hair and nails

All the trouble started when her parents locked her in a third-storey room of their house. No castle, but it was pretty big. In her favour, she was a practically-minded girl, and didn't hesitate to utilise every available resource to solve the problem of her house-arrest.

He hadn't wanted to be in the horseback corps. He hadn't really wanted to join the king's army in the first place, but he couldn't think of anything better to do when he left school. He'd had no ambition beyond ground infantry, but for some reason he catapulted up and up. Before he knew it, he was a decorated peacetime Seargeant Major. Which meant full chain mail, plate suit and helmet.
In the winter, he could overcome his GMT (Genital Magnetic Tendencies) by wearing thick woollen under-drawers. They itched terribly, but it was better than getting cosy with chainmail while in the saddle...

Since birth, she had coped with endlessly ample body hair. In actual fact, it had never been a significant problem. It just meant she kept her leg hair in check with hair-cutting shears instead of a razor. And then there was that first date when she'd tried to carry off a sleeveless gown. But the boy was easily forgotten...

In the summer things became difficult. More often than not he would forego the chainmail, as that was frankly dangerous. He just gritted his teeth and cantered along, testicles clinging to the inside of his metal armour.

She first saw him standing behind a rhodedendron in the grounds behind her parent's house, not far from her window. He was naked from the waist down, urinating with audible relief. As he turned around she gasped, never having seen a naked man before. He looked up, saw her face in the high window and screamed, running to hide behind his horse nearby.
He asked why she was in that room, with a barred window. She explained she was condemned to be captive for the rest of her life. Hearing this, and being a gentleman, he was outraged. Inside he was boyishly excited. A damsel to was his change for fame, glory! But then he realised he had no trousers on.
"How can i get up there?"
"There's no stairway, I think it's been blocked off at both ends"
"But there's...a drainpipe! I will climb up to you"
"No, i'm fine, really! Listen..."
"Fear not, damsel"

With that, he took a running leap at the drainpipe stretching from ground to gutter. His penis adhered to the cast iron with a resounding 'chunnngg'. He bit his lip till blood drew, and then locked his arms around the pipe. Slowly, amid protests shouted from above, he hauled himself skywards.

He didn't reach her windowsill till past nightfall. He was panting, dizzy with exhaustion and pain. She took him under the arms and pulled him into her room. The last thing he saw was her face above his, her lips moving without sound.
As he came to, he moaned sleepily and tried to turn over. Agony shot through his body and he lay tense and rigid, waiting for it to subside. His penis was so painful it made him dizzy every time he shifted his weight.
...But he had made it all the way up the drainpipe. Three storeys on determination and magnetism alone. Why did he do it? The girl. The girl...

She watched him stir, and cry out in pain. She'd bandaged him up as best she could, given her embarassment (and honest facination with the man.) She'd washed his face and body, dressed his wounded limbs and genitals and wrapped him in her own sheets. Stupid boy. The rope she'd made was strong enough for her, she knew, but what about him? Now she would have to figure out a way to get them both down to ground level...

He sat up in the weak morning sunlight to see her sitting on the floor with her skirt up around her knees, facing away from him. He cleared his throat quietly. She looked over her shoulder at him, and he wondered if feigning sleep was a good idea. But then she rose, the hem of her dress dropping to the floor. He tore his eyes from the swirl of shin and petticoat and met hers. She blushed furiously.
"Your dressings need changing. It's been a day"
"A day? How long have I been here?"
There was an awkward pause.
"My, uh, dressings?"
Suddenly she was at the side of the bed, her hands on his arm, grinning broadly.
"I feel like I should ask your permission, or something..."

The next four days passed comfortably and quickly. There was no lingering awkwardness between them, even after she'd explained that they were to escape using a rope knitted from her own abundant leg hair. Especially after he'd healed, and his bandages were removed. He'd leapt upon her, simply his way of making his reciprocal fascination clear.

The prospect of escape suddenly seemed one which could be ignored in the meantime...