Copyright © P Hopkins 2010 1

The Devil Within

Part 1
The last of the mourners, black-garbed and softly-spoken,
finally left the wake, still clucking and tutting to one another
as they walked down the lane in twos and threes. Cissy shut
the front door firmly behind them, bolting and barring it with
only a little more force than absolutely necessary. She
returned to the parlor and curtsied to my mother who was
still sat in the best chair staring resolutely at the fire.
Mother was dressed all in black, as befitted her status as
a widow, although it was many a year since my father had
died. I had heard that he had been struck down in a terrible
accident, felled in the prime of life by a falling tree when he
was part of a group of men cutting wood in the deep forest
that skirts the mountain, the lower slopes of which our little
village nestles upon.
I sat in a second comfortable chair, on the other side of
the smoldering logs in the fire grate, also sunk my own
thoughts. The wake had been for my husband, killed only
last week in another mysterious and tragic accident. I was
grieving still, at least officially, although I was not as
devastated as I felt I ought to have been. Besides, I had
been effectively distracted by Mother, who clearly believed in
the value of hard work as a cure for the distress of
bereavement.
My husband had not, in truth, been a bad man, solid and
sensible and hardworking, a man willing to do a good days
work for a modest and reliable wage. He had also been just
a little unimaginative and a shade boring, not one to step
away from the bounds of convention - at least, unaided - or
to put himself forward in the company of others.
With a visible effort, Mother drew her attention away from
her own deep thoughts and beckoned to Cissy to sit in the
third chair. She studied us both for a long minute, Cissy
beginning to squirm under the intense observation.
"Abby," she said finally, addressing me, "And Cissy. Now
at last we have a little time to ourselves. We have things to

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discuss, plans to make. It is, I think, time to think of the
future, not dwell on the past."
Mother clapped her hands together, once.
"But first, Abby, make up the fire," she continued, "And
Cissy, bring us fresh tea and such comestibles as our
neighbors have deigned to leave us with."
Cissy and I set to, scurrying about the old house with
great energy, and in short order she managed to bring
together tea and bread and ham and pickles on a tray, while
I applied poker and fresh logs to the fire which blazed up and
soon drove away the chill of the early spring evening.
Meanwhile, Mother returned to her thoughts, but she was
less engrossed than before and she soon started to watch us
two girls with a faint expression of wry amusement on her
face. Finally, the three of us settled once again in front of
the fire, now dancing merrily. Cissy poured tea for us all and
passed around freshly-made sandwiches.
"Well, aren't we a collection of old crows?" Mother said,
smiling suddenly, "Flapping around in our own nest, pecking
and cawing to one another."
Cissy laughed aloud, and even I cracked a smile, the first
in many days. Cissy too was a widow, bereaved at a young
age a few years ago by an accident that left her husband
crushed and broken. She still wore her widow's black,
although dressing with flair and a sassy manner at odds with
the dour image such garments are intended to convey.
Mother had taken her in as an act of charity, after the local
lord had evicted her from the tied cottage that her farm
laborer husband enjoyed as part of his wage. She had
started as a lowly maidservant, but soon her energy and
competence, her smiling face and ready hands, had elevated
her in mother's estimation. Cissy now largely ran the
household, and was in truth more a trusted companion than
a servant.
Mother's face now became more solemn in appearance.
Cissy and I set down our teacups and put our hands in our
laps, and turned our entire attention to the older woman.
"We have all known the touch of a man," she resumed,
speaking carefully in the way she did when she wished us to
listen carefully, "And we have all experienced the loss of a

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man from our lives. I hesitate to suggest that each of our
losses were in any way desired, but the absence of men may
actually be a blessing in disguise. This way, we women are
not exploited or beaten, or made pregnant time and again
with much risk to life and health."
Mother turned in her chair to face me.
"I have taught you how to avoid the necessity of
becoming with child," she continued, "How to satisfy a man's
base lusts with unnatural acts which both pleasure more fully
and conceive most rarely."
This was quite true. In spite of the proscriptions of the
church and the disapprobation of society at large, I had
encouraged my husband to spill his seed on my breasts and
in my mouth, allowing him the pleasures of the wet oyster
between my legs only after he had climaxed at least twice.
I learned to wash carefully, beforehand and afterward, inside
and out, to encourage hygiene and prevent conception. I
had even explored other practices - espoused by the foreign
Bulgars - taking his manhood from behind in another
opening.
"It seems that these practices have been entirely
successful for you, my daughter," Mother continued, "And
you too, our faithful companion and friend" - Cissy blushed
prettily at this compliment - "have been initiated into these
secrets, secrets that have failed only once for me - and that
was a great many years ago."
It was true that time and seasons had favored my Mother.
The neighbors had commented on it, often, hinting at its
strangeness: her childless condition even while her husband
was alive, and the strength and beauty that yet remained in
her tall and slender body. Her hair was long and dark with
not a trace of grey to be found. She retained a sharpness of
eye and a degree of youthful looks that would have put a
much younger woman to shame, and even now possessed a
firmness of complexion that owed much to careful diet and
frequent washing.
I favor my Mother - although I never knew my father - in
my own appearance, being also tall and slender and dark-
haired, although my locks are not quite as long as hers.
Even so, in certain lights, and in the large mirror than stood
behind the door in Mother's bedroom, she and I could be

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mistaken for sisters. By contrast, Cissy was petite and
blonde and ruby-cheeked, and much more well-rounded and
womanly in her bodily form.
"And so, my daughter, my companion," Mother continued,
"We should form a pact, make a solemn vow" - she did not
suggest it was sworn on a bible - "to look after our own
interests, to rule our own lives, our own money - and our
own bodies - to the best of our own abilities."
She paused dramatically, then pronounced: "What do you
say? Do we all agree?"
Cissy and I glanced at each other and then we spoke as
one: "I agree."
Mother leaned forward in her chair and reached out, and
Cissy and I both grasped her hands warmly in our own.
"Then we have an accord," she said, a beatific smile
spreading over her face.
So that's how it came into being, our little group of
friends, our threesome of female companions - or the Coven
of Witches according to the less favorable of the
neighborhood gossip's opinions.
Part 2
Later that evening, after we had all completed our allotted
chores and eaten a light supper, we began to make ourselves
ready to retire for the night. Cissy and I closed and bolted
the outer doors and the shutters on the windows, and drew
the heavy curtains over the inner doors which led to the
cellars and the larder and the scullery.
As usual, we undressed in front of the fire, Cissy and I
helping each other out of the heavy and complex garments
that convention demanded, with their strapped and laced
bodices, and their voluminous petticoats, before the two of
us performed the same services for Mother. After my
husband's tragic death, I had returned to my Mother's house
for comfort and companionship, and I had automatically
resumed the duties I had performed before my marriage.
On this night, none of us felt any need to rush into the
heavy nightgowns we habitually donned for bed. Despite her
usual drive for domestic economy, Mother had earlier
directed Cissy to add another, and then yet another, log to

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the fire, so that the parlor was especially warm and cozy.
Mother spoke up just as Cissy reached for the ankle-length
nightgown that lay in the top of the dresser.
"It really is such a shame that such fine young bodies
should be covered up at all times," she said to me, looking
over Cissy's nearly naked form, "Perhaps here, alone in this
house, we should allow ourselves a little more freedom from
conventions, and be prepared to remain comfortable and
naked in our own home."
Cissy grinned at her, clearly delighted by the anticipation,
then proceeded to remove the last of her petticoats.
"Yes, Mistress," she said, eyes downcast demurely, even
as she carefully refolded the garments and placed them on
the dresser.
Cissy looked exquisite, I thought, now quite naked and
moving with astonishing grace and poise about the parlor.
Her long blonde hair, now unwound from its elaborate
daytime coiffure, lay tangled down her back. Her breasts,
white and soft, swung and jiggled as she moved, and her
hips and thighs were muscular and well-toned from the
fetching and carrying she undertook daily. The downy
blonde hair between her legs seemed somehow beaded with
moisture, although whether perspiration or another more
intimate fluid I was not yet sure.
Cissy moved to help Mother by unlacing her tight bodice
and slipping off the other woman's voluminous petticoat.
These items too she carefully folded and returned to the
dresser. Mother's body was still slender and tautly muscled
even after all these years, and her dark hair was long
enough to reach below her waist and almost conceal her
small but still firm breasts. She held her chin up and
admired herself in the full-length mirror that stood behind
the door, then moved to her favorite chair and sat elegantly,
as composed as if she was receiving visitors in her finest
Sunday best.
I too wanted to join my mother and my friend, to enjoy
the freedom and frisson of nudity. In my urgency, I
struggled out of my petticoat even before Cissy could help.
We had been individually nude in front of each other before,
of course, but not all at once. We would strip naked, often
shivering, on bath nights, when we brought out the old tin

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bath and placed it in front of this very fire. But Mother had
not directed me to fetch the bath nor Cissy to heat the
water, so bathing was not our chore on this evening. She
had something else in mind.
Our usual evening ritual at this point would be to brush
each others' hair - two hundred strokes each. I sat on the
foot-stool in front of the fire, as naked as the day I was born,
while Cissy picked up the hairbrush. She ran the brush
smoothly through my hair. As always, the sensation was
pleasurable, especially when she reached the ends of my
locks below my shoulder-blades. The feelings made me arch
my back and lift my chin, causing my breasts to emerge
further from the tangle of hair that Cissy was endeavoring to
straighten.
Mother watched calmly as Cissy and I swapped places,
the whish of the brush and the crackle of the fire almost the
only sounds in the quiet room, although punctuated by
Cissy's soft moans as she enjoyed my attentions at least as
much as I had enjoyed hers.
"We all know that us women need to look after each
other," Mother again addressed me, as Cissy relaxed under
my ministrations, "We brush each others' hair, bathe each
others' bodies, help each other to dress and undress. So I
think it is only appropriate that we find other ways to help
each other."
"I am not sure I understand what you mean, Mother," I
replied demurely, not ceasing my brushing and intensely
aware of the tickle of Cissy's hair against my own breasts.
Mother smiled. "There are some techniques and practices
recommended by women, for women, for ages past," she
went on, "Practices to tame the devil within our bodies: the
demon which drives us into the arms and beds of unsuitable
men, and then binds us to them so unreasoningly."
Cissy's hair was done, so I put down the brush and turned
to face Mother, still uncomprehending.
"So, you will, think, know of the delights of a mouth
against your breast, suckling on you like a babe in arms,
yes?"
I nodded. I had enjoyed this sensation when, on
occasions, I had persuaded my husband to favor me in this

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way. Cissy, who had been resident in my Mother's house
much more than I in recent years, took this as her cue. She
turned around on the stool to face me, then bent forward to
cup a breast in one hand and run her tongue over my nipple.
I admit I cried aloud, more than once, as Cissy sucked
harder on first one and then the other, squeezing my breasts
between her fingers. After the longest time, she drew back,
gently separated my legs and knelt between them.
Straightening her back, she reached a kettle from the hearth
and poured a little warm water into a bowl that she had
previously from the dresser that stood to one side. Then,
she took up a cloth that had been warming at the fireside,
dipped it in the water and gently cleansed my thighs and my
belly, and finally that soft oyster that nestled between my
legs.
Cissy dropped the cloth and leaned forward again. She
pressed her tongue to my lips, reaching instantly that most
intimate and sensitive spot that had taken so long for my
husband to find. As she licked at me, Cissy slid a finger
inside me, releasing a sudden hot moistness, with a skill and
certainty that made it clear than this was not the first time
she had performed this service. I realized that this was a
duty which she had undertaken on many an occasion.
Cissy's ministrations brought me swiftly to a shattering
climax, crying out so loudly that I was glad that Mother's
house stood at some distance from the rest of the village. I
was barely able to remain upright on the stool, the muscles
in my legs and belly suddenly beyond my control.
Cissy watched me, licking her lips lasciviously, apparently
enjoying my experience at second-hand.
"There you are, young madam," she said with a glint in
her eye that belied the servitude of her words, "I hope that
you find my efforts satisfactory?"
"Oh Cissy," I gasped, still struggling to breathe regularly,
"You are so skilled, so knowledgeable! How did you learn to
do that?"
"Mistress taught me," she said simply.
"As she is to teach you," Mother added serenely.

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 My understanding now complete, I slid off the stool to my
knees and allowed Cissy to sit in the place I had vacated.
There was just a little dampness on the leather of the
footstool. Cissy spread her legs unashamedly, used her own
fingers to hold apart the delicate lips between her legs and
cleansed herself, in just the same swift way that she had
cleansed me before. Then, she guided my earnestly seeking
tongue, my enthusiasm as yet outweighing my skill, to
exactly the spot she desired.
I knew I had found her center when I felt her muscles
tighten, her body twitch and buck under my face. Her taste
was a delight, the texture of sweet milk in my mouth. I now
knew without doubt that the dewdrops decorating her blonde
hair earlier was indeed her own intimate moisture. She must
have known what to expect and, from frequent experience,
the anticipation had engendered her bodily reactions.
Mother had been watching us both, her bright eyes
reflecting the firelight, first caressing her own breasts and
then touching herself between her own legs, her fingers
exploring the very same sensitive spot that Cissy and I were
enjoying. Cissy's eventual climax was as prolonged and
noisy as my own, and I felt a gush of moisture against my
chin. She collapsed over my back, her weight on my
shoulder.
The other girl's breathing became more regular and I
assisted her to sit upright. Mother gestured to Cissy and to
me, beckoning us over to her seat by the fireside. She lifted
her arms to toss back her long hair and spread her own legs
even wider. We knelt together, side by side, cheek by
cheek. I am sure we both knew what was expected of us
now.
"Come," said Mother, moving to lie back in her chair,
"Now you must press your services upon me, to help me in
turn to tame the devil within."
Part 3
It was high summer in our little village, and the weather
had been hot and dry for weeks, it seemed. The crops of
cereals and vegetables grew and ripened in the sunshine.
The summer solstice had come and gone, yet it was not time
for the harvest and the festival to celebrate the fruits of the
fields being safely gathered in. It was that lazy and

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contented time of year, where the world seems to be at
peace, where man and beast alike appeared drowsy and
contented.
Cissy and I had remained in residence in my Mother's
house. Like Cissy, I really had no other option, other than
that of a homeless vagabond or, perhaps worse still, a public
wanton, a common tart. The tiny cottage that I had
occupied with my husband before his death I was required to
vacate, the steward of the local landowner politely but firmly
making it clear that I was not longer able to remain in the
property, as it was tied to the farm laborer’s position he no
longer occupied.
Still, Mother's house was large enough that there was
space enough for us all, more or less. Upstairs, we had but
two rooms, so I shared a bedroom with Cissy and, more
often than not, shared a bed with her too. Downstairs, there
was more space, with a kitchen, a scullery and a larder as
well as the parlor. Outside there were several sheds and
outhouses for the storage of tools and feedstuffs, and a run
for the chickens we kept for fresh eggs and for the table.
All three of us still wore our widow's weeds when out of
doors. We attended the Church on Sunday and the market
on week-days dutifully enough to avoid undue comment from
the villages, or a personal visit from the parson or the
curate. But, behind the closed shutters we reveled in our
nakedness, enjoying the warmth of the summer and the
touch of each others bodies in the night.
When I first moved back in with Mother, I was concerned
that we would become impoverished, unable to survive. I
had some little savings, a few coins in silver and copper my
husband and I had scrimped from his laborer's income and
through frugal housekeeping. The money would not last
long, and I began to think that I would have to go away,
become a maidservant myself in some grand house.
I had cautiously expressed my worries to Mother shortly
after I moved in, the day after the wake. She smiled at my
evident concern and held me warmly in her arms for
reassurance. There was no rent to pay, she explained, since
she owned this house through some obscure covenant, the
full details of which I did not really understand. The
household's income was from the sale of potions and

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medicines at the local markets, and to occasional visitors
who came to the door. The money would cover our needs,
she continued, and she would be delighted if I would assist
her in the preparations and distillations. I agreed at once,
tears in my eyes from relief and gratitude that I would be
able to stay.
Most days, Cissy and I assisted Mother in the cutting and
curing, the brewing and boiling, the grinding and pressing.
The old wooden table in the scullery was frequently covered
with boards and mortars, and the kitchen range clanged with
boiling pans and alembics. It was hard work, but we talked
or sang as we labored in our pinafore aprons, or just sat in
companionable silence with the shutters open, and the
birdsong and the cluck of the chickens in our ears.
The recipes for many of the simpler preparations - rosehip
syrup and lavender tea and elderflower wine - I already knew
well enough. I was taught as a young girl, as I am sure
many daughters are taught. It was just another of the
household lessons I absorbed without conscious thought as I
was growing up, and I am sure nobody ever forgets the
things they learned at Mother's knee.
One task I had practiced regularly in my own cottage, and
one which I took over almost immediately, was the brewing
of beer. This was mainly for consumption by the laboring
men who worked our smallholding and orchard and
vegetable patch at irregular intervals. With their assistance,
we grew potatoes and cabbages, onions and beans, apples
and pears, and remained self-sufficient in many ways.
Indeed the wages of the laboring men were paid partially
from the surplus from the gardens but mainly from the
market-days sales of the fruits of our labors in the scullery.
It seemed that Mother had a reputation as a vendor of
reliable decoctions and puissant elixirs in the local markets,
and the little bottles and earthenware jars changed hands for
copper or silver coin readily enough. The customers always
seemed satisfied, some returning again and again to buy the
draughts that gave them relief from their aches or stiffness
in their manhood.
The market was also the source for necessities that we
could not produce ourselves: bacon and flour, oats and tea,
and the occasional exotic spices or tropical seedpods that

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could not be found locally. For the most part, however, we
were self-sufficient in the ingredients for the potions we
manufactured. Mother grew a great many herbs, some rare
and hard to tend, in a little walled garden that bordered the
house on the south side. The worn bricks kept off the worst
of the frost in the winter and deflected the gales at the
equinoxes. The pocket garden was delightfully warm in the
summer, although it meant much fetching and carrying of
watering cans from the well in the driest months.
I soon discovered that Mother's knowledge of herbals and
of the lore of plants was much greater than I had realized
and, under her gentle tutelage, I found I was learning more
than I ever imagined possible. She instructed me in the use
of Belladonna and blue cornflowers for painkillers and
poisons, for brightening tired eyes and glossing wan
complexions, and all the myriad combinations of effects -
beneficial or morbid - that the world's glowing things had on
the bodies of men.
Some plants and fungi we could not grow in our gardens,
or Mother chose not to attempt it. Instead, our needs had to
be found in wild places, sometimes secret places. During
that summer, we resumed our practice of long walks in the
woods and upon the moors. These walks I remembered as a
child as strolls in the sun, skipping along the trails and
pathways, and erratically attending Mother when she pointed
out some rare flower or hidden shrub. We would always
return home by nightfall, tired and burdened with our
gleanings, and I would be sent early to bed after supper
while Mother sorted through the trove.
So it was, when the weather was clement, Cissy and I
would accompany Mother on foraging expeditions seeking
rare plants and mushrooms, or hard to obtain minerals
mined from obscure outcrops that so often emerged from the
undergrowth like ghosts. These treks soon gave us a
working knowledge of the deep forest and the moors that
few others would have. The woods were reputed to be the
haunt of bears and wolves, dangerous animals said to be
likely to attack without warning, as well as other, more
elemental creatures mentioned in fable and myth. In truth,
the dangers were over-wrought: neither bears nor wolves
had been sighted in this area for many a long year, and none

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of us gave the slightest credence to old wives tales about
elves and fairies.
*
On this particular summer evening, the house was stuffy,
over-warm in the still evening air. The day had been hot
and, even quite naked, I myself found it close and stultifying
in the parlor.
"It is warm, this evening, is it not?" Mother said.
"It is indeed, Mistress," Cissy answered at once, looking
up from her task of brushing my hair.
"Stifling," I agreed, "I, for one, would relish the feeling of
a cool breeze on my skin this evening."
Cissy's eyes opened wide.
"But we cannot unbar the shutters, young Mistress," she
objected, "For fear of our neighbors observing us?"
Mother nodded sagely, looking elegantly naked in her
favorite armchair.
"That is true," she said, "But the might be a way to get a
little cool air. Let us wash ourselves as usual, and then Cissy
will fetch our cloaks"
And so it was that, twenty minutes later, we three women
were dressed in our heavy black cloaks, the cloaks that we
would normally have reserved for winter use, with the hoods
raised to hide our unbound locks, and striding out on the
path towards the woods. Under the cloaks, we wore stout
shoes suitable for the rough paths we would tread, but we all
three were otherwise naked.
Finding our way easily, the sky being still light well into
the evening, we followed ways known to few men and fewer
women, into the hill-side forest. Once away from the well-
traveled roads, we led our cloaks flow freely, already
enjoying the cooler air on our breasts and our thighs.
Finally, we arrived at a rocky outcrop that overlooked the
path we had just followed. Here, we lay our cloaks upon the
ground, and sat upon the rocks still warm from the setting
sun. Now entirely sky-clad, we enjoyed the intimacies of one
another's bodies, relished the familiar touch and taste of
each others lips in that most unfamiliar of settings, and

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through our climaxes embraced the sensation of unbridled
freedom under the boundless sky.
Part 4
As the summer drew to a close, Mother, Cissy and I were
often hard at work morning, noon and night - or at least it
seemed like it. Day after day, we harvested the herbs and
produce from our garden, and collected plants from the
woodlands and moors. The scullery sink and the kitchen
table were invariably filled with bowls and flasks and pestles,
and the shelves in the pantry and the storage spaces in the
outhouses steadily filled with jars and flagons and casks.
More often than not, we were all exhausted by the time
we got to our nightly ritual of brushing each others hair and
washing each others bodies. Even so, we rarely neglected
our other requirements. Cissy was so good, and I was
learning fast, and we were each able to bring one another to
a climax and assuage the most urgent of the needs of our
bodies.
Despite our increasing expertise and frequent
ministrations, I had felt there was something missing for
some time. Eventually I had realized what it was: the feeling
of being penetrated, deeply and thoroughly; the sensation of
a phallus between my legs. I was beginning to need this
attention most urgently. It was beginning to put our pact at
risk, as I found myself looking with a certain liveliness at the
younger unmarried or widowed men of the parish, or the
itinerant laborers who tended our smallholding.
I grew so bold as to mention my feelings to Mother and
Cissy in our evening conversation before supper. We had
already enjoyed the customary releases of our tresses and
our bodies, and we were now sitting in front of the fire once
more. Mother was reclining in her favorite chair while Cissy
carefully bathed her most intimate regions.
"The devil grows strong inside you," Mother said, "I
suppose I am not surprised to hear that the demon between
your legs now needs further release. We shall have to see
about providing assistance in your hour of need."
Mother sat for a long moment staring at the fire, then
turned and looked at me directly.

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 "Now, Abby," she said, "Tell us what you know about the
Yew."
I was entirely puzzled by the change in direction of the
conversation. Even so, I instinctively sat up straight, drew
my ankles together and put my hands in my lap, as if I was
back in the schoolroom or attending closely one of my
Mother's own lessons. Cissy too immediately adopted a
similar pose, looking suddenly very prim and proper. She
looked so much at odds with our hitherto abandoned and still
naked condition that I had to bite my lip very firmly to keep
from laughing out loud.
"The Yew is an evergreen tree with red berries and dark
green leaves," I said in my best schoolgirl fashion, "It is very
slow growing and lives for a great many years. The wood of
the Yew tree is amongst the hardest and most resilient of
woods, and is frequently used for bows and for the handles
of tools of all kinds. It is found most often in churchyards
and on hallowed ground."
Mother held up a hand and I fell silent immediately.
"Very good," she approved, "And you will know that there
are several such trees growing around our village church.
But, how old is the church building itself?"
I thought quickly. I brought to mind the date carved into
the foundation stone by the altar, a feature I had stared at
idly while another sermon droned on around me. I did a
quick calculation in my head.
"The oldest part of the church," I said carefully, "Is one
hundred and thirteen years old."
"And the Yew tree that stands by the gate. How old do
you think that is?"
I thought about its gnarled and twisted boughs, its hollow
trunk and spreading girth.
"It must be many hundreds of years old," I answered.
Mother raised an eyebrow. "So?"
"So the Yew tree was already ancient even when the
foundation stone of the church was laid," I said slowly,
realization dawning.

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 "Indeed," Mother replied, looking pleased with my
eventual perspicacity, "The tree was reputed by our
forebears to have connections with the old Gods and
Goddesses."
She paused, then resumed.
"You have forgotten something else about the Yew. Can
you remember what that is?"
I sat dumb. I could not think of anything.
"Almost every part of the tree is poisonous," Cissy chirped
up, "Leaves and seeds, even the wood is dangerous if not
handed carefully."
"Well done, Cissy," Mother said, "Although it has medical
qualities, too. As so many things in this world, toxic if used
careless or to excess, but beneficial with care and
moderation. A man poisoned by the Yew gives the
appearance of being possessed by a demon, while there are
certain weaknesses of the heart and arteries can be treated
with an extract of the seeds of the Yew, as can certain
complaints of the womb."
Mother stood up and moved across the parlor to the
sideboard. It was clear that she was looking for something.
After a few moments, she turned and held up an object for
our inspection.
It was a large and intricately detailed phallus of carved
wood, its base merging into a domed hemisphere the size of
an upturned tea-cup. The curved surfaces were polished and
varnished. I could see that once it had painted a bright red,
although I could see that the paint was faded and worn in a
few places. It looked like a tool that had been expertly made
and then subject to many years of hard use thereafter.
"This is made from the wood of the Yew," Mother said,
holding it forward for me to take, "It is an old piece, an
ancient thing and carefully treated to neutralize the toxins."
Cissy was wide-eyed; it was clear that she had not seen
this device before.
"It looks," she said with a wicked giggle, "Like a Devil's
horn."
Mother too grinned widely.

16 Copyright © P Hopkins 2010

 "So now we are able to help poor Abby with her
condition," she said, addressed Cissy.
Cissy needed no further encouragement and, in all
honesty, neither did I. She knelt down, her head between
my legs, her tongue already pressed between my lips to
moisten them. There was no need. The sight of the painted
phallus had made me instantly wet and open, a fact that
Cissy realized quickly enough. She drew back and looked
into my eyes with a mixture of wonderment and lust flitting
across her features.
"You really want this, don't you?" she breathed.
"Oh, Cissy, I do," I cried, my urgent need suddenly
getting the better of me.
Mother stood the flat base of the device on the stool in
front of the fire. I stood, squatted over the erect tip, then
pressed myself down over the carved wooden phallus forcing
the warm hard wood deep inside me. I cried out, unable to
contain my need any longer. I bucked and jerked wildly,
uncontrollably, rapidly bringing myself to the brink of
another immensely satisfying climax.
Once again, it seemed, I enjoyed the devil within.

Copyright © P Hopkins 2010 17