Wildlings Enraptured: The Novella: (Fantasy Dark Erotica, Paranormal Sex Stories, Fairy Sex) (2 page)

Chapter Two:
Queen of Desire

Situated at the apex of a snow-capped mountain overlooking the Lonely Sea, The Dark Lady Minerva’s palace was a precarious place at the best of times. Tonight, however, the air seemed to vibrate with the coiled tension of a bird of prey poised to take flight. The changeling had returned.

Tessellated panels of bone-pale moonglass interlocked in an undulating defensive wall that sealed the citadel from any army foolish enough to attempt to scale the crag. The palace sat atop this giant white honeycomb, a shimmering latticework of high, thin towers crowned by twin spires that rose like horns on the head of some gigantic beast carved from ice. Only one road led upwards through the encircling dome, and it was sealed by a series of heavy iron gates that barred ascent to the unwanted.

Some brave men desperate to impress their queen had scaled the dome above the aperture, carving the terrifying likeness of a screaming female face onto the moonglass with the fanged mouth surrounding the sealed entrance. Those approaching the gates from the frozen eastward slopes were greeted by this twisted facade, and those who wished to enter had to pass through the gaping maw of the Dark Lady.

Minerva considered this as she weighed Neora’s words at the top of the world.
Was she a monster now, in her lair of ice and waste?
Usually her audience chamber would be alive with a mass of intertwined bodies moaning in the endlessly variable tongue of the enraptured. Revelers would be gathered from their chambers and plied with drink and powerful aphrodisiacs in readiness for the nightly bacchanal. Many were nubile men and women culled from towns to the east that spread from the valley at the foot of the mountain toward the horizons of the rising sun. She would often sit attendance with her stoic guards interspersed throughout the throng, pleasuring herself with an array of ivory cocks or being greedily serviced by a love-struck devotee. Her needs were great and her pleasure often elusive, so she would occasionally abandon the role of voyeur and enter the fray searching for an errant prick or cunt to reach her catharsis.

Such had been their dream, a palace designed for the sole purpose of propagating desire, a temple of the flesh and an offering to its power. A joyful place.
Now when someone displeased her in any way (be it a momentary hesitance to perform a particularly grotesque act or the insolence of impotence) she would have them scourged in the light of the moon, and the blood would run black across the thin strands of her lash. She shuddered. Joy had left this place many years ago, and each passing orgasm seemed to wane in the shadow of a greater loss. Pale moonlight bathed her, the changeling and the wood elf’s mangled corpse.

“A fine piece of treachery, Neora,” said the self-styled Queen of Desire in a measured tone. “Though this business was not as clean as I commanded. A wood elf fucking himself to death? I mean to enrapture Shadehaven, not decimate it. They will call me a tyrant.”

Reclining in a high-backed throne carved from ebony wood that contrasted with the translucence of her skin, Queen Minerva stared coolly upon her underling with shining black eyes. Her white hair was tied up severely into a living, six-pointed crown upon her head, and it heightened the precise contours of her frosty beauty. Where Neora was smoldering, Minerva was unnervingly exquisite. Her limbs were long and lithe, and the tattoos on her high breasts and across the sharp ripple of her ribs were an inky black. She was completely naked, her legs crossed thigh over thigh to conceal the white hair below.

Neora stood at the foot of Minerva’s raised dais, her blue-black hair pooled around her bare feet. Neora was as naked as her queen. Minerva permitted no clothes to be worn in her palace. This served a double function: weapons could always be concealed beneath a garment, so nudity ensured a certain protection from the enemies of the flesh. But this was merely a happy accident. She was the Queen of Desire, and the naked form was a sacred site of worship.

With the edge of a smile playing across her full lips, the changeling bent her head in the submission of a life-long servant, “I live only to serve your majesty. You asked that I give the milk. The flesh was weak, as you said it would be. The work is begun.”

The elf’s head stared at nothing, his mouth full of cock.
This is little surprise.
Minerva had known the girl’s cruelty when she had sent her on this errand. The lower depths of the palace housed the theatres of pain, a testament to Neora’s ingenuity and depravity. Neora had designed some of the more outlandish devices herself, her debased imaginings a constant source of delight in years past.

She knows the heat of power and fear, the dimensions of desire.
Minerva loved these instruments of control like favorite children, and she respected the insights into flesh she had learned from their bloody use. Yet even she gasped at some of Neora’s more colorful tableaux. Andrax had been cruel and unrelenting, but he also possessed a restraint that Neora would mock as weakness.
I am Queen of Desire, I should not judge her,
thought Minerva.
Yet she unsettles me, this creature of my making. I have shared the moon with her and I do not even know her true skin.

“Did I displease you?” asked Neora. “I swear it was not my intention. The elf was greedy, he drank too deeply. I cannot abide discourtesy from these lesser Fay. The forest folk have lived too long in their castles of leaf and mud. They are weak, and their hearts ruled by secret selves they take great pains to conceal. He was a traitor to his skin.”

Minerva found it difficult to remain angry at the girl. Neora’s desire knew no limitations, and it was a condition she could empathize with. The swoon of the flesh was the thing that bound them, after all. “Well, at least it is begun. I imagine the seed is working its way through Shadehaven as we speak. Soon the land will be enslaved and its subjects mine. You have done well, Neora. Name your prize.”

“You are the only prize I require, your grace. Allow me the honor of pleasuring you. I have not tasted you in weeks.” The girl’s tongue slid across her lips. “I want to eat from the center of the world.”

Minerva shifted in her seat, a hot pulse budding in the nexus of her thighs.
Such sweetly scented flattery.
Neora certainly knew her quarry. She stared up at Minerva with the same bracing mixture of innocence and lascivious hunger that had drawn her to the then-waif that trawled the undertow of the dockside town of Estlemoore five years past.

Minerva had been searching for any news of the prodigal one when she had spied the whore. Neora had smiled then, before opening her mark’s stomach with a dagger tucked in her bodice. It was lust at first sight. Selling herself since an early age, Neora had been privy to the contrary wars that raged within men. And of course, it had taught her how to fuck. Being a changeling was ideally suited to whoring, as she could change her physique to fit the needs of her clients. She had been done with whoring for years now, and Minerva had brought her far, raising her to bask in her icy glow as her chief lover and most effective assassin. Yet it was the whore Minerva wanted now.

“Slip into the bitch’s skin, I want to watch you slavering as you pad up to me.”

Neora smiled, and obediently transformed into the unshorn hound. Raising her smooth legs to dangle off the throne’s armrests, Minerva revealed the wet folds of her labia crisscrossed with thin tendrils of ink. Cords of ice rose to secure her feet to the throne, and Neora approached her in the loping stride of a bitch, her black fur spiked in anticipation as she stepped over the dead elf. Arching her back slightly against her throne, Minerva spread her cunt between two fingers.

“How do I smell, slut? Can you taste me in the air?”

The bitch’s nostrils flared at the sharp tang of her sex, her face inches away from the moist pink flesh. Neora’s entire body shifted again below her neck, so Minerva could see the changeling’s round buttocks rolling languidly and her heavy breasts dragging hard nipples across the tiled floor while the dog’s eyes fixed on her own. Minerva could feel the other girl’s heat approaching, and she tensed her buttocks in anticipation of that rough tongue.

The hound licked noisily at her sex while Minerva squealed. Quivers raced along her skin until her entire body thrummed. She dug her nails into Neora’s shoulders, drawing thin lines of blood that ran down the girl’s back and glistened in the moonlit. The mixture of blue ink and black blood stirred a distant memory, and she began to choke herself with her thumbs pressing hard into the hollow of her throat. The bitch began to lap harder, spit foaming at the corners of her mouth as she devoured her reward. Minerva’s screams echoed through her imperial chambers, and she knew exactly what she needed.

“Him, Neora! Give me him, bitch!” Neora looked up at her with a sullen face, though Minerva did not notice it for her hunger. Instead, Neora’s face transmuted and stunning blue eyes stared up at the queen. Minerva almost blacked out as she pressed down violently on her larynx, and when Neora bit down hard on the flesh around her cunt Minerva could see only the blue of his eyes and a hand stretched across a gaping chasm.

Afterward, Neora lay at Minerva’s side on the throne and watched the fluid black ink on the palm of her queen’s raised hand. “You should have sent me to him directly. The power is growing. I made a tree move at my command. I should be able to snare a mortal man.”

“It will not work on the prick, I fear. The Council of the Fay was
very
thorough. As long as he stays, he is wrapped in Shadehaven’s power. Do not underestimate it.”

“A herd of bleating sheep. The Negress’s powers are fading. It is a new world, with new magic. Let me bring him to you,” whispered Neora into the whorl of her ear. “He is an ant beneath your grace’s feet, a worm not fit to feed on your filth.”

“Hmm, you always do say the sweetest things, my love,” Minerva said. “Andrax may be hardheaded, but he is no fool. The enslaving will destroy his precious harvest, and Shadehaven will be a rumor within weeks. Before the moon has turned, he will come to me.”

Chapter Three:
Full-Scale Fay Orgy

Andrax stretched across the sun-dappled bed, luxuriating in the familiar crack of waking joints as he rolled the tender coils of his shoulders. Opening his ice-blue eyes against the morning glare, he let the world come back into focus.

What a bizarre dream.
A mangy old dog had been drinking from a running stream, lapping at the clear cold water. The pool had reddened, but still the dog kept licking. Black fingers had pulled the dog’s head underwater, and the mutt had struggled feebly against that hungry hand. Then the cold had come, and the surface of the water froze into a crisp pane of ice with the dog’s head buried in the midst of it.
And inside the ice, the distorted reflection of his face.

His bedroom was in a state of unholy disarray, torn clothes scattered and shelves upended in the timeless dance. He looked to his left to find the nymph gone.
Thank you, Herrik
, he thought to himself. He lusted after the lesser Fay with their eagerness to please, and their mixture of awe and fear was a powerful tonic to his days of loneliness and notational drudgery. But when the morning came, he yearned to be rid of them, and the sight of their bruised faces filled him with disgust and despair.

So much for retirement.

Rising naked from the mess, he walked gingerly to the living room and stoked the failing embers of last night’s fire. His straight black hair fell to his shoulders as he bent over to heat some water for his morning tea. There were a few streaks of grey in it, but he had grown rather fond of them.
Comely
, the nymph had called it.
Quicksilver
, the Negress had named it.

As he waited for the water to boil, he ran a hand through his mercurial hair and listened to the world.
Silence
. It was exceptionally quiet for a harvest morning with the ball only a week away, and he actively dismissed his unease as he poured his lemon-scented tea.
Do not curse a quiet day with the Fay.
Something else stirred in the recesses of his memory, but his mind was still haunted by sleep and the ghosts of last night’s debauchery.

The nymph had been reluctant at first, but Andrax’s powers of persuasion were fabled. He had fucked her with such savagery that the welts on her wrists and ass had left faint impressions on the coverlet. Herrik had brought the flushed girl to his cottage at Andrax’s insistence. He had spotted the opal-eyed nymph dancing with two wood elves in a sun-struck clearing of the woods during yesterday’s inspection of the forest line. He had known he would have her the moment he saw her, but that did not make the having any less ferocious.

Looking at himself in the large mirror that dominated one end of the bedroom, he inspected the fresh wounds on his back and sides. The scars of passion, yet the distance he had felt had been overwhelming. He had ordered her to close her eyes as he wrapped a silken cord around her face, sparing himself the pain of recognition and the probing gaze of his ghosts. As she had whimpered in the dark, he had worked the cords through a fiendish pulley that left her suspended in mid-air, her wrists and ankles lashed together behind her back at an uncomfortable angle.

Some lessons could never be untaught
,
he had noted grimly as he traced the cold edge of a steel dagger across the back of her knee.
First the murmur, then the screams.
Ice in the hollow of her throat, feathers across the inner thighs, a soft blowing on the back of an ear. He kept her suspended in this exquisite state of awareness for almost two hours before the screams began. Cutting the cord with his dagger, he had forced her on her knees and taken her from behind as he pulled her hair hard enough to leave a few bloody strands on his bed. As she had come, he had slipped a finger into her asshole, and the nymph had passed out in a sweaty heap. She was no maiden, but she said she had felt like one. Yet as he had slapped and sucked and inserted and subtly escalated the terms of her entrapment, he had felt as empty as the Dunder Twins’ heads. Though his cock was as hard as one of his carved wooden phalluses, it seemed just as alive.
A phantom prick
Older scars snaked across his back, and he quickly averted his eyes and slipped on a loose fitting shirt.

Shadehaven was his home now, and the scored flesh of his past was a mere relic. For all its tedium and banality, it was not such a bad place to live. There were worse places, he knew.
Far worse, and older.

Settling down to his desk, Andrax reached for the quill pot on the tabletop. The Council required progress reports on the harvest and annual events like deaths and births. These may be lesser Fay, but they were still of the old magic, and every province required an Overseer placed (or in extremely unusual instances, hidden) in their land to monitor the community and ensure continuity.
The perpetual balance.
He was wondering whether he would ever understand the Negress’s game when lightning struck him. Dordor! The heat of conquest had made him forget the ink and parchment that should have been here last night, and he needed to get these reports completed before day’s end.

“Herrik!? Most faithful acolyte, are you awake? So sorry to intrude, but I have pressing need of your expertise,” he shouted to his ceiling.

A low grumble emanated from the attic upstairs, “Is it the nymph, Outlander? Does she pine for you even as she lies in your own bed? Oh, the curse of good looks and a more or less reliable cock!”

Biting back irritation, Andrax pounded on the table, “How would you like to spend the day scouring my privy?”

That got an obscene belch for a reply, and he knew Herrik was roused.

Herrik was probably the most important person in Andrax’s life. The lovers that passed through these walls were an indistinct blur, but Herrik was his rock. He maintained his affairs (business and otherwise), kept his pantry stocked, and ensured he was clean shaven. They had a somewhat testy relationship (wood elves being notoriously proud and reluctant to defer to outlanders), but their bickering had blossomed into something resembling affection. He was a somewhat unusual outlander, after all, and his past brushes with divinity had left him permanently altered. He could perceive the Fay and move through their lands, but he still stood a foot and a half taller than most and rode astride a horse instead of a pony. They thought him too tall and aloof. He thought them too small and familiar.
He supposed it was all a matter of perspective.

Herrik was his usual unkempt self. Sleepy brown eyes peered from behind a face covered in unruly tufts of thick brown hair. He performed the tricky double act of appearing absolutely flustered at all times while performing his duties with unfailing loyalty and discretion. He had moved into his empty attic six years past, and not once had Andrax regretted his decision to take on the middle-aged Fay.

“Get over to the paper mill and see what’s become of my writing supplies. Perhaps Dordor fell into a cider glass he couldn’t escape from. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Herrik nodded brusquely and slipped on his coat and wide-brimmed straw hat. Before he left, he stood for a long moment with his head tilted, “Quiet out, Overseer. Perhaps the world fell into that glass.” The door closed and Andrax was left alone and perplexed. Cursing the ambiguity of wood elves he went back to his soiled bed and fell into a troubled dream of milk and blood.

A loud banging woke him, and he leapt to his feet and opened the door fully expecting the welcome return of the pontificating wood elf.

The nymph stood on the porch, her eyes wild and hungry as she shambled drunkenly into the room.
She must’ve really loved it.
With the door wide open, she leapt into his arms and kissed his lips. Catching her and holding her at arm’s length, he prepared for a painful conversation, “Look, I know we had fun last night, but I am your Overseer…” Then he realized that her feet were pointing the wrong way.

Letting go, he put some distance between himself and the nymph with no name. She lunged at him, laughing maniacally as she grabbed at his naked crotch. Normally he would have been flattered, but the ruin of her neck tendons and that high pitched shriek did little for his manhood. He could not see a ready weapon, and he hardly wanted to
kill
the nymph he had been sleeping with the night before, despite her disturbing new articulations. He rushed for the door and locked her inside, turning to catch a breath as she scratched at the other end. Opening his eyes, he wondered whether he had made the right choice.

It was a full-scale Fay orgy.

At first Andrax thought that he was dreaming, but after vigorously rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, the cornucopia before him only grew more vivid. The entire meadow was filled with bodies engaged in seemingly endless varieties of fucking. To his left was a massive circle of interlinked wood elves, each one with their face busy between the thighs of the other. A troupe of crazed sprites was rehearsing a new musical routine, though their instruments were the inflated cocks of some strangely delighted wood elves. A female wood elf with glazed eyes convulsed on the floor as waves of pleasure wracked her obscenely distended torso. It looked like she was being attacked by a dozen gnashing pink mouths, but upon closer inspection Andrax saw that the hazelnut elf was sprouting vulvas all over her body. As she rolled in the dirt, she wailed like a squalling newborn.

Rapture.

But another word kept prodding against the soft palate of his skull, a jangling nerve that only grew more insistent as the wanton display grew more perverse.

Minerva.