Gwendolyn's life changed forever the day she drowned.

It was, of course, true that her life had been changing gradually in many ways for some time, as is the natural order of things. From a carefree little girl--who loved nothing more than to sit perched on the knee of her white-haired grandfather, listening with wide-eyed wonder to the fantastic tales the old man told, fables of secretive elves and towering dragons and mischievous fairies, of fair princes and dazzling princesses and heroes brave and strong--the last few years had seen her tall, lanky form fill out, flowering and maturing as she blossomed into young womanhood. No more did the young boys taunt her cruelly as she walked along the muddy streets carrying out her chores, teasing her in the misguided, malicious way that children oft do. Now young men came to pay court to her, to praise her many charms, to describe with clumsy (though heartfelt) poetry her radiant beauty, all in the hopes of stealing a kiss from her delectable lips, each one tremulously hoping that his would be the face on which those sparkling crystal eyes would shine with pleasure and wondrous light.

Gwendolyn's mother, knowing all-to-well the ways of young women and their passage into adulthood--and even more so the ways of young men!--kept a protective yet trusting eye on her only daughter, her treasure, whom she had raised alone for many years since the black night the wolf-riders swept out from their craggy lairs in the Whispering Mountains, leaving many--Gwendolyn's father among them--dead in their howling wake. The cleverest of Gwendolyn's suitors found hope and strategy in this kindly vigil, well-nigh wooing the mother as fiercely as the daughter, bringing her small gifts of shimmering cloth or semi-precious stones, careful to always flatter her as well. While they congratulated themselves for their subtlety, the widow merely smiled with good humor and thanked them politely, hiding her laughter behind her twinkling eyes.

And so it had come to pass that one spring, when life once again renewed itself in its annual ritual and the world was ablaze in riotous bloom, Gwendolyn at last gave her heart to another. He was Petr and he was the blacksmith's son, a fine and upstanding lad, destined to be an important man in the village. Though he had seen but twenty summers, he was strong as a snowbear and few could stand against him at the festivals, when the men, young and old, engaged in spirited bouts of wrestling, as well as other tests of strength and skill. Yet he did not abuse his strength as some would have and bully those less fortunate than he; rather, he was a young man who had a kind word for all and was always ready to help those who needed it, whose unfailing spirit of good humor endeared him to all he met, even to those who might otherwise have regarded him with dark jealousy. It was these qualities of character, and not his fine young form, that at length won him the heart of the fair Gwendolyn--and yes, the approval of her white- haired mother, who began to secretly look forward to the day when she could bounce a wee bairn upon her knee.

From clumsy kisses stolen when the gaze of Gwendolyn's mother wandered for a moment, Gwen's and Petr's youthful fumblings had progressed apace as their attraction and liking for each other grew. Petr had been an ardent suitor, and a thankful one. Though he had much to offer a young woman and had been the target of many flirtatious advances from the village beauties, in his humble way, the lad was constantly amazed and overjoyed that Gwendolyn--whose very form was perfection, whose long blonde tresses framed the most kissable face, complete with a pert nose lightly sprinkled with freckles, whose budding womanly curves filled out her bodice in the most delightful way, hinting at the glorious treasures waiting to be discovered beneath it--for some inexplicable reason found him as entrancing as he found her. Though he could at times scarce believe it, yet Petr was no fool and did not question his good fortune; rather, he thanked the gods and wooed her with an ardor which belied his youth and inexperience.

And so it had come to pass that as Petr became accepted by Gwendolyn's mother and it became apparent to all that their betrothal was not far distant, the young woman was allowed to spend time alone with her suitor, out from under her mother's watchful eye. The two young lovers joyously reveled in this new found freedom, spending hours walking hand-in-hand through the shady forests and sunny fields, losing themselves in each other's eyes, sometimes telling each other their innermost thoughts, sometimes not speaking at all yet knowing those thoughts just the same, happy to have discovered a love the likes of which it seemed no one else could have known.

Though she loved Petr with every fiber of her being, Gwendolyn was, at first, loath to betray the trust she felt her mother had laid upon her, and though her heart sang to be near him and she wanted nothing more to be his, in body as she already was in soul, yet Gwendolyn preserved her chastity, allowing her lover liberty to run his hands over her clothed form, inflaming her, his kisses scalding her as they rained down upon her tender lips and soft cheeks and the warm hollows of her neck, but steadily demurring to disrobe or consummate their relationship with the ultimate physical expressions of love.

Yet as the fragrant spring nights grew longer and summer returned to the land, Gwendolyn found it ever harder to refuse his intimate caresses, to fight against the feverish urges of her young blood. Finally, on her eighteenth birthday, she resisted no more, succumbing to her aching desires and allowing Petr to be with her in that wondrous manner which she had hitherto only dreamt about. The scene of her deflowering was a small glade, in which wildflowers grew in riotous profusion, their perfume filling the noon air with a heady scent that urged her on to wild abandon. The sleepy glade lay along the gently rippling shore of a crystalline blue lake, whose sparking depths seemed a mirror reflecting her soul. Many had been the time Gwendolyn and Petr had stood along the shores of the Lake of Dreams before that magical day, gazing out over the deep waters, its name apt as they stared in silence, alone in their thoughts but taking comfort in each other's presence.

Though the lake was idyllic, not a soul had ever intruded upon their solitude, for the lake was whispered by the elders to be a dangerous place, dark and mysterious. There, the villagers trod but rarely, never staying to tarry beside the calm waters but passing it as quickly as they might. Many had been the stories Gwen's grandfather had wove about the Lake of Dreams, stories which she had dismissed (as she had most of the tales she loved) as the fantastic imaginings of an old man's mind, though in this instance, the same stories were told by others in the village as well. It was said that unwary travelers to the lake--particularly those who came upon its shores at night--would hear the sirens calling them, entrancing them to enter the inviting waters which would enfold them like a lover, locking them in its eternal embrace. And indeed, Gwendolyn could recall, in her lifetime, an instance where a village lad had disappeared whilst returning home one evening, his path certain to have taken him past the lake. Though none knew his fate, and while there were many more prosaic dangers that could have claimed his life along the forest trail he rode, yet the elders in her village knew that it was the lake that had taken him and he was seen no more.

Though Gwendolyn had, with the wisdom of youth, dismissed the tales she had heard of the lake, yet she had been loath to go there, until Petr revealed that he had been to its shores many times, claiming that its beauty--though less than her own!--was wondrous to behold. As a young man, he had first gone to the Lake of Dreams on a dare. He confessed to her that as he had approached that first time, the stories he had heard had nearly unmanned him and caused him to turn back, but then his courage rose within him and he pressed forward until at last he stood ankle-deep in its waters. After a short while, he realized that the stories were just that--stories--and that he had nothing to fear. He had returned to the lake on many subsequent occasions, finding it an idyllic spot in which to relax, far from the cares of the ordinary world. Emboldened by his words, and secure in the knowledge that Petr would never allow any harm to befall her, Gwendolyn had accompanied her love to the lake and been entranced. There, she and Petr had discovered the grotto that they termed "their secret spot," belonging only to them, and it was there that Gwen and Petr first explored the mysteries of the joining of woman and man.

It was at this hidden retreat that Gwendolyn found herself one warm and sultry eve in her eighteenth summer, waiting for her lover to appear. Inhaling deeply of the invigorating night air, she thought back to that momentous day, scant weeks earlier, and smiled, the enigmatic smile of a young woman who has tasted--or believes she has tasted--of all life has to offer. Though their first experiences had been in the golden light of day, lately, as the sweltering heat of the days grew to seemingly rival that of the forge at which Petr toiled for his living, she and her beloved had taken to meeting there in the cooler summer night, the soft silvery glow of the moons washing over their writhing forms as they feverishly coupled on the grass or splashed in the shallows, their cries of abandon echoing over the gently rippling waters of the lake, their slick sweat washed away by the waves.

She and Petr had arranged to meet at the glade again this evening, but while she had arrived, Petr had apparently tarried at his forge and had yet to appear. In fairness to the young man, it was more that Gwen was early than that he was late for their tryst. As she strolled barefoot through the tall grasses, breathing deeply of the softly swaying flowers--their tantalizing scent wafting in the gentle breeze--Gwen could scarce contain herself as she looked forward with eager anticipation to the lovemaking to come. For while she had resisted Petr's advances for some time, once she had given in to them, the young woman had discovered that she was a deeply sensual creature. She thrilled to the touch of her lover's lips and tongue and fingers on her soft skin, eagerly stroking her burning flesh, sliding along to plumb and taste her core and coaxing climax after delicious climax from her trembling young body. She reveled in her ability to give him the same sinful pleasure, loving the feel of his excited hardness in her mouth, his salty essence spraying across her flickering tongue. And most of all she delighted in the feel of his solid manhood prying apart her netherlips, penetrating her moist body to its depths and filling her to near bursting with exquisite sensations as she pulled him tighter to her, raking her fingernails across his heaving buttocks.

As she waited for him, her mind racing along its libidinous course, the sound of the waves rhythmically slapping against the shore seemed to call to her, inviting the young woman to enter the warm and comforting water. Without realizing she was doing so, she found herself listening to the pulsing beat, almost certain that she could make out words, if only she tried hard enough. Though she knew it was crazy, in the back of her mind she felt that the lake was watching her-- had watched her and Petr through all of those long, sultry summer days and nights as they writhed along its shores and, their lusts temporarily sated, cooled the flames of their passion in its depths. Given the erotic tableaus the lake had witnessed, the part it had played in their post-lovemaking games--and sometimes, their lovemaking itself--it had entwined itself into her unconscious until it had become an intimate friend. As if the lake had called her to it, she meandered through the clearing towards the shore, her deft fingers slowly unlacing the stays securing her dress. Reaching the edge of the water, she grasped the garment's hem and lifted it sensually above her slim waist, past the swelling mounds of her breasts and over her head, mussing her locks, her body arching lazily as a cat as she disrobed, as if to teasingly display her charms to her lover before her. Yet no human eyes alighted upon her curved form; no voices cried out in pleased wonderment at the alluring glories she had revealed. Only the Lake of Dreams stared at the supple young woman, and its counsel it kept to itself.