon her that her demise might be imminent if she did not look sharp and see to a way to turn this to her advantage. “A serving girl indeed,” she flinched inwardly, her plump little twat moistening as she thought of the mysterious way the brewer had kept his hands off her and the glances that slid around at the mention of the Marsh King's conquest. “Where is he?” she thought, “and why doesn't he make himself known? After all, he may only be nothing more than the tales my mother used to frighten me with so I would be good.”
Inge began thinking furiously as she quickly carried platters and took away empties. She made various boasts to various crude suggestions, “I have been handpicked by Master Brewer, so mind your manners you oaf!” Her caustic speech was succumbing to the effects of the draught but her bearing and indecent attire still brought more attention to herself than it helped make the patrons leave her alone.
An unusual looking man at the end of the table beckoned her. As she cautiously came closer he reached up, grabbing her around the waist without warning. He bounced her upon his knee for a moment then sat her down hard upon the edge of the table. Using her hair to pull her so close she could smell his oddly familiar dankish odor, he whispered in her ear, “How do you like that fine bummy split, serving wench?” while the others laughed in anticipation seeing her outrage.
Her mind fogged over and all she could see were his stumpy teeth as he took her arms and spread them to each side of the table. Flat on her back, legs dangling, she looked up into flecked eyes and thought she saw marsh winds and mournful crows sweeping across a wasteland of scummed water and sucking bog. She tried to look elsewhere but her only safety lay in his eyes. They lulled her and drew her in until she could smell salt air and mudflats. It suddenly clicked in her befuddled mind. She thought with panic, "This is the Marsh King! He is here! He is nothing like the tales at all!" Terror gripped her anew. She struggled with real effort only to feel his rocklike body clamp her motionless once again as his eyes burned into her very soul.
In a haze now, Inge realized that her arms were held by others now as the feared and revered Marsh King took upon himself the little chore of carelessly gathering up her dress in one fist and ripping it until she lay exposed and quivering. The son handed him a thin long piece of rope, avoiding those mesmerizing eyes. Using the rope provided, he wrapped her chest, knotting the rope in such a way that her breast became a expanded two globe shelf, the little brown nipples popping out.
Inge began to struggled in earnest, her body was clearly responding to the Marsh King's every command. The wine had done its work and she was suggestively moving under his fingers and the eyes of he men in the room. Even so, she could not stop herself from cursing in fear and lust mingled with a cat-like spitting. “You are not to touch me! I have done nothing wrong...stop looking at me like that! Sir, tell me that noone but you will touch me....ooohhhhh!”
Laughter greeted her curses and she dimly heard one man say, “She has her veil! This is a good night's work, i say!”
He and others at the thick table unbuttoned their breeches, his thick shaft spilling out at the sight of her bound breasts, her open pussy lips shining with fear juices, her stockings fallen to her ankles.
Now really frightened, her body being touched and handled in a way she had only daydreamed about, Inge realized that her mother had been right. “Oh my dear mother they are hurting me so!” Inge's face softened as she thought of the bad end her mother had direly predicted for her over and over until the sound of it had driven Inge to be exactly what her mother feared.
She started to whine weakly. Her hair was used as a lever as her lips were forcibly parted and the Marsh King's shaft rammed into her mouth. Choking and gagging, his pressure on her head inexorably kept her mouth full just as the brewer had promised. The feel of jerking flesh and the gristle of this monster's shaft signaled a relief if only she could swallow. As if she watched herself from above, Inge sucked and moaned with what air she had left when he filled her throat and then removed his cock.
Two men picked her up by the waist and flipped her over a narrow bench they placed atop the long trestle in the room. This position placed her ass in the air as the ropes pinched her breasts tightly. The Marsh King was suddenly in front of her, leading all of them to take what they wanted from this girl, leaving her naked, stripped and bloody. As Inge realized this, her terror showed plainly but her body betrayed her. She wiggled her arms so he would come to her but he only showed his teeth in a grin as he pushed her head down for the next man and made sure her bound breasts were available to whomever cared to touch. A cock promptly intruded into her tightly stretched cheeks finding the soft lips that had never been touched before. A hard push and a grunted shove caused her to open her mouth to scream but she could only pant, no words came out.
She was being bounced up and down in an act her body was responded to, nipples puffy and her filled twat tingling. The man who was controlling her mouth was not gentle but he did allow her air so she could feel to the utmost her deflowering, her pride overthrown and her reality reduced to only one lungful of air at a time. Hair was in her eyes and she could feel it being pulled as he wrapped it around his fist; the pain withdrew and another and another took its place until Inge lay weakly along the rough wood, scratched and bleeding. This handling and fondling and guttural sounds of the men taking their pleasure quickly pushed her over the edge into her first act of begging even as her body was prodded and forced.
She lifted her lustful terrified face to her rescuer's weather-beaten face, his flecked pupils measuring her pain. He hushed her with his thick cock again, focusing her teary eyes as his eyes glowed dankly. Drugged and on the edge of another orgasm, her tongue fuzzy with cum she began to lose consciousness. She was aware of his foetid breath in her hair. She begged in a whisper, “Save me please!” before pain telescoped into blankness.
Inge came to consciousness, one foot frozen on the tuffet of swampish grass, her other foot bound firmly to a log connecting tuffets of grass together which was the path through the marsh. Her body pulsed with scratches and bruises. She had given freely of her maidenhood even if by force. She now knew that under her beauty and the pride lay a whorish devotion to all fleshly desire. The Marsh King had tested her, tearing more than the veil from her womb as he awakened her. He had unveiled her eyes to what she had been seeking each unconquered day. Her punishment was to stand frozen for all time to represent an arrogant woman's lying soul, unable to undo her pride or hold her tongue. It was too late to plead for her true destiny of being mastered to fulfillment.
Every time the Marsh King would surface to see his latest offering, he grimaced in that particularly vile stumpy way. Tortured and frozen in place, continually denied release, the suffering of her soul was priceless. Breathing his mist upon her, he alone could hear her shrieks of agony, wounds and tears in her flesh throbbing anew, even as her limbs stiffened into his creation. His light touch upon her stomach or breasts, released a sighing breath of air that mocked the desire the unliving have for those who draw breath. The marks he left on her wrists, burning and hardened , bound her to hold jutting breasts. A tear would trickle down her ravaged cheek when the Marsh King made his rounds. As a memorial she stood, hair like streaming fronds of moss, always being touched and never finding release.
Then the Marsh King would soundlessly blink his flecked eyes and sink back to his mistress the Marsh woman and his pint of her brew, leaving only a small bubble upon the face of the ever-changing swamp, dotted here and there by anguished gnarled shrubs, with their streaming fronds of mossy hair.
And so it ends: “But of the Marsh Woman nothing is known, excepting that when a mist arises from the meadows, in summer time, it is because she is brewing beneath them. To the Marsh Woman’s brewery Inge sunk down to a place which no one can endure for long except the Marsh King who rules the underworld of the marshes.” ~ Hans Christian Anderson