As I walked, my tongue parted the little hood at the top of the Faery Queen’s slit and freed the tiny knob of her clitoris. The moment I touched it, I felt her back arch and her mouth clamp tightly over my shaft for an instant, before she resumed her rhythm, and guessed that she had felt the icy lightning that she sent through my body.
I played for a while with the wonderful little thing, feeling it grow swollen and proud at the insistence of my tongue-tip, before I went exploring between her tightly-pursed lips, driven by a hunger to be inside her. I found the way in, by the sweet juices seeping from it, but it was hardly there.
I was scared to probe, thinking I’d hurt her; but she turned to me as we wandered hand-in-hand around the windings of the country lane, pausing as two rabbits scampered across in front of us. ‘Don’t hold back, ’ she murmured, and her voice caressed me from within. ‘On a road like this, nothing you do can harm me.’
So I pushed my tongue into the tiny hole, feeling it open like tight elastic, squeezing back hard to prevent me from leaving, if I’d been mad enough to wish to. ‘That feels good, ’ she giggled, her beautiful face sparkling into a smile. ‘Lets run for a while.’
Still hand-in-hand, we sprang into a fast run along the lane. Her filigree wings spread to catch the warm wind that blew her rainbow hair out behind; and the same wind played deliciously in my own hair and on my naked skin. The ground beneath my bare feet was springy grass now, not warm tarmac, and I could feel the grass-roots growing slowly through my soles and up through my blood-stream to my heart. Exulting in speed and wind and life, I felt myself spurting spasm after spasm of life into the Faery Queen’s open mouth.
‘Oh no,’ she said, lifting her head up from my soaked penis, still pointing stiffly up but on the point of collapse. ‘I haven’t finished with this yet.’ She passed her hand lightly over it, and its erection became instantly solid again, matching my undiminished desire.
‘This road winds a lot, ’ I commented, stopping for breath. I was feeling surprisingly good, after running so far, but felt I needed a rest. ‘I think it’s turned right round on itself. ’
The Faery Queen regarded me with languid amusement, stretching her wings luxuriously. ‘Several times over, ’ she commented.
‘So... ’ I glanced around, but nothing looked familiar. ‘Why haven’t we come back to where we started?’
‘Because a circle doesn’t do that, ’ she explained patiently, reaching out to caress my hair. ‘By the time a circle can come back on itself, time has passed. So the new circle begins from a different point.’
I considered, before deciding that this seemed reasonable. ‘So, ’ I said, ‘we keep going round and round, and always come to somewhere different?’
‘Isn’t that how you reach anywhere worth reaching?’
I didn’t have a chance to reply, because she lifted her beautiful buttocks off my eyes and her cute crotch off my mouth and turned around in a single, fluid movement. Her golden slanted eyes gazed down at me.
I longed to sit up, take her in my arms and lay her down. I longed to lie over her and take her roughly, feeling her delicate body helpless as I thrust into it. But the grass bonds still held me tightly, and it was as much as I could do to raise my head.
With a sigh, the Faery Queen straddled my crotch, holding her wet, pink slit just over the object of its desire. ‘I want this,’ she said softly, ‘inside me.’
I panicked for a moment, as she lowered herself slowly onto me, remembering how tiny the hole was and half-expecting to tear her apart. But it opened to accommodate the shaft, springing back to grasp it so tightly that I gasped, as the insistence of my surging blood fought with the velvet grip around it.
I stopped walking abruptly. ‘I can hear someone singing,’ I said.
‘Of course. It’s not far now.’
Whirling me by the hand she’d kept in mine, she grabbed my other hand and began a wild, capering dance, round and round. Her brilliant hair floated around her in ways that seemed to have little to do with her motion. Her pointy breasts were firmly aimed at me, their nipples, crimson against purple skin, erect and impossibly long. We whirled faster; and she was screaming, as she rose and fell on me, her flow-scent sweat dripping from her face and her breasts and her belly and her thighs, to merge shamelessly with the musky sweat of my passion. We were whirling so fast that I could no longer see anything but her, as the land spun around us, and the wind was roaring in my head and on my skin, and my body was indistinguishable from hers or from the land we danced in; and she reared up, her body liquid and shaking, her wings spread convulsively, as she sucked me right into herself and I poured spurt after spurt deep into her body.
I looked slowly around, as my head stopped its ecstatic spinning. ‘How did I get here?’ I asked dreamily.
The Faery Queen had her arms around me, her head nuzzling against my chest, wings half folded about us both. It didn’t just seem natural to be like that, it would have seemed unnatural to be any other way. She didn’t look, but I guessed that she knew what was there anyway.
‘Don’t you remember? ’ She gave a low throaty giggle.
‘We came together.’
I couldn’t disagree with that. The countryside around me glowed along every edge, gold and silver and a rainbow of colours. All the familiar objects, trees and grass, bushes and flowers, seemed both themselves and something totally other at the same time.
And there were people everywhere. Some were like the creature in my arms, winged and delicately coloured; others seemed to be beings out of myth, satyrs and nymphs, dwarves and giants. All were sexually engaged, in couple, threes or more, and in all combinations of male and female; though not all seemed restricted to the sexes I knew.
‘Is this fairyland?’ I asked at last.
‘If that’s what you want to call it, ’ she said. I wasn ’t sure whether her voice sounded annoyed or amused. ‘It’s my realm. You’re welcome to make use of it.’
I looked around again, searching for the winding lane, but there was no sign of a road anywhere in this strange landscape. ‘It would be nice for a while,’ I said cautiously.
‘But I’ve got a life, back at home.’
She gave a tinkling laugh that was suddenly no longer sweet. ‘Not much of one, now. You’ve been gone seven years already.’
‘What?’ It wasn’t the most eloquent reply, but it was all I could manage. ‘How come?’
‘Precisely, ’ she said. ‘A faery fuck takes seven years: everyone knows that.’
I felt panic rising from my guts towards my throat and forced it down again. ‘And... ’ I stuttered. ‘And...how do I get back? The road’s gone. Can you show me back?’
She threw back her head and laughed heartily this time. ‘No, no, no, ’ she sang, more than spoke. ‘My fuck shows the way here. There are others who show the way back.’ ‘Who? ’ I asked, glancing around. Though I wasn ’t happy about losing seven years, if the way back was as good as the way here, it might almost be worth it.
But the Faery Queen laughed again. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea, ’ she told me. ‘You’ll just have to try them all. But remember: seven years each time.’
My face must have looked horrified, because she giggled again and kissed me, deeply and sweetly, but not with passion. ‘Come now,’ she said, her voice a little more gentle, ‘it’s not so bad to be here, is it? You’ve pleased me, and my realm is yours to enjoy.’
At a sighing, tinkling call from her, two girls ran up, hand-in-hand. One was covered in silver fur, a long tail swishing behind, the other had hair offoliage and flowers for breasts. ‘This is a visitor to our land, ’ she said. ‘Make sure he enjoys himself.’
As they took my hands and pulled me after them, I shrugged inwardly. I still intended to get home, one day. But I’d have fun doing it.
Boob Hill by Landon Dixon
John ‘Long’ Johnson held up a weather-browned hand, bringing to a halt the six horsemen and women trailing behind him. He pushed
back his dusty, ten-gallon cowboy hat and shaded his brow, squinting stinging sweat out of his blazing blue eyes as he gazed down at the ramshackle collection of wood frame buildings and homes that were Dike City, Kansas. Shimmering waves of heat rose off the sun-baked land below, and the sluggish Little Snake River, which regularly overflowed its banks and the town’s crudely constructed dykes, wound its way like a muddy artery through the burnt-stubble heart of the valley bowl.
‘That her?’ one of the men asked, bringing his mount alongside Johnson’s.
‘Yep,’ was all the handsome, taciturn cocksman replied.
‘Her’ was a good description of the wind-whipped, bare-ass town, because Dike City, Kansas, was home to the infamous Boob Hill - a barely-legal brothel that was busy turning the local female population into howling nymphomaniacs. Married men were being left wifeless, families daughterless, single men ecstatic by the depraved goings-on at the sprawling whorehouse. Good-hearted, god-fearing womenfolk would enter the brothel on a mission of mercy and never leave, turned on to the powerful pleasures of the flesh by the devious Madam of the house, Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme.
By hypnosis or potion, or some other means unknown, Chesty would transform the modest little ladies of the prairies into sex-craved she-devils that no one man could ever hope to satisfy. The reborn brazen babes needed, craved, men, and plenty o’ ’em, and Chesty provided the man-meat to temporarily satiate their overwhelming hunger, at a tidy profit to herself, of course.
Johnson had been hired by the town council, twelve married men good and true, to put a stop to it - to tame Chesty and lift the gate on her ever-expanding corral of lust-addled women, to reunite families torn asunder by all-consuming carnality. Sure, the single men, and a good many of the married, too, had objected to the Town hiring Johnson, but most of those men weren’t landowners, and, thus, couldn’t vote, so their opinions counted as much as cow chips to the political leaders who felt the Wild West had no place in Dike City.
‘We gonna hit her tonight?’ another of Johnson’s mob inquired.
‘Naw,’ the well-endowed tail boss drawled. ‘We’ll hit ’er come mornin’, when the debauchery’s at low ebb.’
The attractive group of cowboys and girls nodded, confident of Johnson’s skills on the range, the battlefield, and in the sack. Every clam-shaped notch on Johnson’s rifle stock spoke of his abilities of seduction and survival. There were a hundred and twenty-five such notches in all.
Johnson kicked a glowing ember back into the campfire, then squatted down and tilted a tin cup of hot, black coffee up to his thick, sensuous lips, taking a good, long draught.
Somewhere far off in the night-shaded wilderness frisky coyotes barked love songs back and forth, while lusty gophers made chattering love in their funk-smelling burrows. Good signs, all.
Johnson sagely regarded the flame-licked faces of his posse, liked what he saw: three men - experienced, dick-heavy dudes who could cunny-ride the orneriest of ladies; and three women - big-breasted beauts who kept their men’s tools well-oiled, and pacified any stray males who got in their way.
‘Mebbe y’all should work on your moves some, so y’all be ready come mornin’,’ Johnson instructed.
The sex-hardened gang quickly jumped to their feet and shucked their buckskin like it was crawling with fire ants. They stood nude and lewd before the flickering campfire, the men’s iron-hard dongs bobbing long and heavy and sure, cocked for action, the women’s hefty, heaving jugs swollen with mother’s milk, begging to be sucked dry. Then they paired off, started getting down and dirty with each other.
Johnson studied their technique, mindful of any flaws that could get a man bucked, a woman chucked. He drew his own ten-inch cum-cannon out of its cotton holster and commenced to stroking, watching Lynn ‘Man-Eater’ Craven tease Cal ‘Sure-Shot’ McGroot’s lengthy prod with her playful, pink snake of a tongue. Her awesome, snow-white tits, capped by inch-long, rosy-red nipples, swayed ponderously from side to side as she licked all over Cal’s hard wood. Then she ably swallowed the groaning man’s timber in one slobbery gulp, her fiery-red hair cascading across her pretty face.
Lynn bobbed her head up and down on the bucking cowboy’s bushwhacker, sucking hard and sure with precision mouth-strokes, from bloated tip to furry base, till she finally yanked Cal’s dripping lady-killer out of her stretched-wide mouth and asked, ‘Y’all gonna fuck my titties, or what?’
Johnson’s lips creased into a smile, as he pulled on his pecker with a calloused, practiced hand, looking on appreciatively as Lynn cupped and seductively juggled her over-ripe melons. Her magnificent, blue-veined mams were enough to tempt even a not-so-straight-shooter to bury his spunk-gun in between her soft mountains and lighten his load, frost her flesh-cones.
Cal ambled closer and eased his throbbing rod into Lynn’s heated chest canyon, began churning his hips in a dosey-do as old as the Jism Trail itself. Lynn shoved her ivory mounds together, smothering Cal’s pumping dong, then spat into her tit-tunnel to grease the action even further. Cal sawed his saddle horn back and forth in the redhead’s depthless cleavage, fucking her treasure chest faster and faster, pinching and rolling her fully-flowered nipples as best he could. And Lynn stuck out her tongue, providing a warm, wet cushion for Cal’s peek-a-booing cocktop.
Cal rode roughshod over Lynn’s tremulous titties, blazing a heated, humid, velvety path between her jouncing jugs, till he broke the flesh-spanked night air open with a yowl of satisfaction and blasted a bandolierful of white-hot jizz onto the girl’s all-natural endowment. He coated Lynn’s neck, her cupped casabas, with the unerring accuracy of a man who’d corralled and domesticated a passel of damsels in distress (and out of ‘dis dress’). Lynn joyously rubbed Cal’s salty jerk into her massive, shiny breasts, revelling in her own wicked powers of tit-suasion.
Johnson’s shrewd eyes roamed over the rest of his merry, messy band of fucking and sucking cummers, confident that they could handle the wayward women of
Boob Hill. He tucked his own purple-knobbed fuck-stick back into his trousers, saving his juice for the personal challenge that lay ahead - a high-poon showdown with the dangerous, money and man-lusting proprietress of Boob Hill, Chesty Laflemme.
Come the crack of dawn, Johnson rose up on his hind legs and stretched, felt his manhood to ensure it was in working order, and then roused the rest of his posse. The plan was simple: take on all comers, cum on all takers -hands-on demonstrate to the horny, horn-swoggled women of Boob Hill that one man could, indeed, satisfy one woman, and then return the satiated gals to their rightful families.
The group of well-hung twat-tamers and their busty cock wranglers mounted up, cantered off the high ground and down towards Dike City, rocking sensuously back and forth in their polished leather saddles. They were trotting Main Street in a matter of a minutes, then pulled up and looked towards the end of the deserted street, where on a rocky, barren plateau stood the gaily-lit brothel that would be the sexy scene of Johnson and his gang’s showdown/ho-down with Laflemme and her lusty ladies of the evening, and morning, and afternoon.
The gang dismounted, and with the torpedo-titted women covering their broad backs, the thick-membered men trod the dirty, grey planks of the sagging wooden sidewalk, resolutely striding past shuttered storefronts and up the hill to the din of iniquity that had laid claim to so many normally monogamous women. The brothel was a gaudy, rambling mansion of twenty-some rooms, as structurally unappealing as a temperance tomboy with bumps where breasts should’ve grown. Johnson didn’t waste time skinning his knuckles on the red-painted front door; instead, a well-placed boot splintered the entryway and his posse passed inside.
They crossed a long, marble entrance hall, climbed a spiralling, red-carpeted staircase, and then trundled down an upstairs corridor. Johnson fanned his men and women out in front of him, and they burst open doors and leaped into chambers framed in chiffon and doused in perfume, taking the slumbering, all-too-temporarily satiated women of the house of ill-r
epute unawares. The heavy-breasted cowgirls pulled the paying customers aside, using their ample charms to convince the stunned johns to make love, not war, while the three-legged cowboys bared their loins and put into practice their studly powers of seduction, rustling up memories in the confused ladies’ minds of just how sweet and sweaty it was to be a one-man woman.
Johnson, meanwhile, moseyed off further down the hall, in search of even breastier babes to stamp with his brand. When he reached the end of the long, wallpapered passage, he toed the last door in line open and strode inside, found one Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme ensconced in the bubbly chop of a cast-iron bathtub like a siren in the sea. Johnson could tell it was she, both from the fact that her striking face matched the Wanted poster he carried on his person, and the fact that, even though her body was completely submerged in the soapy water, her Sierra Nevada-like breasts still peeked their pink tips out of the suds.
‘Been lookin’ for ya, Chesty,’ Johnson drawled, slowly and carefully unbuttoning his buckskin jacket.
‘Been waitin’, long rider,’ Chesty replied, a defiant smile lifting the corners of her crimson lips. Her sun-bleached, blonde hair was piled atop her head like a stook of ripened wheat, with a blood-red rose stuck in its midst, thorns and all. She pushed her mams still further out of the bursting bubbles, till they glistened huge and hypnotic in the oil-lamp light, gargantuan in size, tanned an almost all-over tawny, saddle leather brown and twin-peaked by jutting nipples that looked like they could spray enough white gold to satisfy the most parched of ’49ers.
‘What’s it all about, big ’uns?’ Johnson asked, cautiously dropping his jacket, going to work on his flannel shirt, warily avoiding any sudden movements that might spook the big, brazen, bathing mama. ‘Why you turnin’ good women bad, wives into wantons?’ Chesty regarded him steadily with her slate-grey eyes, watching as the loaded-for-bare cunt rustler deftly unbuttoned his shirt, shunted it aside. She surveyed Johnson’s hairy, muscular chest and licked her bee-stung lips. ‘A girl’s gotta have her gold,’ she replied. ‘And business is boomin’, big man.’
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