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

by Jill Soffalot

  The woman licked the hollow of his throat, an electric trail of wetness that made him moan as he breathed in the florid scent of her hair. Her tongue was practiced, and he grabbed a fistful of indigo and shoved her face down to the swell of his cock. His trousers parted as if the hands of ghosts were pulling at them, and his prick sprang free and bounced against the woman’s lips. She wet the tip with her tongue, a thin line of spit dripping off her mouth. She exhaled cool air on his glistening cock, and he whimpered at the cold sensation. Then she slid her mouth down the entire length of his shaft, so he could feel her lips brushing against his groin. His mind had emptied of all thoughts of Minerva, the Negress, and Shadehaven’s safety. All he wanted was the warm hole in this woman’s splendid face.

  She looked up at him with violet cat’s eyes while she deep throated his tumescent cock. He began to thrust his cock in and out of her mouth, face fucking the gagging women. She did not complain however, and the fingers of her right hand began strumming her inflamed clit. He could feel his cock working impossibly deep in her throat while she sucked in a frenzy of saliva and pumping lips. Her esophageal muscles tightened around his cock and pulsated as if she needed his cum to survive. Andrax could feel his orgasm beginning to build so he fucked harder, and the wet finger she jammed in his asshole merely intensified the oncoming tide. She looked up at him with those enchanting eyes just as he began to spray, his head spinning as cum filled her mouth. She smiled around a mouthful of cock and bit, the blue tattoos on her back forming the image of Minerva’s face as he screamed…

  Then he had jerked awake in a cold sweat with a cum stain on the front of his pants. The woman was gone, but Herrik was watching him through opaque eyes.

  Now they approached the golden hall of Bower Ridge, Andrax puzzling over his bizarre dream. It had seemed so real. They crested a low hill along the riverbank, and the castle appeared from the morning mists like an answered prayer. Andrax gasped at the scene before him. No wonder the woods were so quiet.

  Bower Ridge was surrounded by a sea of creatures fucking each other in a living portrait of unnatural excess. Wood elves with cocks sprouting from their eyes drove their heads between the thighs of nymphs, and massive herds of sprites crawled over the distorted bodies of howling Fay. Thousands of the fuck-happy Fay had gathered outside the castle, probably drawn by the scent of untainted flesh. Every known sexual act was being performed (and many that Andrax would never have believed). Nightgift whickered while Andrax scanned the castle walls for any salvation from the rapture.

  Herrik turned to survey the debauchery around the castle, his hand shooting from his side. “There, the drawbridge! Ride at once, Overseer!” cried Herrik, and Andrax made for the partially lowered bridge while he wildly spun his cudgel at the surrounding creatures. Mistsong appeared from the press of bodies and pursued them, her grey skin ribbed with foul growths and flaps of green skin. Mistsong was usually no match for Nightgift, but she was enraptured. Andrax bit down hard and spurred Nightgift on, Mistsong snapping at the stallion’s rear legs.

  The three-headed monstrosity riding Mistsong slobbered maniacally. Tessyn’s tongue slid out and licked at Mistsong’s mottled flank, the forked point whipping through the air. The heads of the Dunder twins were on either side of Tessyn’s, their teeth clamped on the soft flesh of her ears. Their shared body was a suppurating confusion of gender, with ill-proportioned tits and dozens of scrotums percolating on the churning skin. They neared the bridge just as it began to rise, and Andrax mumbled a prayer as Nightgift took to the air. Nightgift sailed onto the slowly lifting drawbridge while Mistsong and her terrible rider crashed into the moat below.

  Riding into Rorke Bower’s inner chambers, Andrax almost trampled a group of fleeing young men with muzzles strapped to their faces. Herrik tensed up behind him, and before Andrax had time to reflect on the surreal departure he was dismounting in Rorke Bower’s hall. The place was a slaughterhouse. Brandi Bower lay before her decomposing grandfather in a pool of blood and viscera. Halla Bower’s dead face stared up at the sky with a bemused expression, a bone-handled knife protruding from her eye socket. Only Tricia Bower remained, screaming as she ran up the dais after a blood-splattered wood elf with a very familiar face…

  “Herrik? How did you…?” Andrax turned to the other Herrik alongside him and reeled as the statuesque woman from his dreams struck his face. Everything happened very quickly then.

  Nightgift charged at Tricia Bower, grinding to a halt as Tricia caught Herrik by the end of his beard and pulled him toward her. She whipped around and faced Andrax with an emerald rapier at Herrik’s neck. The woman from the trees sent Andrax spinning in the air with a tremendous backhand. She placed a hand to her breast and wet her finger with the white moonblood leaking from her nipple, trying to force the gooey digit into Andrax’s mouth. Andrax leapt to his feet and sidestepped away from the hand, grasping the changeling’s wrists behind her head. She thrashed desperately, but Andrax’s grip was strong.

  “Fools! Can’t you be trusted to guard a solitary, unarmed wood elf?!” screamed the woman as Andrax struggled to keep her still. He punched her hard in the side and pulled his cudgel under her chin, pinioning her fast against his body as he faced the lady of the castle.

  Trixie Bower looked as if the changeling had struck her in the face. “I beg your forgiveness, my love. The guards abandoned their posts and slipped down the Heartriver when they saw the Fay gathered outside. Then the wood elf slithered through Halla’s fingers. She was still drunk with lust and her hands were shaking when she undid the vise that held his head. He grabbed the knife and… Then he set the slaves on Brandi. We thought we had control…” Tricia howled in rage, drawing blood with the point of her blade. “Unhand her, Overseer, or I will decapitate your wretched wood elf. Quickly, Neora, the slipstream. You must…”

  Trixie Bower gasped, a black blade sprouting from her mouth. The final Bower girl fell lifeless to the floor, her blade clattering against the carpet. Herrik ran to embrace Nightgift as Andrax gasped in astonishment. The Negress stood with a thin, black skinblade jutting from the palm of her hand, a seven-foot ebony goddess resplendent in a flowing dress of lace and pearls. Neora collapsed in Andrax’s arms, the fight gone from her limbs.

  The Negress’s obsidian skin shone. “Good day, Overseer. You look well. Unhand the bitch. I have some questions for her.”

  Chapter Ten: Changeling Hides True Form

  Neora tried to move her feet, but the Negress’s restraints bit cruelly into her ashen ankles. They were living vines that cut deeper into the skin the more she struggled, and they wound across her naked body like a thick red snake. Her indigo hair stuck to her wet face, and when she tried to shift her weight, the magic creepers drew fiery ribbons of blood from her heaving breasts. The futility of her situation was obvious, and all she could do was perch immobile on the tiny stool and wait for the Negress to return. The bitch has you wrapped in the palm of her ebony hand.

  In her role as the Queen of Desire’s archfiend, she would have welcomed this lacerating incarceration. She had been fucked by outrageous mechanisms with giant wooden cocks that pumped viciously into her cunt until she begged her queen for release. Minerva had nailed her hands into the ground and watched as her slaves pissed on Neora’s face and breasts, the liquid steaming in the frigid shade of the Moonheart. She had allowed the eastern tattooists to apply their needles to the wet maw between her legs, her blood mingling with cum on the slopes of her thighs.

  Yet she relished these horrors and the countless other indignities of her servitude, the moonblood coursing through her veins compelling her to go deeper into the abyss of self-abnegation. But the black Fay’s entrapment was not a pain she relished. Despite the tone of her skin, she was not Neora’s Dark Lady, and she had prevented the changeling from abducting Minerva’s precious Overseer.

  After the ill-fated confrontation in the hall, the Negress ordered Herrik to place suction cups on her nipples and drain her of the moonblood. Neo
ra thrashed about and cursed at the meek wood elf as he pressed the hand pump and drew the priceless liquid from her tits. The pain was tremendous, and she watched disconsolately as the viscous fluid snaked down two tubes and collected in an extravagant bronze goblet. Herrik seemed to relish the opportunity to milk the woman who borrowed his skin, and he smiled as she mourned the loss of the moon. With it went her power and her only hope of escape. The cunt had ruined her, and as she ruminated on her failure, she pondered how best she could repay the favor.

  She was sitting in Trixie Bower’s bedchamber, as cruel a place as any the Negress could have chosen. The slipstream sparkled cerulean blue by the fireplace a mere five feet away from her, its flickering surface a tantalizing promise of home. So near, yet unreachable. Trixie’s bed occupied the left side of the room, an oaken monstrosity with pillars carved into the shape of cavorting water nymphs. Neora’s portrait hung above the ornate headboard, depicting the Moonmother delivering the world from between her massive thighs.

  Trixie begged Neora to pose for it for months, and she eventually yielded and allowed the love-struck Fay to paint her image. In the painting, she reclined against one of the bedposts, her legs spread but her pussy hidden by a stunningly rendered hand. Neora looked at the portrait’s sullen violet eyes, wondering if she ever lowered herself further than she did for Rorke Bower’s perverse progeny. It was a nauseating task winning the Bower girls over. The younger ones were swayed by cock, which Minerva had in ready supply. Trixie, however, had been infatuated with the glamorous etiquette mistress who always wore her dress a little too tight and her hair slightly wild. She required feminine persuasion, so it had fallen to Neora to appease the tiring Fay.

  Trixie had knelt upon this bed with her dress hiked up and her rump in the air while Neora ate out her asshole. Neora wore gloves that ended in three inch long snowcat claws, and as she sucked, she raked the razor-sharp edges across Trixie’s exposed ass. Neora remembered the moans of the arrogant Fay as she pressed back against her tongue and teeth. A moonglass tourniquet had cinched Trixie’s wrists in front of her, the device designed to tighten as the wearer’s wrists rebelled against their restriction. Neora almost laughed at the bitter parallel with her own situation, and she whispered a prayer of vengeance to the empty room.

  The door opened to her right. The Negress bent beneath the low lintel and glided to Neora’s ivy prison. At seven feet tall, she resembled a bald giantess treading through the home of a child. Her skin was the black of starless night, and it seemed to shine in the dim room. Her dress was a masterwork of lace and iridescent pearl. She was high breasted and impossibly long limbed, with a face that appeared to be chiseled from dusky glass. The contours were proud and angular, and she lifted a hand laced with white Fay tattoos to hold Neora’s chin as she inspected her. Her eyes glanced up at the portrait, and her laugh was a surprisingly sweet contralto both rich and tender.

  “A secret admirer? How touching. The likeness is remarkable.”

  “It was a necessary evil. Minerva needed a safe place to house the slipstream, the Bower girls needed etiquette lessons. A deal was struck. How can I help you, wench?” She gazed up defiantly at the Negress, her dynamic eyes meeting the Negress’s coal stare.

  The Negress smiled, and a dazzling eruption of white etched across her inky face. “No evil is necessary. Somehow I struggle to picture you as an educator. But I will give the Bower girl her due, she had excellent taste. You are a most exquisite creature, Neora.”

  “Then come here and eat my pussy. It is the most decadent flavor those ancient lips will ever taste.”

  The smile died on the Negress’s face. “Just when we were becoming friends. Are you comfortable, Neora? I can tighten those restraints if you like. Judging from your reputation, I doubt you’ll mind.”

  The Negress’s lips parted slightly and she blew soundlessly in Neora’s direction. The vines bit even deeper into her flesh, and she could feel the raw sear on her shoulder as the plant kissed her scapula. Neora winced, fighting the urge to sink into unconsciousness. You have had worse than this in the theatres of pain. Do not let the cunt see you suffer.

  The Negress closed her mouth and the vines relented. She stepped closer to Neora, reaching toward her face with the long black fingers of her tattooed hand. Neora spat at her, and the Negress responded with a callous backhand. Neora grated her teeth as the Negress cradled her head, her hand cold and unwrinkled.

  “Why do you hide your true form, changeling? I understand the appeal of this skin, truly. Such a divine shape, such physical perfection.” The Negress brought her face to Neora’s neck, her breath inches from the strained flesh.

  “Is this what you want, dyke? All you had to do was ask. I will make you come so hard the weave will collapse on itself, and you’ll thank me for it.”

  “Who are you, changeling?”

  “I am your mother, you black slut.”

  “Such a wit. Well, if you won’t tell me, I suppose you will have to show me.”

  “I will show you nothing…” started Neora, before she was interrupted by the Negress’s teeth sinking into her neck. The Negress began to drink her blood with vampiric passion, and the world around Neora obscured and spun. They were the center of a whirling hurricane, the details of the room collapsing and time freezing. The black woman’s lips pressed to Neora’s ivory skin and fed like twin leeches. She is taking you through the hall of your memories. Keep the door closed Neora, keep her hidden…

  Neora is strapped to a steel bondage wheel, her body spread eagled by restraints carved from human bone. Minerva watches from her throne, each hand choking the throat of a doomed young man while a concubine with massive tits and an even bigger cock fucks her brains out. An extremely muscular man is spinning the wheel, and when it stops, Neora is upside down with her blood rushing to her head. The ripped man jams his cock inside her mouth and fucks it while he fists her with a gloved hand. The glove is ribbed with spherical contusions, and Neora moans like a common whore while the hand flexes and relaxes. He spins her again, and this time she lands upright. He mounts her, pressing his cock inside her while Minerva clenches the life from her slaves’ eyes…

  “Deeper then,” said the Negress, watching with dispassionate eyes, the world around Neora reforming once more…

  Neora sits at the foot of the Moonheart, offering her lifelong service to the Queen of Desire. Minerva takes her by the hair and shoves her face beneath the water, her hand harshly twisting the blue-black tresses. “You wish to serve me, then drink me!” she screams, and when Neora’s head surfaces, it is soaked in moonblood. Minerva licks at her face and Neora returns her attentions. She throws Minerva to the ground and climbs atop her, her fingers seeking the divine snatch while Minerva bites her overhanging nipple…

  “We must go further.” No, thought Neora. That way there is only pain. Please don’t do it, not the child, anything but the child…

  A little girl with blue-black hair sits in a cage in the back of a carriage, her face contorted by fear and her hand stretching through the iron bars. Her young mother chases her through the snowfall, reaching out for her daughter’s hand. But the distance is too great, the carriage too fast, and the girl is soon lost in the winter snow. A dog howls and Neora howls with it, her pain and sorrow a terrible weight crushing her kneeling frame…

  Neora’s screams reverberated through the years and suddenly she was back in Trixie’s room. Her skin had shifted, and she was an attractive woman in her late forties with an elegant face and well-preserved body. Her eyes were a clear blue.

  The Negress staggered backwards, an unexpected look of empathy softening her face. “Forgive me, I misjudged you. You are a child of loss.”

  “Spare me your pity, whore. I am the defiler of youth and dreams. My hands are red with the blood of babes. Theirs is the greater loss.”

  “Minerva claimed your daughter for her pleasure. In Estlemoore, when she came searching for new slaves to join her retinue. You meant to seek her o
ut at the Imperial Palace, to take your revenge. You searched for your daughter, but she was long dead. Then you drank too deeply of the Moonheart and became a slave to the same base desires you initially sought to punish.”

  “What do you know, Negress? You and that pack of flaccid cocks and dried-up cunnies you name Council would not know desire if it crept into your beds and took you by force.”

  “I know the authority of pain, and the trauma of losing someone you love. Your girl had indigo hair, and your primary skin is a dream of what she may have been. You kept this dream alive even though you repressed all memory of her. You are both the stern mother and the guileless child, and Minerva’s torture theatres gave you the perfect space to express your loss without facing it. Let it go, Neora, there was nothing you could do.”

  Neora sobbed then, the memory of her little girl’s impudent smile and indigo hair welling up her eyes. “Her name was Grace, she was my only child. I never knew another love like I had for her. Then the queen took her.” Her face hardened. “What would you have me do, Negress?”

  “Betray the false queen Minerva and redeem your wicked life. The Moonheart is an ancient power that cannot be controlled, I told her as much myself.”

  “There is nothing false about her power. The earth trembles beneath her feet, and she can stiffen the cocks of the dead. Why don’t you go, most powerful Priestess?”

  “I cannot approach the Moonheart. The temptation to drink would be too great, and it would not be wise for a being such as me to imbibe moonblood. You must go, but not alone. Take Andrax to her, as you always planned. But not as a prisoner. Take him as your ally.”