Nune: the Sy Maiden

A note from the author:

Gender and sexual politics are powerful things, though I've yet to see a good example of the two being combined successfully in erotica outside of certain niche stories. After all, the person who enjoys your smut today might not be the same person who you'd want to vote for in the town-hall election tomorrow, though the same could be said about most of our friends and lovers who make up this collective family.

Still, no one lives inside a vacuum; it would be a lie for me to say that the erotic world which I write about is not influenced by events in my own life. The BBC recently ran an article entitled: VATICAN ORDERS CRACKDOWN ON 'RADICAL' NUNS IN THE US. The article went on to say, "[that] the Vatican has ordered a crackdown on a group of American nuns that it considers too radical. In a statement from the Pope it said that the group is undermining Roman Catholic faith on issues concerning homosexuality, sex education and promoting 'feminist theories incompatible with the Catholic faith' ..." As someone who highly values both sex education and feminist theory I've been giving this a lot of thought; but I do not want to single out one ideology as being more repressive than others -- the truth of the matter being that almost all male-ruled societies look upon feminism as incompatible with their world views. I would never go so far as to call for the American nuns who are currently facing persecution from within their own church to separate themselves from those who seek to silence them (they are obviously on a much different path than my own) but I've been pondering what lesbian theorist Professor Marilyn Frye once asked: "What is it about separation, in any or all of its many forms and degrees, that makes it so basic and so sinister, so exciting and so repellent?"

Indeed.

* * *

On entering the pearl-gray sky cabin, which, evidently, had once been fitted for the use of a Guild lady, Nune saw, standing at the opposite end of the room, the duchess; a woman that she knew, every inch of her body, by sight. A lamp was burning near the large observation porthole and by its feeble light Nune could make out that her lady's face was still pale from loss of so much blood. The wound she had received from the airship captain's katana sword had been seen to, though; her bare shoulder now sported a magnificent bandage of many layers of blood-soaked cotton and gauze. Her robes were still torn, and yes, her hair was still in a disarray; she wore a look of grave alarm upon seeing an anonymous Yerkink pilot enter unannounced, swathed head to toe in high altitude, cold weather gear. Her mouth pressed itself into a firm line when Nune pulled off her silk helmet, allowing the cascade of her black hair to shake itself free.

"What is the meaning this outrage, ma'am?" the older woman asked with an arched brow, eying the young woman's round face, almond eyes, blood-red lips. "Whoever you are, I warn you that the Marquise of Dzovig will take revenge upon this indignity."

"Your highness," Nune said, bowing, "you have no reason for further alarm; the villains who carried you off from the High Abbess's fortress, conveying you to this, their flag ship, have been burned out of the sky. I am the hand maiden of the Prime Minister of the Guild, a devoted follower of our Marquise Siranush. Two days ago a plot against your person came to the attention of my lady. We were unable to gather our strength in time to prevent your kidnapping, but we lost no time in putting forth when we discovered that your kidnappers had taken to the skies. By good fortune we arrived here in time; a few minutes later and your enemies would have succeeded in their object, for the sky-studding sails meant to cross the Howling Stream were already being hoisted as we arrived. The vessel is now in our possession and heading back toward Berjouhi. I hope within an hour and twenty minutes that I might have the honor of escorting your highness to the fortress."

The duchess paused, thinking about what young Nune had just said. Then, with a smile, she expressed her great satisfaction.

"Indeed? I am indeed indebted to you then, ma'am," Yeranouhi said, holding out her hand to Nune, who, even in her bulky attire, as duty dictated, placed the fingers to her lips. "Believe me, the Duchess Yeranouhi is not ungrateful, should it be ever in her power to do anything for your lady, or even for yourself, my dear, believe me, she will see to it."

"My lady, I see you are recovering from your wounds," Nune began, eying the blood-soaked bandage. "As primitive as this ship is, it does boast a steam room, which we can make available for you as soon as you wish."

"Really? Oh yes, I think if I have the time that a little hot water would be an excellent cure-all. Tell me, though," she paused, still holding Nune's hand, which made the young woman blush. "I have many enemies. Who commanded my abduction?"

"The leader, madam, was a certain Lady der Katar Vosgi, a Countess of Brabant, with whom my mistress had carried out a long-standing feud. It was she who has just been executed by the commander of our musketeers. There were others, as well, who have had an active hand in the matter. They too have been dealt with."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, m'lady."

The young woman pulled her hand from the duchess's, bowing to hide her intense emotions.

"M'lady," Nune could not show her face as she stretched out her arm, indicating the doorway to the bathroom. "Hot water awaits."

* * *

Lady der Katar Vosgi had certainly enjoyed bathing on top of the heavens. The tub the Duchess Yeranouhi found, when she entered the room and looked about her, was literally an observation port, a bowl of crystalline-glass, cut into the floor of the bathroom, filled with soapy hot water; allowing everything and everyone the war-ship passed over a fine view of the naked bather, sitting reclined atop an endless sea of churning clouds.

"I tend to dislike an audience when I bathe," the duchess began, seeing what was expected of her.

"Oh," started Nune, as if the idea of not wanting to exhibit herself to all they passed by was totally alien to her. "Er, in that case, m'lady, I can stay and wash you proper."

"Well -- normally I would say yes," the older woman said, blushing in turn. "But I think today I would like to be by myself."

"Why did I send her away?" Yeranouhi thought as she watched the valleys of clouds pass slowly between her naked thighs. "I am acting as if I was a vestal maiden myself, back when I thought even playing with slick mittens was a foul and sinister art."

She was highly aware that, sitting as she was on the crystalline rim of the tube, she was spreading both her ass cheeks and her cunt wide open below her. Her old nanny would have said she was exhibiting her kunty-kussy. Whatever, the duchess snorted; exhibiting to a blind world, perhaps, all that is down there are clouds and they see everyone as the same and never comment on a royal asshole save for the occasional douse of heavy rain.

"Which is a shame, really," she mused. "I would much rather know that a gale or hard, thick blow had occurred because the gods were turned on by seeing my puffy kunty so lewd and open as it is now, rather than hearing from some minister of weather that it's just boring atmosphere's moisture warming up and gravity having its say."

As she spread her lips wider the sun streamed down on either side of the dirigible. Moments like these make her understand why people worshiped the skies since the primordial times; why her ancestors gave up their first orgasm to the high gods that protected them. She felt that if she were to cum right now -- as her religion told her to do -- that the divine priestesses would have been able to eat her offering up with a spoon.

Feeling the warmth on her ass, she stretched out her legs to each side and breathed deeply, slowly, recalling the memories of the scents of the sky that she kept within her. One does not fly above an endless sea of clouds without realizing why, when the rain gods cum, that the earth, over and over again, is born anew. The duchess could smell the crushed leaves oak, sage, rosemary and thyme in the bath soap; the trees that sprung again and again from the earth, the tangy scent of what she imagined to be the wool from the baka sheep that were used to weave her wash cloth. She did not know how long she sat there -- the brown, wrinkled O of her asshole pressed against the great, vaulted glass, the oblong circle of her cunt, the dash-mark of her clit -- all her body breathing in the same slow movement as the clouds idly passing below her. She heard some faint rustlings in the metal fabric of the hull; heard the steam-song of the engines purr change slightly; occasionally, she dreamily mused, there came the distant fan-fare of thunder, far below her.

She raised her hands to her face, lightly pressing her hand against cheeks. She moved her fingers down her throat, playing her finger tips across the submerged mountains of her breasts. What priestess had not pressed her just like this? and -- and then slowly as only the messengers of gods can -- kneaded her very flesh? What truth could not be found in one's own cock or cunt? ass or tits? The duchess enjoyed how her breasts responded to the heavenly touch of the hot water, lifting them off her ribs, squeezing them as the messengers of gods would do, forgetting the pain in her shoulder, the blood-spotted cotton, pinching the skin of her aureola between fingers that would one day control an empire.

"I am a creature that loves the roundness of my own flesh," she thought, lifting one breast and then the other with both hands. Quickly the tip of her middle finger flicked back and forth over the elastic teat. She groaned as the tension built. We love to watch others masturbate, though we find ourselves embarrassed by the same act until an occasion beyond our control occurs, something titillating that compels us to let others watch. She threw back her head and used both hands to squeeze her breasts violently. Storm clouds gathered around her cunt. Gathering tension, like a furious gale, spread ripples across her skin and the dark sky. Her knees wobbled and she gasped. Tighter now, flicking her left fingers faster and faster over her buzzing skin, her brain finally bursting wide open as she moaned aloud, knowing that her young savior, the hand maiden Nune, stood guard on the opposite side of the bathroom door. The duchess squeezed her breasts; groaning in earnest as her hips convulsed. She knelt down in the tub, feeling the deep ocean moisture in the folds of her cunt, leaving a greasy smear against the observation glass, sending shivers all over her flesh. She took a long, deep, calming breath, her cunt spasming without once having to touch it.

A tapping on the metal door.

"Wha- what?" was all Yeranouhi could get out as she sloshed about in the hot, lathery water.

"M'lady," came Nune's muffled tone. "We are docking in ten minutes."

The duchess cocked her head to one side, trying to make sense of what the younger woman had just said. A distant sound -- music? -- came to her ears. She looked around the empty room, unable to pinpoint where the noise was originating from. Something stirred under her ass. Slowly, she peeked between her legs.

Tower after imperial tower of the the great capital, Berjouhi, passed below her. Her citizens, in their gaudy colors of green and blue, had turned out to welcome the captured pirate airship home. On one tower, she was almost sure, she could almost make out her parents, an elderly couple in their nineties, checked in their exuberant cheering as the dirigible passed overhead, their daughter's royal ass and quivering cunt momentarily exhibited for all the city to see.

* * *

The vessel had, by this time, been brought up close to the sky docks. The duchess, now wearing a robe and cowl that stretched from her head to her cloistered toes, was determined to wait on board until the sun was no longer seen in the charcoal-creamy skies; then, and only then, under the escort of her rescuers, she returned to the fortress from which she had been abducted only half a day previously.

It was not possible that a matter of this sort could be entirely hushed up. Not many hours passed before rumors circulated through the City of Arch-Angels of the events that had taken place, though none knew what those exact details were.

There were reports that an elderly hand maiden of the Duchess Yeranouhi had, at midnight two days before, discovered that her mistress' bed was, curiously enough, unoccupied; that she had found signs of a bloody struggle, had picked up a blue-powder revolver flung on the floor; also, it was said, that the duchess had been rescued by an armed party of Yerkink pilots, that she was unable to obtain entrance to the fortress until one of the ladies of the Empress Mother had been fetched in order to command the mechanical sentries at the gate to allow the duchess safe passage.

It was generally known, however, that a priestess had come to the Marquise Siranush earlier that day, that their ruler had at once summoned a fixed-winged sky transport bound to the Abbess's fortress. What had happened when their grand sovereign arrived there none could say, but there were rumors that the Marquise's voice had been heard in furious outbursts of passion for hours on end. Her majesty remained at the fortress until the late afternoon. After the captured craft returned Siranush sent for the Prime Minister of the Guild.

When Nune's ladyship arrived she found the Marquise, who had heard from her spies the details of what had taken place, sitting in the Hall of War.

"I learn, my lady," began the Marquise, "that it is to you that I am indebted for the rescue of my duchess. I am told that, suspecting some plot, you sent the 'Vika' to the Abbess's fortress, turning what could have been a disaster into a victory."

"It is as you say, m'lady," replied the prime minister, bowing, her heavy breasts hanging like pendulums inside her cloak; "but the whole merit of the affair rests upon my hand maiden, the girl Nune, that you might remember as having fought with and then conquered a whole Anatora legion. You may also remember that she escaped a further attempt of assassination by your own enemies. It seems that while working the 'Vika's' short wave radio she accidentally overheard a few words spoken in a voice which she recognized as belonging to der Katar Vosgi. The name of your majesty was mentioned and my hand maiden discovered that a plot for carrying off the duchess. After consulting with me I ordered the 'Vika' to the skies."

"For your own part, I thank you, my lady," the marquise said, "and, believe me, you shall not find Siranush ungrateful. As to your hand maiden, bring her to me tomorrow, when the duchess will be here as well. I wish to thank her in person."

And thus and thus and thus; the following day Nune, in great confusion, found herself at the center of the imperial circle. The marquise expressed herself to the bewildered air pilot in a most gracious manner, saying that Nune would be, if all worked well, one of her best of starlight navigators when the war was over. The duchess gave her hand to kiss and poor Nune, knowing exactly where that hand had been, found herself at once blushing terribly as memory of the duchess's orgasm reaching her ears through the metal bulkhead, returned to her. The girl could make no more noise than a feeble "i..i..i.." until the marquise addressed her, not as a middle-age woman having her lover returned to her but as the ruler of all Dzovig, speaking as an absolute monarch to a mere Yerkink girl.

"Tell me, daughter, what does this mean to you?"

She parted her robes, bent her head forward to show what lurked at the nape of her neck, the spot where the hair had been ceremoniously cropped; showing the sacred image, the tattoo of Apollyon just peeking from inside her collar.

"What do you see?"

"M-- my lady, I cannot speak about a mystery."

"We are witnessing ancient hands," the marquise said, letting her robes fall to her hips, letting the whole room see the tattoo, the sign of her power, a maze of inked lines and designs. Nune became instantly aware of the marquise's mother-milk breasts, of the tempting nipples that would feed a nation. "Hands -- three fingers and a thumb -- shaping mud into a form, the first bipedal life form -- forming a body, the first of these organic structures that we now call human, hands devising a mouth and nose and cock with heavy balls -- breathing life into the lips, the nostrils, the hard column of the shaft -- watching them all stir -- creating a Golem, an Adam, the first mud-based organic structure -- yes, within these lines sleep the DNA of you and me. But when Yahweh, with his dark arts, crafted Adam of the Blood, he said to the angels gathered near: 'this human is a precious being created in my divine image, you will regard him with reverence' -- yet Morning Star, the only of the angels that called herself 'She,' defied him: 'as a holy spirit I will not worship a diamon made of swamp gas and mud!'"

"Little one, we are the Morning Star's children; the word 'demon' comes from the ancient Greek word meaning 'spirit' or 'soul' -- as the ungodly religions grew so did they start calling all those that, like ourselves, did not concur with their plans for supremacy, 'demons'. The sky became the refuge of the outcasts. The rebel angels did not fall, child, they simply forged ships of war to conquer the infidels who saw them as incompatible with their faith. I tell you all this now because we are going to go to war, against the empire of Anatora. Not because they are right and we are wrong – rather, because that as long as we exist those god-worshipers will not leave us in peace. Such is the burden one lives with when fanatics are at your gate."

When the Dzovig fleet, numbering some two hundred dirigibles, finally set sail from the Castle of Fribourg, it was a grand affair; a warlike sight as they rose up, like hand-crafted, antique weapons of war, from their sky ports. From the mast head of each vessel flew the colors of Dzovig -- the green of the sea and the blue of the sky -- below these also ran the colors of the nobles who commanded each vessel; while the pennons of the musketeer squads -- as well as the flash of their rifles in the sun -- all made the decks alive with color and hope that this war, a war that only haunted and bewitched two nations, could one day be resolved.

The marquise's dirigible advanced in the van, while, floating all around her were the vessels containing her principal followers. The Queen of Tatevik, as well as the Duchesses Yeranouhi herself and old Makrouhi, were all part of the great armada. Strains of royal music rose from the city's towers as the fleet pulled away and filled the sky.

* * *

For two days the expedition sailed on seeing no resistance; then, on the third day as they entered the Howling Stream, disaster took place.

"What is all this chaos?" Nune asked to her best chum, the buxom Vaneni, coming up upon the observation deck of the Duchess Yeranouhi's airship. "The luft-mariners seem to be running up and down the ladders all crazy, all I can hear is a great confusion."

"I think," began little Vaneni, the curves of her curvaceous cleavage barely constrained in her high altitude, cold weather gear, "that we are about to have a storm of some sort. A few minutes ago there wasn't a cloud to be seen; now that priapic thunder bank over there has risen halfway up to the heavens. The luft-mariners are accustomed to these treacherous skies, though, so I'll leave it in their hands."

"Which is good," smiled Nune, fascinating the silk binding of her helmet, "since your theory of 'fly at the lighting' instead of away from it has yet to prove successful."