Story for the day: Leggings
My leggings nearly fell down as I was coming home from the market today. This is what happened.
|Rautu will not hold your leggings|
A request had come from the kitchen to the commons in the early morning as the sun rose over Diras for the day. It had been frigid the night before and one of the yeomen thought it advisable to warm his chamber with some the firewood meant for the ovens in the castle kitchen. Although the gesture had no ill-intent in its conception, the effect was undesired. The warmth of a room was the price of morning bread and when Martje, the kitchen master, was asked to supply the morning meal for the entirety of the castle, she found herself without fuel for the fire. She sighed and swore numerous times on the carelessness of the young yeoman, remarking on how dare he think of his own warmth when the hunger of many was a more distressing event, and thought the woodsmen were applied to for more firewood, there was still the matter of breakfast to be resolved.
Considering the amount of favours the commander owed the kitchen master due to the appetite of such a mate as the Den Asaan, she was asked to retrieve copious amounts of bread from Diras Delights to compensate for the shortage. She had time before training with her recruits and agreed to fulfill Martje’s request, but when she placed her hand outside to test the climate, her fingers froze instantly from the bitter frost and she resolved that however uncomfortable wool may have been, wool leggings were a necessity for the venture. She had never owned such objects until she made the acquaintance of Mrs. Cuineill, when upon hearing that the commander was naturally disposed to enjoy the Frewyn winter began knitting her a pair of leggings that she would be expected to wear during every outing away from the comforts of the keep. The itchiness of the wool was not appreciated but, as Mrs. Cuineill had toiled so in making them for her, she donned her leggings and set out for the bakery.
The Den Asaan impeded her task by demanding to know where she was going in such cold weather and when Diras Delights was mentioned, such a suggestion took him from his place by the fire and compelled him to join his mate to the marketplace. He observed how the commander walked with an odd gait. Where her strides were usually convincing, they were now short and awkward. “Are those unpleasant to wear?” he asked, eyeing the leggings with a raised brow.
“I abominate the feeling of wool rubbing together between my thighs,” she groaned, pulling at the leggings. “They certainly keep me warm enough but I daresay comfort is not their first object. I would take them off but if I do, I know Mrs. Cuineill will appear from behind a rock and attack me with her knitters.”
The giant gave his mate a small smile and suggested they hasten toward their destination to return sooner so that his mate may once again enjoy their equal preference of bare thighs. The proposal was agreed to and the commander and Den Asaan leapt toward Diras Delights with all possible celerity.
When they arrived, the numerous loaves of bread were obtained, the attendants at the bakery were thanked, and they were off to return to the keep. The commander’s hands were occupied with the mountain of loaves when her leggings suddenly began falling from the waist. She attempted to fix them by holding her elbows against her sides but the more she walked, the quicker they descended. The Frewyn tradition for such an occurrence, the wide stance and shifting of the hips, was employed but too much of the wool was trapped in her boots for the custom to be of any use. She realized that to save herself from the humiliation and frost, the leggings would have to be pulled from the bottom upward and as the giant at her side could not be asked to carry anything, she would be forced to suffer the added discomfort until they reached the keep.
Rautu noticed the midsection of the woolen leggings begin to drag between his mate’s legs. “I will assist you,” he declared, moving behind her.
“You will assist me in pulling them down, I’m certain,” the commander laughed, attempting to dodge him with her delivery still in her arms.
Rautu gripped his mate by her tabard and pulled her back against him. He shrouded her with his trappings, concealing her body from public view, and pressed himself suggestively against her while his hands gripped the top of her leggings at the bottom of her hips. “Walk, woman,” he growled in her ear.
“Iimon Ghaala,” the commander simpered, “You realize this is just as discomforting.”
“Perhaps for you. You will hold those,” he said, nodding toward the pile of loaves in her arms, “and I will hold you. Continue.”
The commander shook her head and did as she was bid, taking careful steps guided by her mate’s powerful legs behind her. She was reminded of their time together on the islands when after being ill she was learning to walk again under the Den Asaan’s tutelage. The recollection of the pleasant event caused any further mortification gleaned from the stares of Diras citizens to fall away and the two of them enjoyed their huddled march together, the commander as the bread bearer and the Den Asaan as the designated assistant.