The Herbalist

Kuroshiro (Hentaifoundry)

Desc: A secluded herbalist gets a very special request from a customer. Something that requires a very forbidden and very lewd process.

(futa/female, male/futa, futa/futa, fantasy, fairy, anal, rough sex, impreg, sounding, gangbang)

Chapter 1

The best known herbalist and healer in the Marchforest.

That was what people called me and that's what was written on the sign outside my little shop. It would have been a surprise to my mother, who said I'd never be anything than a harlot. That was after she'd caught me dancing in front of two caravan guards with less clothing about my body than modesty and decorum called for. Of course, she wasn't all wrong: later that same night, I slipped out of our home and back to get fucked by the guards. But I suppose the joke was still at her expense in the end because I took over as herbalist and healerwoman after she died of pale fever. And while I never claimed to work miracles, people claimed it on my behalf when I splinted bones, broke fevers and mended bodies. It wasn't herbs that I used, it was anything in the forest, almost every bit of bark, berry, root, flower, moss or growth could be of some use. And if not, I always needed firewood.

In between gathering from the forest and treating the sick and injured, I found the time to become a fine lover. Men and women, both. Boys and girls too. Mother might have said she didn't raise me to be a whore, but I was certainly built like one: tall and soft, with ink black hair and alabaster skin. Pale grey-green eyes. Cleavage that could fill a big man's palms. A narrow waist paired with baby-making hips. An ample lap for someone to lay their head in – or between. The most wanton cunt, juicy and tight. And finally, a nicely girthed and decently long member. Oh yes, I was quite the bad girl, the slattern of the village and a few places besides. Everyone knew it too, even if they might have been too grateful at times to mention it. As it was, they paid respectful comments to my face and whispered about my dalliances to each other and I paid little heed to the few words that reached my ears. They spoke the truth, mostly: that I'd take it up the ass from even the largest prick willingly, that I'd lap a woman's cunt from noon to evening, that once I'd let every guard in a caravan have me one after another, that one time my mother sent me to a nunnery to break my harlotry and instead been expelled for it. Only the most outrageous of the embellishments were lies: the caravan's horses didn't join in and I was buggering myself in the nunnery, no one else. All the rest, and more, were true though.

Ironically, my daughter was even worse.

So when I heard someone approaching my modest herbalist's hut, I knew they were there for business and only business. Which was all the better, because right at the moment I heard soft footfalls on the cobbled stones that lead to my door, I was in the midst of enjoying my apprentice, a girl we called Pillow. She was a comely sort of some unknown heritage – maybe one of the dusky and bright-eyed people of far southern swamps, perhaps a barbarian from northern wastes, the bastard daughter of a camp-whore and some exotic sellsword? No one knew. Even I couldn't be sure in any case, having first seen her trailing a count's “modest” retinue as one of his young laundresses. We shared a common tongue and I offered her good pay to leave the count's service – where I was sure she'd occasionally been used a whore – and come into my service – where I occasionally used her as a whore. And it was just one such occasion when a woman came knocking on my door.

I remember yelling out, “I'll be coming in just a moment!” and thinking myself very witty and clever with my double entrendre. Pillow rolled her eyes though, but she continued sucking, adding as firm grip to my undercarriage to help me along. It certainly didn't harm and with a few more sloppy slurps, I felt my release rising from within. With a tight grip on her hair, I pushed her face all the way down and filled her throat with my seed, hissing air between my teeth and feeling very much like the happiest girl in all the forest. The second deluge of the bitter stuff my apprentice wasn't so quick to swallow though and it came flooding upwards, her throat not big enough to handle all I could offer. That put her behind my third and fourth splashes, with the end result being some of off-white spunk flying from her nose and back onto my belly.

So very lewd, the sight was.

Still, I didn't dally any longer, pulling out from between Pillow's soft, messy lips and letting her lick the splash of seed that was dripping down my belly before yanking my skirts back into place and pretending to be appropriately attired. And not a moment too soon, as the door opened and a very demure woman with mahogany hair peeking out from under her wimple looked around the inside.

“I'm sorry to bother, but are you the herbalist?”

“Yes, I am!” I half-shouted breathlessly, pushing Pillow further behind the counter with my knee. She didn't like it, but understood why I wasn't keen on her being spotted. It was bad for business. “Come in, come in, please. How can I be of help?” I smiled and raised my arm to showcase the shelf full of the forest's bounty and her gaze followed.

Her eyes were quite light and straddled the line between blue and green, shifting color as she looked over every sample on display. Her entire expression was coy and posture was modest – almost fearful – and she started biting on her forefinger's middle knuckle. I knew it for a nervous habit the instant she started. It wasn't anything on my shelves she was looking for, I could tell. But why would anyone be ill at ease talking to a herbalist?

“I had a question, but I'm not sure I'm asking the right person...” she started, her voice barely rising above a whisper. “Is it true that you can talk to the forest spirits?”

That almost made me laugh. Bad form. I adjusted it to be nothing more than a broad smile, “In a way, yes.” In truth, no. There are no forest spirits. It was just an explanation on why my healing worked better than other girls when I didn't present anywhere nearly the same image of contrite chasteness expected out of an herbalist. Most were trained in the Faith's cenobiums, strictly cloistered as they learned the various regents, portions and how to mix recipes. But not I, and it showed: my blouse left a decent sample of cleavage for sample at the top of my blouse and ended perhaps a finger-length above my belly, the kirtle underneath stitched in such a way to offer a hint of the milky flesh of my flanks, crisscrossed by threads like the back of a corset. There was nothing holy about my herbalism or chaste about my character. My knowledge was strictly worldly, so I let the local legend of forest spirits work to my reputation's advantage. Maintaining the facade was key: people wanted miracles, not to hear about the hours I spent with Pillow and my daughter grinding up roots until they were a powder as fine as rainfall. “It isn't so much as talking as... fellowship. Even then, I'm not sure the word captures truly what occurs.”

“I see. But does that mean you can... ah...” The sentence was left hanging from her pink lips, her eyes looking slowly from one side of my shop to the other, in search of something other than what I had stocked. “I was wondering if you knew how to – I'm sorry to be so forward! But...”

“But...?” I bid her continue by drawing the word out and tilting my head towards her. If she were a man, or the right sort of woman, I would have tilted more than my head and given a wink to boot.

“But... do you know how to give someone a nymph for a child?” Her eyes glittered and she clasped her hands in front of her chest, half-begging, half-praying. The way she phrased the sentence suddenly occurred, “Heavens me, I didn't mean it like that! I meant,” she gestured to her belly, “A nymph.”

Now that was interesting.

As a matter of fact I did know. And anyone within speaking distance of my daughter suspected that much as well. Strongly suspected, in more than a few cases. My daughter wasn't the epitome of beauty by any means, but you wouldn't know it from the way people reacted to her presence. Heads turned, jaws dropped and trousers certainly grew tight wherever she went. There was something about her, something indescribable. An aura of sensuality that flowed around her presence like melting butter rolling across toasted bread.

I smiled at the woman and gave her a slight tilt of my head. “It could be, perhaps.”

Her response was nothing short of utter relief as the tension fell from her face and shoulders while a held back breath flew from her lips. The request must have been something she'd held back for a long time, possibly even from herself, and having spoken it aloud seemed like it was an unbearable burden lifted from her soul. I can't claim to understand the mindset but it was plain as day to me right then.

She leaned closer, “Please, if you could, I can pay. I have gold dragons, clipped silvers, foreign coins, whatever you prefer! Or even payment in kind; I can arrange for grain or heads of cattle or –“

“Please, coin will be quite alright. This here shop is my only home and my small garden could hardly feed a heifer.”

“Right... of course...”

I made sure to look both ways before leaning towards her over the counter. “What will be difficult, is the actual procedure,” I said, my face just a hair too close for her comfort. She pulled back and I smiled again, “You see, this isn't something most people are willing to endure. Because of course it isn't; if it was, nymphs would be everywhere, eh?”

She didn't understand, but nodded.

I continued, “So it is important you are ready. You must absolutely ensure your fertility for this, no mistakes or mistiming. If you aren't, it is all for naught. Understand?”

She nodded again, her eyes practically watering with gratitude.

“When?”

“Ah...” Her hesitation was certainly expected by me. It was a sensitive thing I was asking, but I really did need to know. I mean, it was going to be fun for me anyway, but I would have felt bad for wasting her time and coin if there wasn't even the possibility of success. But she conquered whatever frigidity held her speaking, “Tonight. And tomorrow.” She gave yet another nod, this one more determined, “I'm absolutely certain.”

“Good.”

After that, I offered the demure woman – making a point of not naming – the guest room of my home, set a few logs on the fire and checked on my layabout daughter, Blossom. Her room was upstairs and smelled of moonflowers all the time, with the heavy oak door shut as usual. I couldn't have heard it downstairs, but once I reached the top of the staircase, a very familiar sound kissed my ears: the wet slap of flesh meeting flesh.

Of course, sin is the well-spring of hypocrisy and I went to confront her directly thus armed: she was supposed to be making dandelion wine, not fucking someone. Never mind that I'd been doing similar with Pillow just before. That was different.

I would have barged right into Blossom's room, but her door was so heavy and ill-fitted that one could only open it by grabbing the handle in both hands, lifting and pushing. I didn't have the strength, so I had to go in stages, not a quiet process. Lift, push, scrape, stop. Lift, push, scrape, stop. There was not a single chance she didn't hear or feel the door open and still when I managed enough space to squeeze myself inside, she was still at it.

They were at least under the blanket, but two pairs of feet were jutting out, dismissing the possibility she was engaged in a bit of self-abuse. I cleared my throat loudly. The outer pair of feet froze in place, but the inner pair did not and the steady slaps continued. I cleared my throat again, exaggerating for effect.

In turn, I was met with a surly reply, “What do you want?”

My best stern mother best came out, “Aren't you supposed to be doing something?”

“Done and done,” my daughter said, her voice muffled under the covers but still clearly straining. She didn't even pause for a single heartbeat, her hips rising and falling rhythmically.

I put my hands on my hips, working myself up for a quarrel. Not the first we'd had, “Blossom, I'll have you speak to me with some decorum and sense about you.”

“Shove off,” she said. “Can't you see I'm busy?” Her hips worked faster, a lump appearing and disappearing in the blanket. The other pair f toes curled and there was a decidedly boyish moan that escaped. “Just a little more, mother, then you can scold me however you'd like.”

“What have I told you about boys!” my voice rose with anger, “And how many times!”

Finally, my lazy, wayward daughter's head popped up from below, a sneer on her face as she looked at me. She was undeniably beautiful. Her features were beyond regal in their appearance, with feminine lines softening the hard edges of her emotions. Full lips and large, almost inhumanely blue eyes stood out from skin that practically glowed with the youthful shine, a collection of freckles running across her nose. Compared to the rest, her hair was a sweaty and matted mess, but still possessed a iridescent black-blue-grey sheen that my own never had, hanging down to her chin and sensibly cut in the front to leave her eyes free from being obscured. Four thin, tight braids decorated the bulk, the first two hanging down the sides to frame her cheeks while the other pair circled around the back and joined together.

With a look of complete contempt for me, Blossom threw the covers off one side of the bed, revealing a very pretty and quite young girl who looked hard-ridden by my daughter. Then she returned to thrusting, harder than before, as if my reckoning wasn't drawing closer.

I decided to get hard and took my shoe off my foot. Instead of raising my voice, I lowered it, “Blossom, time and again, I've told you about shirking your work, about using boys like girls and most of all, about fucking maids instead of matrons.” I gripped the shoe tight, “You got until the count of three to get off him.”

“Whatever.”

Whatever, indeed. I didn't let her finish her words, reeling back and clocking her with my shoe in one hand, grabbing the sheets and unceremoniously dumping her and her lover on the hard wood floor with the other hand. The boy was thankfully older than the girl but bore a passing resemblance and as Blossom rose to her feet, I clocked her again and a third time.

“They better not be related!” I yelled, my blood suddenly hot with action, “Or so help me, you little whore, there will be a reckoning the likes of which you cannot even begin to imagine!”

She was competent enough at defending herself at the same time she replied, “It's her swain, not her relation!” Somehow the surliness was still there, even as I tried for another smack of my shoe, “Unless you think he can be both,” her face appeared between her arms, poised to protect against a blow coming from either side, “In which case...”

The wink and smile my own daughter gave was saucy enough to make my hot blood boil with something else entirely. I hated when she did things like that. She knew it and she knew that I knew. That was why she did things like that. My cock and cunt had no conscious, none at all; they willed me to drop the shoe and hop right into bed with all three of them. Only my head told me no, the little voice of morality screaming at me to get out – and quickly. Unless I wanted to see how far my daughter's sultry voice and slender, delightful body would take me. I swung my shoe overhand, which she deftly avoided by twisting in such a way to show me more of her delicious, youthful flesh and set her cock to swinging, then pointed to her testily with my shoe, “Get your lemans dressed and out of my house. Get to work. When I get back, I want to see that dandelion wine.”

“It's right there! In the –”

“Then make more!” I looked around for the bottle I'd come for – I needed to take it anyway, but Blossom's misbehavior gave me reason to dispense with asking for it – and spotted it next to her nightstand, on the floor. It was something special I'd whipped up years and years ago, called Slattern-on-the-side. “I'll be taking this.”

Finally, her smug, smirking facade broke, “Hey! I need that!”

I was already halfway out of the door and the girl and boy were dressing groggily. I looked at them but spoke to my daughter. “Not for the next month, you won't.”

“That's... that's... so unjust!”

“Whatever.”


The tavern wasn't really what civilized people thought of as a tavern, built from oft-damaged and rarely adorned wood, with an irregular shape to every side, as if the builder couldn't decide on the dimensions. In fact, it had been burned and rebuilt a number of times, usually by different owners. The final sum was a misshapen lump of a structure, low and brimming with menace. Marchforest had never been the most welcoming and the constant warfare didn't help.

There were still people around, certainly, scattered villages, tucked away in the hills, joined by goat paths and barely-recognizable tracks through the deep forest. And yet it was as desolate as could be – short of fresh corpses and burned-out farms. The tavern reflected as much, not so much decorated as it was scarred, and poorly covered by a twice-too thin coat of milky yellow paint. But it had stout walls, a courtyard big enough to stable a bit of horseflesh and a few available rooms. Among other available things.

I sat outside the gate for a spell, feeling slightly worse for the wear on my donkey. It was in the afternoon when I'd set out so the pace of blistering for both myself and the beast in order to make it to the tavern by nightfall. But one of the serving men, Old Brown Bill recognized me and opened the gate.

He offered what might have been a smile on a man with more teeth and fewer pockmarks on his face, “Oh ho, ho! What brings you to this humble establishment?” His calloused hands were on his hips and he swayed to and fro as he walked alongside my donkey, on the very verge of laughter without a word from my lips.

“Need to see someone.”

His grisly mockery of a smile went wider and I cringed at the sight of twisted teeth in the back of his mouth. “You're out of luck. Lily is already entertaining an honored guest and Abella is in mourning for her husband, lately departed.”

I rolled my eyes, “No, not them. Not tonight at least.” I thought for a second and let my curiosity get the better of me to ask as I dismounted, “What happened to Abella's husband? Last I knew he was young and in perfect health?”

If Old Brown Bill's smile was horror in the flesh, his laughter was terror to the ears: half-way through death's door with a phlegmatic rasp and the not a hint of genuine mirth. “Eh? Oh no, that was her last husband, not this one. Her recent was elderly, an alderman's body servant who scraped up enough to pay her dowry. Probably burst his heart riding her. The boy before him though... perfect health, as you say, right up until he took a few arrows to that barrel chest of his.” He took the reins and started guiding my donkey into the small stable in the tavern's courtyard, while shrugging in a way that only a Marcher would understand. Something that was vaguely like 'so it goes.'

So it does go, indeed.

I didn't bother watching him; Old Brown Bill cut a ghastly figure and was no girl's object of affection, but he was honest. Instead I headed straight for the warmth of the fire.

It was certainly warm enough, if not what anyone could call comfortable. Where a proper tavern would have trophies and banners and a noble patron's livery mounted on the wall, the tavern had weapons: heavy spears with sharp lugs jutting from the base of the shaft; a pair of viciously-shaped glaives triple crossed on both sides of the fireplace; and the tavern-keeper's own poleaxe, with a spike of black steel extending from the top, a crow's beak at the back and a razor-sharp axehead at the fore. And I knew there were crossbows, fine pieces from the southern arsenal, kept out of sight for the times when bandits thought besieging the tavern would do the trick.

My entrance gained only the briefest and most cursory glances before the three men inside went back to the business at hand. All the Marchers knew me. And I knew them. Especially the large man casting lots with another on his table over the remains of their supper. I walked up close and cleared my throat to draw their attention. Both of them ignored me, which rankled, so I decided to be a bit more dramatic. My palm went down to the table, slapping the pair of clipped silvers down hard enough to make both men sitting stop their gambling and look at my hand. When I pulled it away, one of the coins spun on its rim.

The bigger of the two of them was Wolfram, easily a head taller than any other man I knew in the Marchforest. He was a killer, through and through, with scars and rippling muscles in equal measure over every inch of his body, as hard and cold as black iron. His eyes were unnaturally white, which contrasted with his skin, which had been sunburned and weather-beaten over the course of plying the fighting trade all across the Marches. One year he was condottieri, the next a retinue man for some upstart lord, occasionally a freelancer and raider in between. Right now he was between, which was cause for concern across the Marchforest, but Marchers themselves were safe from his wrath, assuming he was sober.

In other, safer places, it would have been extortion what Wolfram did to make his ends meet: telling the tavern's owner that he needed the protection from all the dangers. But in the Marchforest, men like Wolfram didn't need to tell lies about highwaymen and brigands and war parties looking to pillage. It was all quite true and every so often a man who was big and current in the use of steel came in real handy.

Before I could get a word in, Wolfram's dark eyes forced me to hold back the word on my tongue and he spoke instead, “What the fuck do ya want?”

My hand came off the table to reveal the coins underneath and his gaze cautiously followed, lighting up with interest, “Need me to break something for ya? Or break someone?”

“Maybe both, but not like you're thinking.”

“Oh?” he sat back and pulled at the hairs of his thin beard. The chair squealed in protest of his bulk. “And what are ya thinking then?”

The smaller man, Gunther, leaned in with interest on his face, much to my annoyance. He was the closest thing to rat a man could be, the sort of irritant no one loved, merely tolerated insofar as they needed him. And I didn't need him.

I scowled at Gunther and looked to Wolfram, “I need you.”

He crossed his arms. “So's ya say.”

“All night.”

Wolfram's lip twitched with a smile that wanted to get out but couldn't. “You know my rules –“

“I know,” it wasn't the first time I'd fucked Wolfram. Hell, it wasn't even the first time I'd paid him good coin to fuck me and under essentially the same circumstances. I had no reason to play the shy maid, but for some reason this felt a bit more unforgivable than the first time. Maybe it was all the years between us. Or maybe it was the fact it had taken four men in addition to Wolfram to get the job done.

When Gunther licked his lips, I scowled at him and tried to kick his shin, but he was too fast and merely snorted. But the message was clear enough. He rose without a word (even though his expression did more than enough talking for him) and scooped up a lingering bit of meat on his plate, loudly slurping on it while tramping up the stairs, turning back at the top to wink at me.

“I don't like him,” I said plain as I could.

Wolfram snorted, “He doesn't like you either; nothing with a gash interests him at night.” His heavy arms remained folded tight across his chest. Certainly the raider was playing hard to get, probably because I'd shown my hand so forcefully. “And you don't like me either, remember?”

“It's different.” It sounded defensive. Because it was defensive.

Wolfram saw right through me, “It's the same. It's all the same. That's fine by me though. Just so's long you know it.” You could have mistaken the way he moved for a cat, his hand flew so fast to collect the clipped silvers. There was enough value in the coins to match a farmhand's harvest wage in a good year and nobody could accuse the bulky warrior of not loving money. “Well, let's go and get this over with. I don't want ya squealing that you didn't get your coin's worth out of me.”

He led the way upstairs, to the room provided in exchange for his protection, sparse and slightly chilly compared to the rest, but comfortable enough. I didn't stand on any formality; quick and quiet, I had my cloak unclasped and laid over one end of the bed, followed by my riding shoes and skirts. Then I was my knees on his bed, face down in a pillow as my hands were occupied prying my cheeks apart.

Wolfram wasn't far behind but took a bit longer to get himself fully nude before running a hand over my curvy behind.

My tight little rosebud winked at him and I shook my hips slowly, “All of it. Get all of it out of me.”

His other hand joined the first and together they spread me even wider, “That won't take all night...” There was something undeniably primal about the way Wolfram talked to me. I wasn't even surprised when he lifted me up and onto my back with a growl. “This way'll be quicker.”

He spat on my ass and used his thumb to rub it in. Then he forced a finger in and spat again. And again. And finally a third time, working his thick digit in and out of me. I'd be lying if I said I was as tight as I'd been in my youth; a lifetime of sin added up to a nice, relaxed inlet for lust that would never cause me to grow with child. Even so, I was nobody's fool: Wolfram's cock was as big as the rest of him. I would have been mad to trust simple spit to keep me from being torn apart. Fortunately crushed nuts and a few berries made for a wonderfully slick oil, a recipe I'd created myself.

With both of his hands, he gripped my ankles and pushed my legs back. All the way back, until my feet were next to my ears, my breasts pancaked on my chest and my cock flopping about just below them. I was completely beholden and subject to his whim. It worked a treat, easing his way inside.

It was a good thing, but two things Wolfram had never been accused of being were cowardly and gentle. He didn't even bother letting go of my backside, he just pressed on froward, trusting that his aim was true. And it was, the fat tip of his cock pressing against me.

I exhaled slowly. My pucker did its best to relax, while my mind hoped that my cock was excited enough to spray seed just from his first thrust. Thinking of sensual things helped a little and I felt myself twitch. Bent the way I was, I could easily look down to see my prick twitching and swinging below, growing thicker and longer with each heartbeat.

Then he pushed a little harder and I felt myself shudder as a bit of precum dribbled out onto my belly, the prologue to more. Wolfram didn't go deep, he just enjoyed my rosebud squeezing his tip before continuing to press into me. The pleasure of it was intense and I closed my eyes, simply riding the feeling without moving at all. It wasn't for pleasure I'd paid Wolfram but that didn't mean I would just ignore it. Just the opposite: that meant I would enjoy every second so that I could handle what he was going to be giving me later.

That was why I didn't hold myself back, biting down my lip and pressing down against him as my cunt gushed and my cock sprayed seed in a single thick gout. A heady spout of cream, it was, coming just as I looked down to see my own cocktip flared open wide. My mouth twisted open and my vision went blurry but I felt just a bit rolling between my tits and against my chin whereas most ended up on my blouse. Not removing my top was obviously a mistake from this position but it was too late to do anything about it. Wolfram didn't move, but I did, rolling my hips and working my very wrong, sinful hole along and feeling the helmet-shaped tip of his prick scour my insides. It was like being impaled but I loved it and let myself feel the pure ecstasy of being sodomized.

“More?” he asked.

“Yes!” I hissed back. “I want to be empty!”

“As ya wish...”

That was the signal for his thrusting to begin, slow and smooth at first, his hips working back and forth. More of his pecker disappeared up my ass and more of my cum came dribbling out. The feeling was fantastic and I couldn't help myself but try for more, pressing back and rocking my hips up and down, trying to alternate the sensations that buggering gave us. All the same, he wasn't a fine courtly lover, but rather a beast of a man with a beast of a cock. Before too long, the strokes grew faster and harder and deeper. He wasn't interested in doing anything but sliding more and more and more and more inside me, largely regardless of my feelings on the matter. As far as Wolfram was concerned, I'd known the risk and could have told him before to be more attentive to me.

But that wasn't why I hired him. He'd been hired because he could fuck for hours.

“Harder.”

Wolfram started going deeper, his hips working up to a gallop as my rosebud stretched to fit all of him inside. That was no mean feat. His prick had a flared crown that resembled a kettle hat on someone's skinny neck, but then it flared back out even thicker as a few more inches of shaft came inside. I could feel myself getting plundered with each stroke, biting my lip hard as the girthiest portion forced itself inside. Stretching that much sent shocks of painful pleasure (or pleasurable pain) to the forefront of my skull and my vision blurred. But as the oil worked its magic and his prick cleared the widest hurdle, Wolfram's full length slipped inside.

I exploded again, this time my cunt gushing as my cock poured out a bountiful offering of seed. The sound that filled my ears was my own desperate moan of release, feeling as if everything I had to give was being drained out of me, but knowing that there was more to come. My hands fell from my butt and instead went to grabbing the sheets, trying in vain to hold myself steady. Wolfram wasn't going to slow down just because I was a writhing, orgasmic mess around his cock: he had a role and was filling it regardless of the cost. He slammed faster and deeper and longer and harder, putting all the strength he'd developed in his hips from a lifetime of riding into skewering me.

That was only the second time, and I remembered that I'd asked him for all night long. So he gave it to me all night long. His rough hands relinquished their tight grip on my ass once I was broken in and instead held my hips as if they were the haft of a weapon. He yanked me back and pushed me forward, using my hole for his pleasure without the slightest bit of softening his sodomy. His own body wasn't even strained in the least, while sweat was springing from flesh as if I were a well. Again and again and again and again, the same strokes, without pity or remorse. My ass was burning with soreness but I could feel the little nub without as his shaft penetrated deep, a stabbing sort of delight whenever he hit just the right spot.

“Right there!” I begged him, “Keep fucking me right there!”

He grunted and obeyed, slipping a few less inches in but pounding my most sensitive spot. I stopped thinking about anything but trying to cum again. Unfortunately, chasing an release that way didn't have the effect desired; I climaxed from my cunt and only my cunt, Wolfram's cock shoving in and out of my ass being less pleasurable than the wet slaps of his fat balls against my pussy lips. For whatever reason, he didn't slow down or even acknowledge my climax. Instead he hoisted me up off the bed and spun me around as I writhed on his thickness, being pummeled in a standing position. My head was lolling from side to side and my cock had partially softened to flop about when he lifted and dropped me in turn. It was so intense that I was grateful that his balls weren't hitting my pussy lips any longer. Without the repeated smacking, my orgasm finished without be dragged on and on.

At least until he let me fall completely onto the root of his cock, my rosebud stretching far and hilted to the balls. Suddenly the entire was room was silent with the exception of my heart beating like crazy in my chest. I could feel the way he was plunged inside me so deep that it was shoving about my innards but there was nothing I could do to stop the wave of joyous release that cinched my sac tight and caused my half-soft pecker to fling watery cum into the air. A few drops managed to reach my belly and splatter against my blouse, but for the most part it just came out like a stingy winery, in a single slow stream, carefully proportioned.

It wasn't immediately apparent, but slowly my hearing returned; I could hear the sound of myself as my release came to a halt, the deep groan of disappointment emerging from within me as I realized it meant I wasn't yet quite empty. Wolfram didn't understand, but he didn't have to: I'd told him to keep going and that was all that was needed. His pumping hips gave me only a few heartbeat's worth of respite. I was still gasping and letting my disappointment escape my lips when he suddenly started right back up from before.

It was savage, holding nothing back as my poor little hole was viciously pried apart by his meaty weapon. The flared head forced me to endure every inch with savage pleasurable to push me along. I might have climaxed again, but I couldn't tell: my prick kept shrinking and spilling, more and more seed spattering on the floor at our feet. With a deep growl, Wolfram threw me forward, my face down and one calloused hand on my hip while the other reached over my thigh and lifted my leg to up, just to find a fresh angle by which to pillage my backside. Each stroke was long and deep, driven by hardened muscles and only ended as his body slammed against my ass, sending a ripple through my soft flesh. Each time I shifted between mewling and screeching, his fat helmet-headed prick dragging its way through places within my ass I didn't even know existed. Gentleness was a forgotten idea in my mind.

After a long time enduring his hammering, I lifted my head from the bed to find a small pool of red underneath and swiped my hand across my face to confirm that my nose was bleeding. Not from his forceful thrusts but merely because my heart was galloping so fast and my face couldn't take the heat coursing through my veins. For a moment, I thought the sight of blood would turn Wolfram off, cause him to lose his focus and finish. But when I turned to look at him, I saw only excitement, his bright white eyes bigger than I'd ever remembered with his jaw tight and his upper lip curling back. It was the struggle to prevent himself from cumming before I was done and he lost to the sight of blood flowing down from my nose, over my lips and chin, to drip on sheets underneath. The laundress would have words for him in the next morning, but for just then, Wolfram could not have been be happier as his fat prick swelled up and he buried himself as deep as any man ever would. I screamed at the last bit of stretching and felt the hot, bulbous tip spray its seed within my guts.

I suppose I could be forgiven for thinking he was finished when I felt that sticky heat overflowing my hole, but I was wrong. A few more drops escaped from my pecker in spite of all I had been through and I whimpered pathetically. Wolfram pulled back and let a bit of his seed drip on my sac. I could hear the smile in his voice as he declared, “On ya garde. I'm not done yet, ya slattern.”

And he wasn't done by a long shot, but I lost most of it to the haze of being absolutely possessed by him, my asshole turned into his common rouncey, for riding and not much else. His muscles allowed him to twist me all about, in every pose imaginable: my waist in the air while he dropped himself down into me with my weight on my shoulders; held tight against the wall as he kicked my feet wide enough that I could feel his cum spilling out; hands and knees on the bed as if I was a bitch; on my side with one foot over his shoulder and the other pointed in climatic rigor; flat on my belly with my hands spreading myself open.

My balls were sore throughout, having spent virtually all they'd made in the last day onto the sheets or floor or my body. I was drained, utterly empty and feeling more than a little hard-put by the effort to contain his full measure inside my tightest hole. That was when the dry climaxes began to give me a real reason to feel regret. It was excruciating, almost torture really, made even worse by the fact that as my own cum had ceased to continue, his picked up the slack, filling me twice more before the candle in his room, barely a nub when we began, finally burned out. And with that, Wolfram finally rolled off me, stroking himself hard and fast before spraying the last of his load about my tits.

I was so slick with sweat and cum that I hardly noticed.


My eyes bolted open in the darkness. All my efforts would have been for nothing if I didn't move quickly with the next step in the recipe. The first step really; all the rest was mere preparation. As my eyes adjusted, I could see Wolfram stirring next to me, his impressive bulk even more impressively crammed to one sliver of the available bed to avoid the soaking wet spot created by our fucking. I let him be: he'd done what was required of him and no more than that. I wasn't interested in any false affection by word or deed.

Instead I found my blouse, removed at some point during our sodomy, and worked it back over my body, trying my damnedest to avoid noticing the stiff portions that had been drenched in seed and dried. Next were my skirts and finally my boots. I'd brought heavier cloaking, but Wolfram's engraved axe sat atop it and I knew he was rather a stickler for other people putting hands on its haft, therefore I went without. I didn't bother dressing fully, merely enough to allow me to slip quietly from the room with some decency. Once I was properly attired, I left the tavern, as quick and silent as a nun's prayer. My donkey stayed, though: no reason to try to hold his reins through the deep forest. The night's air was rather comfortably cool, rather than chilly, a mercy considering the task at hand. Marchforest could hardly be considered tamed land, especially the deeper woods and every step was fraught with the danger of being tangled in some bit of rotting vegetation or live branches. Even for experienced foresters, moving at night was a risk.

But I had to be quick and therefore moved with the sheer confidence that only an herbalist could possess, half-running through the moonlit forest, going from clearing to clearing and avoiding to the truly thickened foliage. That meant more ground to cover but less time spent tripping over things or lost. Even so I wasn't quite sure I would be quick enough. It was a tricky thing.

Curiously enough, the anxiety made things go faster and before I knew it, I found myself stopped in a particular – and peculiar – clearing, with grass far more verdant than anywhere else in the forest and thick-stemmed dandelions arrayed in three overlapping circles about the center. From the way tree branches jutted and grew twisted around, it was easy to miss that the clearing was unnaturally clear and bright, but standing in place for long enough for a beating heart to still itself made it clear there was something about the clearing.

“Hello...?”

There was no answer, only a brief silence followed by the sounds of the forest deciding I wasn't a hungry a predator and resuming their lively congress. I reached into my pockets and pulled out two small bottles, vials basically, and carefully opened both of them. The first I poured into my palm and rubbed over my neck, down to the cleavage left free by my low-cut blouse. The second required me to heft up my skirts, holding the hem between my teeth as I poured a fresh dollop of the oil onto my prick.

Once I was done spreading it about, I let my skirts fall and untied them at the waist, their weight gently cascading down onto the bright green grass. There was still no other sound than a few night owls and perhaps a lone wolf in the distance. So I sat with my legs stretched out and reached down between my thighs, carefully running a finger up and down my slit. It felt good and more than a little illicit to be touching myself in the moonlight.

However the time I spent doing it was limited as around me, pairs of little pale lights began appearing, over and around the surrounding foliage. I smiled and finger-waved with my slick digits their direction. The lights disappeared and reappeared, emerging from shadows on pearlescent wings, first one, then two, and finally more than a half dozen, coming towards me bathed in moonlight. They were small – no taller than the length from boot to knee at largest – and uniformly slender in their beauty. None of them wore clothing or shoes. Most of them were smiling.

“Hello,” I repeated, putting my hands behind me and leaning back, “I have something for you.”

The closest of them turned her golden-haired head back and chattered to the others. Their language was beyond me but their gestures and expressions on their child-like faces were the same as any man or woman, which was how I knew they understood my offer. That and their nude bodies, illuminated in soft blue-grey moonlight, hid nothing from my eyes and I was quite sure the reverse was true as well. And just to be certain, I reached down and grabbed my cock, still feeling a tad sore in sight of being utterly untouched, and wagged it around a few times before squeezing the crown and letting my tip flare. The next-closest fluttered a bit closer. She was bigger than the first, red-haired and the only one to have even the pretense of breasts on her slim figure. Her eyes stared straight into mine and her hand reached down to fetch her own member, not even the size of my pinky, stroking and saying something in her chattering language. While they spoke, my very sore behind winked a bit and I felt some of Wolfram come pouring out onto the grass underneath.

“Go on,” I waggled my eyebrows and squeezed tighter on my cocktip, making it spread extra-wide. It was enough that she could smell the oil I'd spread about and her face broke into a dismayed smile. “Just for you. And your sisters.”

When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly higher-pitched than I'd expected, “Are you sure? Really, really sure?” With a raised eyebrow, she stroked herself slowly, working her own tiny prick up to a respectable (for fairies) size. “It could be mayhaps I hurt you with this.”

I almost laughed, but stifled it with my free hand and pointed my member straight at her, hardly a finger's length distance between the two of them. “I'm sure. You and all your sisters as well. Truly.”

“Tooly?” she asked. I forgot fairies didn't have much practice with human speech. “What is tooly?”

“'Truly' means it is true.”

“So you say it. No going back!”

The fairy dove towards me, smearing the tip of her length against my crown and making me moan. I wasn't quite wide enough for her to enter easily, but the oil coated over her crown and worked its magic just as well as it had with Wolfram's big cock. She pressed and circled around, hissing through her teeth and chattering something to her sisters. I squeezed tighter and tried to make my cockhole bigger to help, but it seemed to have no effect; every bit gained in one dimension was lost in another. And yet... lust is a powerful thing, the sort of feeling that could overcome even good, common sense. That was the fairy's guiding principle it seemed. She simply pressed on, regardless of how badly it was foundering. Her persistence was rewarded as her cock finally found purchase and stretched my own hole open wide enough to fit her inside.

My head rolled back and I closed my eyes. I had forgotten the ecstasy of fairy-fucking and paid for it as a dry orgasm coursed through my balls and shaft, causing my pucker to twitch sympathetically and my cunt to gush out in anticipation. There was nothing that compared, nothing at all. It was, in a word, indescribable. And it only got better as her oil-slick pecker wrenched me open wider and she was able to dive deep within my cock. My toes curled and my voice caught in my throat. I could hardly stand it. The intensity was too much, too much for anyone but me, and even so I was barely holding onto consciousness.

Thankfully the little harlot lasted hardly thirty beats of my heart before she slammed herself deep with a shrill, bird-like cry and filled my shaft with her spunk. Together we gasped, sucking in air as desperately as a drowning sailor. She was shaking and chattering away through the aftershocks. But I had something more important and raised a finger to one of her sisters, a black-haired beauty with stunningly orange eyes and a particularly stout member that seemed like it would be a good choice for going after another. Her shyness almost prevented her from moving, but another fairy flitted close by and whispered in her ear while reaching a hand down between Blackhair's cheeks. Whatever she did, it had an immediate effect and Blackhair's already sizable member jumped straight up towards her chin.

I scooted closer to her and let her see my cock, a thin trickle of the first fairy's seed falling out. Her lips parted and a tiny tongue flicked out over them, practically drooling at the sight and fairy behind her gave her a shove towards me. That was the last straw and Blackhair attacked, mouth first, tonguing my peehole like the tap of a fine wine vintage. She was a sloppy drinker and emerging shortly with her lower face covered in seed, before mounting up and jostling her way inside me.

Once again, I almost lost the plot. How good it felt to be stretched! The defilement of my cock was something that none had ever imagined. It was made even better by the warm load already present inside, mixing with the oil and improving on its properties, allowing her to go faster than her sister, in spite of her larger size. But the candle that burns twice as bright lasts half as long and far too soon Blackhair was screaming and gushing. She twitched and shook and finally flopped forward, draped against my belly as I sat panting in the grass.

Two of them came to yank her off and my eyes rolled back into her head; she had something like Wolfram's shovel-headed prick and the sensation of being violated on withdrawal gave me half of a mini-climax on its own. The third and fourth briefly fought to see which would get my cock next but it was a particularly small and sneaky fairy who flew low, just above the grass, and came up under me who claimed my hole next. Even by fairy reckoning she was a runt, with a skinny frame and no curves to speak of, but wasted no time whatsoever. The small one was going all out in pummeling my cock while the two other fairies continued to be distracted over possession of what was already claimed. Surprisingly, it was her tiny pecker that started forcing the combined seed planted within deep enough that I felt a tingle at the root of my member. I had to focus on relaxing rather than enjoying the spectacle, but it still brought me closer and closer to something like climax.

Before long, my concentration gave way to obliviousness and I lost track of how many had used me. The runt was gone when I looked next, replaced by a fairy with hair as white as milk and eyes as black as sin, rutting my cock like it was a mare in heat. The spray of her seed made it all the way down to the root and was promptly packed in even tighter by the pair who'd fought over turns before: both of them together inserted themselves with one looking at me apologetically, “You're getting a little loosey...”

When they worked like a see-saw, it was scarcely different from any of the fairies before, but when they pushed inside together... well, my hands ripped up the grass from the ground and I frightened every animal in the forest with my scream of joyful anguish. Together, their thrusting forced me to stretch and pressed down all the previous loads lingering in the shaft. My concentration was no longer good enough to keep relaxed, but they managed to force the fairy seed through my loins and into my balls, filling them with creamy sperm.

My undercarriage grew tight and hot, fuller each time a fairy poured herself into me. Eventually they stopped going as individuals and instead went in twos. Either matched pairs diving in slowly together, stretching me all the way or as separate beats, providing no opportunity for excess seed to flow back out of my loosening hole. With sort, I swelled to the brim, my sac becoming tight as a good knot, with my little orbs firmed up and filled out, blue veins standing starkly ridged. Those fairies left out stayed randy and one of them remained on her knees, desperately serving one with her mouth and another with her hands, priming them for the brief moment when my girlflesh was unfilled.

Everything in the moonlight was blurry. My eyes were full of tears: from the effort of taking a steady number of fairy girlcocks, from the soreness in my balls, from the sensation of being double-stuffed right up my prick. The feeling of my hole being used like cunt grew overwhelming pleasurable. And not just for myself, either. The fairies were enthusiastic and unstinting in their praise, most of it non-verbal – or at least not in any language I understood. Blackhair was back inside me, having returned for seconds. Or thirds. She was dripping with sweat that fell from her face and down her chest in comically oversized beads, her entire body swaying as she pumped her hips at a deranged pace. With one final gasp, she sank herself all the way inside, climaxing at just the moment I felt too full to hold it all back.

“Ah, ware! All of you! Ware!” I hissed through my teeth and tightly shut eyes, “I can't hold it back!” My hands fell off the grass and I flopped backwards, hips thrusting up and rolling to one side then the other. I was desperately trying to stop the inevitable and failing. The onrush of pent-up fairy spunk had grown too insistent for my own rather limited strength and ability to hold back any longer. It would require mechanical aid. “I'm cumming!”

The chattering reached a crescendo and all the fairies lounging on the grass around me suddenly ascended as if they were spooked flock of birds. The only exception was the harlot among them who had taken her due in using hands and mouth (and feet, it turned out) to please her sisters while I was occupied. She was on her back, using both feet pressed together to make for a fuckable hole when my cry of warning sounded, and none too quick to flight. When Blackhair's seed came flowing back, it flooded the little patch of grass she occupied, thoroughly soaking the fairy slut, cap-a-pied. I could barely make it out through my blurry eyes, but I knew exactly what happened when her chattering started, high-pitched, voluminous and very agitated.

Her sisters dropped low, one eye on my twitching prick as I sacrificed a hand to squeeze off the root as tight as I dared, and took her by the wrists and under her arms, attempting to get her aloft before I blew again. The cum-soaked rag of a fairy wasn't making it easy though, chattering faster and louder as their pooled seed hung off her, thick as molasses. She was kicking, ranting, and even took a moment to give me a very rude gesture.

It very much reminded me of the moment when a serving sister of the nunnery caught me hunched over with my skirts about my waist, my hand about my cock and three fingers sunk deep in my bum with a mouthful of my own spunk to complete the debauchery. Then I reveled in my release, letting my next climax come early and splash my face with heavy strings of cream white. Such enjoyment of shocking their guardians is the right of youth I suppose. But in the forest clearing, I needed different; to hold myself back against all my body's better judgment and keep inside what the fairies had given freely.

The feeling of cold metal dangling in my little pocket was a most welcome feeling and I took it with the devotion of a new bride. Swiftly and carefully, I bit down and snapped it open. With a whispered call for luck, I finally, lowered it to my warm and waiting member, removing the hand holding the root and setting the ring into the same place with a muted click.

Against all odds – and my cocks most genuine desire – the metal held and I blew a kiss at the watching fairies as I, slowly, stood up and hobbled my way back to the tavern. Along the way, I remembered the next step and pulled the bottle of slattern-on-the-side from my pouch and drank it down, every bitter drop.


It was so uncomfortable to sit in the saddle that I spent much of the ride back draped over my donkey's back, hoping against hope no one would happen upon in the early before-dawn hour. It wasn't just the fairies who had done quite a number on me and every little movement was penance for being so debauched. Only when I saw the chimney smoke from my little patch of the woods, did I get back in the saddle, feeling every little imperfection in my donkey's gait, through my tender sac. It felt like I was going to burst down below while my backside was lit aflame and it didn't help that my ornery mount seemed to relish in finding every dip, rock and slush patch on the barely worn track that led to my home.

Discomfort aside, I did make it back, and stumbled through the front door, first checking on Pillow. She was right where I'd told her to be, sitting next to my daughters door, snoozing away on a stool. The axe I used to chopping firewood was still barred across the heavy oak and I gently kicked her awake.

“Any problems?”

Pillow blinked three times and started to wipe her sleep away, “No, not really. Blossom wore herself out pounding on the door.”

“Good.”

Satisfied my daughter hadn't done anything to justify the bailiff's attention (again), I made my way to the other side of my home, gently knocking on the guest room's door with the back of my hand. It swung open without a moment's delay to my surprise and – even more surprising – was immediately filled with my customer's face, no longer coy at all.

“Is it ready?”

“Yes,” I said, “But you have to realize this is a very delicate process and you need to trust what I'm going to do.”

She nodded, not really catching what I meant, “Of course, of course. What is it you need me to do?”

Pillow nudged her head between the doorframe and my body, “If she told you, she'd have to spend ten years serving the Faith to wash away her – hey!”

My hand pinched her ear and twisted harder than really justified, really. All to get my apprentice to shut her mouth. No sense letting everything spill before its time. I told her to go and get my daughter, that we might need another set of hands. She obeyed and I was alone with the woman in the guest room.

Honestly, it was always too easy playing superstitious travelers for fools. By time they came to me, their heads were full of the idea I was some sort of living saint, sent to answer their prayers for healing. Nonsense, the whole of it: I did much good because of experience and learning, not because I was holy. Those who knew my reputation – and that was most people living around the Marchforest – had long since been disabused of the notion that I was anything like the pious, chaste herbalist of long tradition. I was as wanton as the worst of the men and seductive as a courtesan, but I knew my regents and recipes. Everything was simply application of the right doses at the right times.

Illusions were no different.

From my pouch I produced a vial of some blue-tinged liquid that possessed a odd, almost fragrant smell. In truth, it was nothing much more than very adulterated and thickened blue dye mixed with a bit of ground up flour plus some white rose petals for the nose. My voice was focused as I directed her, “Disrobe and lie back on the bed.”

Her shift couldn't have come off faster if it had flown.

I bent over near her and dipped two fingers into the concoction, smearing them across her thighs and belly in a completely nonsensical but very mystical seeming pattern. She shivered a little at the coolness of the liquid and tried to look down to see exactly what marks I was drawing on her body, but I put my other hand on her forehead and forced her back down without a word otherwise. Her breathing grew deeper. I could feel her heartbeat pounding in her chest. And yet nothing was said between us, even as I slipped a finger dangerously close to sin between her thighs.

Finished, I produced another vial, this one merely thick honey and poured it into my hand, kneading it a bit to warmth and reaching under my skirt to massage against my balls. It didn't do much for the discomfort, but at least I didn't feel the cold air of the room hit quite as hard when I dropped my skirt to the floor.

“I need my apprentice and my daughter to aid me,” I said not entirely untruthfully, “The powers involved aren't wholly under my control and trying to make them so would surely cause them to erupt from within.” The sun was just clearing the horizon, a blade of light illuminating the room enough that I could see her throat move as she gulped and nodded. Superstitions about forest magic and rogue spirits aside, there was no way I could get off the ring off without two hands and an explosion of seed bursting out. I needed to be inside her when that happened. Otherwise a whole lot of fairies had plowed my prick for no gain.

I finished disrobing, throwing my shift and blouse aside and slipping my feet free. She simply laid back, seemingly frozen with anxiety and fear. Stuff like this was frowned on by the Faith. At very least, a inquisitorial investigation would result if the wrong person – like the Bishop of Marchforest – found out. That was enough to keep most folks in line, but truthfully, the current Bishop had paid me a visit before when he was nothing more than a young priest serving as a baron's chaplain. A very discreet visit, since it pertained to his newborn (and quite illegitimate) daughter who was racked with a sweating sickness. A few years later, he was appointed Bishop, his healthy daughter was well on her way to a life serving the Faith and I found nothing to fear from inquisitorial visits. But my customer didn't know what and I could see in her bright eyes a certain fear brewing. Perhaps she was thinking it was all a trick, that I was nothing more than an agent of the Faith sent to smoke out heretical beliefs and those who professed them? I smiled a little, thinking back to my own very limited time of service. I'd learned nothing, least of all chasteness, from the sisters at that nunnery and would sooner burn down my home and stand in the doorway while it collapsed as go back to their service.

My daughter came as I was just imagining the flames, trying anything to avoid thinking about how sore I was below. However mad Blossom may have been at halting her lechery, she had at least enough sense to keep a civil tongue in her head around our customer and guest. “Do you need me to steady her?”

“Yes,” I pointed to her wrists, “Don't let go until I'm finished.” Pillow was behind me, already bending down to grab hold of her ankles as I slipped onto the bed on my knees. This was the first time I'd ever actually done this with either of them, but definitely not the first time I'd used their aid in a getting some raving fever-victim the medicine they needed. Only this one wasn't raving – and that surprised neither because it wasn't as if I was above occasionally overstating what was and wasn't necessary as part of my treatments. Call it what you will, I have never claimed to be a saint. “Pillow, your hands, I need you to get the ring off as soon as I give the word, alright?”

Pillow stuttered something enthusiastic and spread the demure woman's legs a bit wider. The sun was getting higher in the sky and I knew that time was precious. Slattern-on-the-side worked to keep even a lively pair of balls from brewing up seed, that much I could assure (otherwise I would have had a lot more children and almost certainly be a grandmother at the ripe old age of thirty-three) but not for so long that I could afford to dally. I didn't want to find out what happened if mine started churning while still overfilled with fairy spunk. The result could only be bad.

The woman's breathing grew heavy as Blossom gripped her wrists tight, a flush of red going from her face down to the top of her breasts. They were lovingly shaped, perky even with her laying down and topped by very suckable and pink nipples. She'd never had a child before and here she was, about to get a nymph in her belly. The scandal of it all.

I pushed forward and parted her lips, listening to her gasp as my overeager prick sank deep. Childless she may be, the woman was nobody's idea of a virgin, hot and slick and willing. I bit my lip and shut my eyes tight, pushing forward until every I had was inside.

“Pillow, the ring... now!”

My apprentice had worked with her hands most of her life and had the swift dexterity of master seamstress. Whereas I fumbled with the ring, her fingers found the tiny snap-latch and released without even having to see what she was looking for. Instantly, I was cumming: flooding, pouring, spraying, blowing, bursting, piercing, draining and dribbling. It was lukewarm and likely sterile at first, but quickly warmed as the volume that filled my sac expelled itself under its own opulence. All the pleasure of a fairy swiving away at my cock, but in reverse and seemingly endless. I couldn't stop myself even if I wanted.

I'd forgotten how good it feel and screamed in delight, all the soreness and pain and misery of the past hours released in a wash of sheer lecherous ecstasy. A sailor's entire year's worth of sins couldn't have approached the delight I took in pouring fairy seed into the woman's cunt, her soft folds becoming nothing more than sideshows to the creamy thickness of spunk I'd carried back from the forest for her. The best part of it all was that my own body treated it as much my own as any and so when Pillow pushed a finger up my still slightly-gaping backhole and touched my very special spot, well – I don't think the Faith's reckoning of heaven could even remotely compare to what I felt.

My mind raced over all the fairies who'd been inside my cock, their tight, lithe bodies glistening in soft moonlight, straining to outdo each and every one of their sisters. I knew they didn't live too long and so none of them remembered me from before, but I could tell in their faces they had heard stories their mothers told and wanted to be the one who left a legacy behind. My own face probably resembled them more than not, in spite of the cum's origins. It was all the taboo enjoyment of a freshly married woman, without the downside of a fine for seduction and/or cuckoldry.

All over my body my muscles tensed, even those without any reason to do so. It was was as if everything I ever was or would be was being pumped straight into the woman and to her credit, she didn't do anything to disrupt my finish. She even had the temerity to life her hips so it less readily flowed from her cunt, as much good as that did with so much dumped into her. I was quite sure it was beyond the measure necessary to ensure she was pregnant; if she'd failed to conceive from all the thick cum, I would have taken her for barren. A far off thought for another time. At the moment, I could hear her hissing and swaying from side to side, trying to milk my cock for more. Unfortunately, it just wouldn't work that way – not this time – and I shook my head ruefully as the last few drops came out.

Pillow, bless her cleverness, had the foresight to keep her free hand near my cock and clamped tight, squeezing the lingering drips into the woman as I pulled myself out. Exhaustion hit me like a hammer; from staying up all night long, being fucked to the point of passing out, holding in the most painful offering of seed I'd ever managed, being milked like a cow. Pillow attended to the woman, shoving a pair of her namesakes under her hips, as I told her to do before I'd left. At the same time, Blossom led to my room, opposite hers upstairs. She tried to let me down gently but I flopped into bed, feigning sleep long enough for her filial piety to run its course and her disobedience to re-emerge with a loud shout from her room, out of the window “Yes, you can come up! She'll be asleep until nightfall!”


The woman stayed around long enough to confirm she'd caught and left, paying quite handsomely for the service. A new cloak to replace the one I'd left in the tavern that night and special oils and regents to help my body recover from Wolfram's rough love. A set of heavy, ill-maintained armor with equally heavy spear for Blossom to train with and burn off some of energy before it turned to hedonistic pursuits. Plenty set aside for the good seasons when few people fell ill or truly bad seasons when drought ravaged the harvest. And enough left over besides that for little interruptions, such as Blossom's fine for a double-count of seduction.

I did my best to play the stern matron and scold her for her indiscretions becoming talk of the nearest village, but really I was quite proud of her. A knight's second son and alderman's daughter – that's who she'd had in her bed that day when I caught her. Of course, they were too young to keep their mouths shut and it got out; no fault of my daughter, except to have seduced them in the first. I had to send her away for a spell to let the scandal die down, to a local nunnery with a solid reputation and quite the high “dowry” for prospective brides of the Faith, but I knew exactly what sort of education she would get there. It was encouraging her indirectly, the same way I'd been doing for years.

I suppose it was poor mothering, turning my daughter into a lustful woman, but she was a nymph. And there is no stopping a nymph from bringing lust wherever she walks anyway.

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Pub: 19 Dec 2021 22:43 UTC
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