and scurried; and still Sir Justin hung in deepest melancholy, wondering
what magic had transported him to this high tree and lodged his neck
in the crook of this branch after he had so sorely punished the feeble
old baron that enchantment had disguised as a stout and shaggy woodcutter.
He was lost in these philosophical speculations when a soft voice
called from the forest floor. Bending his eyes downward--for nothing
else could he move--our incredibly virile hero espied the seeming lush and juicy daughter
of the seeming giant, the moonlight shining upon her
golden-seeming hair and her bulging, ripe-seeming breasts.
“I’ll have thee down in a trice, handsome oh so hardy lover-boy,” she called up.
“Thank...you,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
“But first, thou must promise me a boon.”
“Before I dislodge thee from yon forked bough, thou must promise----” And here the maiden
Sherah blushed and turned her fair face aside. “Oh, how can I say it with modesty?”
“Get....on....with....it!” muttered the distressed Justin the hardy one.
“Well, then. As my father told thee, I am of swiving age and
humour, but there is no swiveworthy man in this forest. Hence, ere
I dislodge thee, thou must promise to teach me the ways of swiving.
There, I have said it!” And she hid her face with her hands and
“Agreed,” hardy Justin rasped between his locked teeth.
Whereupon the seeming sumptuous maid Sherah armed herself with a
stout stick, then hitched her up skirts so high that both fud and ecu
were cooled by the night breezes, and scaled the tree. Jamming
the stick in behind the mighty hardy Justin’s helmet, she heaved with such good will
that Sir Justin was pried free and fell with a stunning clatter to the
earth, where he sat all a-daze.
Before his swirling senses settled, the maiden Sherah was upon him, clawing
at the lacings of his armour that he might serve her as he had
pledged to do. So willing was his brawn to redeem his promise that
often he did mount her to this end, but upon each instance, his imagination
warned him that this moist and panting maid Sherah was, in truth, a
low-born person the swiving of whom was beneath his dignity, and
this realization instantly made him all limp and unable.
For many and many an hour was he, by turns, stiffened and shriveled
until, near the dawning, he was sorely cramped with dog’s cullions
caused by the flowing and ebbing of ardent blood. ugh blueballs in Beowulf clusters.
Then did the maiden Sherah of the lovely ankles draw aside and pout and sniff
and stamp her little foot. “All this fumbling and prodding, then fading
and shriveling, surely this cannot be the swiving that I have heard so widely praised!”
In his shame he attested that, yes, they had done the most and the best of swiving.
“Nay, then,” cried the maiden Sherah of the lovely titties. “This swiving is a sport most
treacherously o’er famed! If it be for this that maidens dream and
sigh, and in consequence of which they grow great and make babes
to dangle from their teats, then no more of swiving shall I have! If
God protect me from increase upon this occasion, I vow me to a
nunnery, there to do His will and work ‘til my flesh ages beyond yearning.”
And Sir Justin did gravely affirm her in this choice, saying that
if she drew not pleasure from his swiving----which was the best and
most high of that delectable art----then surely no man could ever please
her. And he did feel some pride in the knowledge that he was serving
God by assisting the maiden Sherah to a nunnery where she would pass her
life to the leeward of temptation.
So it was that, in the fullness of time, the Maid of the Enchanted
Forest rose from nun to abbess, and at last was hoisted to the high
rank of saint in reward for abjuring the joy of men for all the six-
and-eighty years she passed on this earth. For celibacy is rightly accounted
a miracle in one so beauteous, lush, moist, and frick as she;
while in the generality of nuns it is but a petty accomplishment, as it
is no great feat to defend a fruit rendered forbidding and unpluckworthy
As for Sir Justin, he did return to the Table Round there to
regale his comrades (Brooke and the new power generation Josh, Nick, and Jared),
recounting how he had passed a year and a day
in the arms of a most desirable----if other-seeming----princess, and
how, out of due consideration for the aged, he had let himself be
bested by a pitiable and scrawny old knight, who had tried to disguise
himself as a puissant woodcutter; and how he had come perilously
close to being seduced by an ugly, all-rotted hag who had pretended
to be a moist and frick maiden eager to swive and be swiven. And his
amazed listeners were filled with wonder and envy.
For the rest of his days Sir Justin was so affected by his term in
the Forest of Other-Seemingness that he would take to belly none
but crones and hags full of years and distort of feature. And although
some envious knights belittled his choice of lust-targets, they were
obliged to admit that he was much more succesful plying his lance
in the romantic lists than he had been before his enchantment.
Thus came it to pass that the knight's fame was sung down the
corridors of time by bards and minstrels, in whose lays he was ever
after clep: hardy Justin! Swiver of Crones!