Robin and the Winsome Wench — P.J. Rosier

It was a sultry summer’s afternoon in Sherwood Forest. Sunlight dappled the waters of a stream ruffled only by the pebbles sent skimming over the placid surface by Robin Hood. Dressed in his traditional green, he lay on the grassy bank.

He was bored.

What a disaster, he thought. A beautiful day for fun and frolic and no-one to share it with. His plan had seemed such a good idea at first. The evil Sheriff of Nottingham was safely out of the way, travelling with his personal guards to East Anglia to pledge allegiance to King John who himself was on a Royal Progression to Norfolk and the coast. The nearby robber barons were too hot to bother with anything but staying in their shady castles and entertaining with wine, wenches and feasting. If the entertainment was not up to scratch, then nailing the jester to the wall by his ears, or other parts, was just as amusing. The poor people tilled the soil, tended their cattle and avoided the Black Death as best they could.

It was just another summer’s day in Merrie England.

But how tedious it had become, thought Robin. The whole idea of living with his Merrie Men was fine at the start but that was the trouble. Living with them meant it was impossible to be private, particularly when he wished to enjoy Maid Marian’s favours. Why just a week ago, entering a leaf carpeted glade with Marian, he felt his lust surge – and other parts swell in agreement. Seized by his urges, he tumbled her to the ground and had raised her skirts around her waist when, calamity!, Friar Tuck wandered into the glade from the opposite direction. Of course, seeing what was happening, he made a speedy exit, his rosary beads clicking furiously like an Eastern trader’s abacus, but the moment was ruined for Robin.

Or a day or two before that. Alone, or so he thought, in the forest with Marian, Robin spied a tree fallen months before in the winter storms. Its smooth bark and lushly rounded curves brought just one thing to mind and it was seconds only before Robin had untied the leather thong holding Marian’s britches around her waist and, tugging them around her ankles, had laid her prone over the log. He was just contemplating her soft naked pink-hued buttocks, so invitingly raised when, surely not!, Alan A-Dale emerged from some nearby bushes. Not for the first time, Robin regretted his decision so long ago to clothe his men in Lincoln Green. Not only did it camouflage them from the Sheriff’s men, it meant he couldn’t spot them either until they were too close for comfort.

So, with things now calm and peaceful, Robin had decided to let his men have a well earned rest and to return to their families and friends for a week or two, leaving just Marian. Just as he was congratulating himself on this plan, Marian herself decided to go home to visit her aged mother. In vain did Robin plead that this would lose them the very opportunity they had sought: to be alone together. But Marian would not postpone her visit; her mind was made up.

So thinking, Robin had fallen into melancholy when he heard a noise of branches breaking, horses galloping and rough voices shouting. Looking up, he saw a young woman in a fine and fancy gown burst from the trees and scramble down the bank into the stream followed moments later by two knights on horseback.

As the young woman half waded and half swam into the middle of the stream, one of the knights raised his lance and aimed it like a spear at her. He had just pulled back his arm to its full stretch when he dropped the lance and stared in surprise. One of Robin’s arrows, still quivering, was buried in his arm’s fleshy muscle. Seeing Robin with another arrow already notched to his bow and taking aim, both knights turned their horses and wheeled away back into the woods.

The young woman, a very comely wench Robin noticed, had by now reached his side of the stream and he lent forward to help her up the muddy bank. Her hair was plastered to her face, very far from the elegant style it had started out with that day; even Robin noticed that. Her face and arms were muddy and scratched from brambles and her dress, elegant too, torn and stained.

“Thank you, Sire,” said she, “I know you by repute; Robin the Green, some say.”

“I am pleased to help you, Mistress,” said Robin, flattered that she should recognise him. “But who are you and why were you being chased?”

“My name is Mercy and I am the daughter of a poor but honest miller who lives in a village but a few leagues from here. He is kind and gives the villagers flour and grain when times are hard against a promise of future payment but few ever do. Now he cannot pay his rent to our landowner the Baron and the Baron took me instead in lieu of what he is owed. I am his plaything but, as an honest girl, I cannot deny my nature and my love in the next village and so I essayed to escape, chased by his brutal guards.

“So I thank you, Sire, for your chivalry. But I must change these wet clothes for I fear an ague from the sudden chill on such a hot day.”

At this, Robin’s eyes lit up as he had had much the same thoughts himself but was wondering how best to express them. He hurried to fetch a coarse horse blanket and Mercy disappeared into the bushes to remove her clothing. When she returned wrapped in the blanket, it was clear that she was as toothsome then as in her former fine habiliment.

Shortly it grew dark and Mercy made them a dinner of small beer, cold meat and some stale bread that was all that Robin had left. Robin watched and could only think of that fair, naked flesh under the rough blanket. As she knelt by the fire, the blanket slipped and her pink and white breasts peeked into view.

“Oh Sire, I see you regarding my apples. I fear that is all I can offer you.”

“Oh come, Mercy. Surely you would not deny me a closer look at all your charms?”

“Faith Sire, having seen the fruit would you ravage the orchard?”

Before Robin could think of an answer, he heard soft footsteps and without warning (curse that Lincoln Green!), Maid Marion strode into the camp.

“Why Robin, I leave you but for a few days returning early fearing you are lonely only to find you with a half dressed maiden, no better than she ought.”

Both Robin and Mercy sought to explain the innocent nature of their liason and Marion listened with a cynical smile.

“I will think hard on whether I believe you but meantime this pretty maiden can help me. I am tired from travel and dusty. I need to undress and bathe in the stream before bed. Come, Mercy.”

As they left the clearing, Robin could not but help contrast them: Marian with her boyish figure, sun-tanned face and dark close cropped hair, dressed in boy’s jerkin and britches; Mercy with her slender shapely legs that even the blanket showed to advantage, her pale skin and long fair hair …….and her captivating breasts.

From the stream came sounds of splashing, girlish laughter and giggles. These faded until it became quite quiet and Robin wondered when Marian and Mercy might return.

He walked slowly in the direction of the stream and stopped short when he saw the two women in a position he had never thought possible. Both were naked and lay side by side caressing and kissing. Marian was whispering in Mercy’s ear who giggled softly and whispered something back. Then they locked lips together and Marian continued to caress Mercy’s breasts while Mercy’s hand slid down between Marian’s legs and gripped her there before rubbing back and forth, faster and faster.

Marian cried out and lowered her lips to Mercy’s breasts where she began to suckle prettily. Mercy herself now gasped as both she and Marian trembled and shook with passion before falling still.

Shortly, both women looked up from their daze and saw Robin standing there, agog.

“Do not be surprised, Robin,” said Mercy. “I told you when you rescued me that I had to be true to my own nature and, if I cannot yet be with my dear lady in the village close to my own, I can at least succour and comfort your sweet Marian, as she is doing to me.”

And smiling at Robin, Mercy rolled over on top of Marian and placed her lips firmly between those wet and wanton thighs all the better to start their love making over again.

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Read Peter’s other sexy stories here on Every Night Erotica.

Peter Rosier is a British author who has had work published in paper form (Mammoth Books, Sensorotika Press, Meat Grinder Press, etc) and on-line including Ruthie’s Club and Oysters and Chocolate.  Work has also been scripted for Hong Kong television and performed on stage by fringe theatre in London.