by _Anthology
Suddenly he was born aloft and carried a couple of steps to the table, where his bare buttocks were placed on the polished red wood. Urged on by the lord's hands he lay back on it, obeying silently, helping the lord to finally free his legs completely from the expensive fabric and pretty shoes. Naked, he sprawled himself on the table, welcoming the lord to do with him as he liked.
The lord's leggings were open now, the lacings were undone and the thick arousal pointed at him from a mass of jet black curls. Peter watched, mesmerized, as the lord's own fingers peeled the red cloth from his body and revealed his naked form. His first lover was indeed a beautiful man... Peter's heart began racing again and he licked his lips as he watched the lord undress.
Beautiful and peculiar, as his skin color seemed to have darkened somewhat and the eyes he swore were light green had now bled into a bright yellow instead. The palest shade of amber they were, as if the green had been painted with gold. And what was that with his ears? They peeked out from his hair, like they hadn't before, pointed and undeniably green. There was more there, too. Reddish brown horns, shaped like those of a goat grew an inch or so from his forehead in his hair. They shimmered gold when he moved his head. Yes, the lord's skin was indeed green now. Several different shades of green to be specific. Everything from a light spring color to the darkest moss covering the forest ground. It streamed across the lord's body in a swirling pattern where one shade bled into the next and it seemed to change every time he moved. His lips had taken on this dark, dark color as well, and his fingernails, and his cheekbones -- weren't they possibly higher now, than before? His whole body, had it not grown larger? Every limb just a little. Even his arousal...
He was still beautiful, magnificent. Just... not human! "Hush!" the lord said before Peter had a chance to speak, or scream. "I did not mean to fool you, pretty one," he bent over Peter. "Your pleasure is your own," he whispered. "Do not mind my appearance." He breathed into Peter's ear.
Peter knew with a part of his mind he ought to run. Hide. Escape this being. The other part, intoxicated and hazed with wishberry wine, kept him back. Held him captive on that table, despite all sense and reason. That and the green hand caressing him between his legs, cupping his sack and teasingly tugging at his pubic hair, just on the right side of pain.
Yet a sting of fright in his belly made him arch on the table. Made him want to roll off it, get away from this being that resembled, but was not, his lover from before.
"Please," he begged and tried to sit up. The lord reached out a hand to stop him, dark green fingernails pressed against his skin. "No," the lord's voice was hoarse. "I cannot let you go!" he exclaimed and locked his gaze with Peter's. "You want this," he insisted. "You crave this with your flesh!" The demon-like creature pinched one of his nipples with green fingers as he spoke. "Like I do. I cannot let you go."
Peter surrendered with a sobbing sound. The demon was indeed right, yet he knew it to be wrong, to willingly be bedded by a horned one. And the sudden changes in his lover's appearance had frightened him terribly, yet the things the lord did! The licking at his chest and sucking at his nipples felt good, better than anything. The strong wine was still pulling at him, dragging him back under with waves of sweet and purple. Peter could not prevent another sweet moan from escaping his lips, nor his hands from touching the lord, slicking the black hair over the demon's scalp, gently touching the horns, just to see if they really were there.
"You are not going to hurt me are you?" he whispered. The demon rose in all his naked, splendid glory and laughed out loud. "Not at all." His lover smiled and tossed his hair, exposing a wild beauty. "Nothing has changed between us. I am just showing you who I am."
"And who are you?" Peter asked in a thin voice.
“I am the Lord of the Forest." The creature grinned at him and took ahold of his own arousal as he spoke. "And this is what you have been looking for." He smiled teasingly and made Peter blush on the table. He was about to protest, even if untrue, when the lord suddenly groaned and attacked his body anew. The lord climbed up on the table with him and challenged his lips with a kiss. His hands took hold of Peter's hips and lifted his bottom slightly from the wood, his knee pushed Peter's legs apart as he settled between them to grind his erection roughly against Peter's. Peter cried out, but it was neither from pain nor from fear. The urge to simply be swallowed by the purple haze, this green powerful being that kissed him so wonderfully, was increasingly strong. So tempting to just let go and let the sensations rule his mind as they already ruled his body.
He hissed and moaned out loud. Cried with pleasure when the dark green lips traveled down his stomach and engulfed his shaft in warm wetness. He didn't even try to hold back as his hips began to thrust into the demon lord's mouth, just breathed shallowly and exclaimed with small sounds whenever the green tongue flickered across his hardness.
The battle was over, Peter realized as much beneath layers of hunger and pleasure and wine. Demon or not, this male was about to have him and there was nothing he could do about it, even if he'd wished. The final surrender felt sweet, not bitter. He wound his hands in the demon's long hair again and thrust harder with his hips. He already felt the first quiet waves of ecstasy when the demon suddenly stopped and gave him a wide smile, lips glistening.
"Not yet," he was told. "I shall have you first." Anxiety again spread in Peter's gut, but was softened by the wine. This did not feel as frightening either, not as he thought it should. He welcomed the demon back in his arms, offered his mouth and his embrace. His skin to touch and to taste.
"Give me your salt and your sweetness," the green man mumbled and reached out to pick a wishberry from the bowl and crush it between his fingers. He rose from Peter's body again and Peter caught a glimpse of his dark green erection, white fluid dribbling from it, and Peter could not help but shiver with delight. His body felt naked and cold without the demon's weight and he wished it back. Instead, the demon took hold of his hips again and motioned for him to turn around. Peter obeyed instantly, hungry to feel his hands again and, guided by those hands, he suddenly found himself on all fours by the table's edge. His limbs were shivering and felt weak, the exposure and vulnerability of his position made him uncomfortable for a moment. The lord had slipped from the table and stood behind him now. Peter looked over his shoulder and saw the demon looking at his buttocks with a lust-filled expression.
Like a wild animal, Peter thought, ready to attack him. That bit of reflection did not make him uncomfortable though. Instead it made him burn with anticipation. The demon was indeed right -- Peter did desire this! It was his deepest wish. So when the fingers smeared with wishberry juice came to probe at his entrance he did not falter but steeled himself and closed his eyes, somehow he knew that there was pleasure to be found, somewhere in this.
One long green finger slipped inside and Peter battled both pain and pleasure. It moved in there, touched and explored his insides. Another finger slipped inside and -- yes, there was the pleasure. A brief stroke with a soft finger pad and Peter moaned out loud and hissed with pleasure. Almost a little too strong, this sensation coursing through him like a full moon tide. He spread his legs a little wider, wishing it back.
The lord chuckled behind him and pushed in two more fingers, began moving them in and out between Peter's buttocks. Slow and sure, touching that pleasure spot every time. Before long Peter was panting and wriggling on the table. He had lowered his chest to the wood, resting his head on his arms, with only his bottom lifted up in the air. His thighs were parted widely and his arousal was dripping small drops of fluid onto the red wood.
"Do you like this?" the Lord of the Forest asked.
"Yes..." Peter breathed. His hair was plastered to his forehead and his breath felt hot on his own skin. "I knew you would," the demon replied calmly and kissed Peter's back. "Your restless travels are over. You have found what you sought in your heart." As he said those last words his fingers slipped completely out of Peter's rear and he pulled Pe
ter closer by his hips, until he touched the demon's green body. The lord held him by his waist with one arm and reached for another berry with the other. That too, he crushed, and smeared the cool juices around Peter's entrance. "To be loved by a beautiful man, such a lovely wish indeed," he mused while the thick shaft was guided to press against Peter's tight entrance, slippery with wishberry juice. The demon grunted and sighed himself then, when Peter's body gave in and took him inside. Inch by inch within the slippery dampness.
"God!" Peter cried out and bit into his lips again. He closed his eyes and held his breath while the lord slowly slid in place, resting deep inside of him -- a column of dark, throbbing flesh. He cried out again when the demon suddenly withdrew from him, just to push back inside, a little harder and less gently than before. Peter gritted his teeth and curled his hands into fists as he waited for the pain to go away while the Forest Lord pounded into him. Slowly it did lessen and the pleasure soon followed, the pang of bliss on every inward movement soon made him forget what was left of discomfort. He found himself anticipating the next action, the next caress of the green rod. The sweetness he now gained from having the marble hardness moving in and out of him was enough to keep all other thoughts and troubled emotions at bay.
The lord seemed to enjoy the act as well, hoarse sounds rose from his throat and his grip on Peter's hips tightened. Peter struggled on the table. Struggled for breath, to endure this pleasure that walked the edge of pain with its intensity.
"Please!" he heard himself cry, but did not know what he was asking for; release or relief from the sensations that overpowered him so completely. He clawed at the red wood, he panted and he cried, and a part of him just wanted it to go on and on. Did not want an escape, but desired to stay there, always, within the Forest Lord's ecstatic embrace.
The sweet pressure began building inside of him again and even if neither of them touched his arousal, Peter felt it was soon ready to burst. He tasted his own blood on his lips, mingled with the taste of sweat and wishberries. And as the end drew nearer he lifted his bottom higher, to meet the lord's powerful movements, the caresses of the green member that penetrated him from behind.
And suddenly he was there, semen shot from his loins and down on the wood beneath him in long white strands. He registered faintly that his insides were being filled with a similar fluid, hot and thick, then Peter was gone. Swallowed by a blessed peace and emptiness.
When he woke up, the first thing he saw was his grey mare nibbling at the berries in a bush nearby. The next thing he noticed was that he was freezing. He was naked and the forest was dark. A light on the horizon told him that it was near dawn.
He looked around him and noticed his head hurt when he moved it, as if he'd drunk too much wine the night before. His clothes, he saw, lay in a neatly folded heap by his feet. He remembered when he found the berries and now he was covered in them! They rolled off his chest and his thighs when he moved,, crushed in his palms when he closed his hands. He picked juicy pieces of them from his hair and noticed purple smears all over his pale skin.
He was afraid then. And confused. What was this? Were the berries poisonous? He most surely had dreamt the whole thing? It could not be possible he had met and made love to a forest god... He blushed when he imagined himself lying there alone in the green moss, touching himself while in some kind of intoxicated haze from the black berries. It was most embarrassing and he silently blessed the mare for not having a voice.
As he tried to rise however, an ache in his posterior made him start. It did indeed feel as if something had been in there... He looked around himself for some kind of tool, to see if he had used something on himself during his fantasy. He did not see anything aside from a strange woven cord in a deep red material. Curious he touched it. Tried to remember which of his clothes it belonged to. He could not recall having worn anything in that particular shade of red. He pulled on it and was startled to realize he could feel the pull from inside. He blushed and sat back down, his heart pounding fast and heavy in his chest as he, with a trembling hand, pulled at the cord and felt something slide out of his slicked bottom.
There it was, in his palm, a carved, polished bead of red wishberry wood. On its surface the Forest Lord's leering face was engraved.
Phases
by Carrie Richerson I am always restless as the moon draws to full. I wander the house, my feet padding silently across the cool tiles. Vague hungers distress me, then specific ones. I ransack the pantry, the refrigerator. Chocolate! I must have chocolate! Or dill pickles. Or raw beef. I eat everything in sight. Afterwards, I swear I'll never touch chocolate, or dill pickles, or raw meat again.
I find it as impossible to concentrate as to be still. I abandon the letters I try to write in mid-sentence, close books when I realize I have read the same sentence over three times and still don't understand. I grow irritable, have to make an effort not to snap at my friends. A headache settles in above my left eye and begins to gnaw busily at the bone. My breasts swell and ache. I bloat, turn leaden, and the first twinges begin in my pelvis. All my joints whine fretfully. So do I.
At night I dream of moon phases, big-bellied women with heavy breasts, and blood -- sheets, rivers, oceans of blood. I experience orgasms in my sleep but am not satisfied. I wake tangled in the sheets, slick with sweat. I taste honey on my tongue, and iron. I feel like howling at the moon to hurry up, baying at her like the coyotes who skulk the edges of my Texas farm. Auowoooau.
Sometimes when I wake, I am no longer in my bed. One night I find myself spread against the cold glass of the French doors. I have licked a clearing in the frost pattern on the pane, which my breath quickly mists again. I don't know how long I have been doing this: lick and exhale, lick and exhale.
The next night I wake naked on the front lawn, my arms yearning toward the almost-full presence high overhead. It is fortunate that my nearest neighbor lives a quarter-mile away. He would be embarrassed. The cold squeezes the air from my lungs in billowing clouds and makes all the little bones in my feet ache. A heavy dew coats every leaf and stem and drips from my sodden hair into my face. The water is dense, gelid, almost frozen. White light shatters on the fat drops and falls in moonbow shards at my feet. When I return to the house my soles are sliced as if by razors. I leave dark footprints in the grass.
I lick the dew off every part of my body I can reach. It tastes like love.
Later, the moon bends low over my lawn, sniffing at the bloody tracks. Soon, I tell her. Soon. *** I cannot remember a time when my cycle was not tied to the moon's, when she didn't pull my tides through flux and ebb as she waxed and waned. My gynecologist announces triumphantly that I suffer from premenstrual syndrome. I stare at her in amazement: Did she think I did not know? She mistakes my expression, prescribes pills. She smells of disinfectants, chemicals. A doctor should smell of honest bodily fluids. I don't have the prescription filled.
My friends make allowances, call the full moon my crazy time. Most of them have crazy times of their own. We laugh with the shared intimacy.
*** I haunt the women's bars and coffeehouses of nearby Austin. I have many friends here. We greet one another with hugs and affectionate kisses. Sitting at the bar, standing in the shadows around the pool table, I hunt for my prey. I watch for telltale signs: capable fingers grown thick with retained fluids, clumsy as they clasp mug or pool cue; the crevasses at the corners of eyes and the pinched look of nostrils that are pain's tracks; the faint odor of heme on the air.
There. I alert to the familiar scent. Even as I search the faces around me, the object of my quest detaches from the crowd around the pool table, excuses herself. There is tension in her stride, a holding-in, as she moves to the john. I snuffle along behind her, take the next stall.
She bleeds into the bowl for a long time. I hear her weary, stifled grunts as her womb pushes the blood out. The smell dizzies me. My heart bangs frantically, wanting OUT, and I flood wet with desire. Only pressing my fevered cheek against the cold tiles k
eeps me from fainting.
I am washing my hands when she comes out of the stall. She is too self-absorbed, too exhausted to notice the shakiness in my knees. Tiny beads of sweat gather at the roots of her spiky hair and drip into her eyebrows. She blots them away with a paper towel and frowns critically at her pale reflection in the mirror. I offer sympathy for our common condition, and a drink.
At a table in the corner we share rueful confidences of menstrual periods from hell, progress to details of lifework, ambitions, lost loves. The whiskeys work their slow amber magic; tight muscles unbuckle their grip on her lower back and a faint flush spreads its health up her neck. The lines in her face relax along with her muscles. She begins to glow with the liquor's warmth and my attention.
When I begin to stroke her thigh under the table, she shivers, but does not remove my hand. My eyes seduce her. I slide an arm around her, nuzzle her neck. When we kiss, I know that soon she will let me take her home.
*** The short drive out of town into the Hill Country takes us through harlequin patches of white light and inky shadow. The cool light that floods the landscape cranks the heat of our passions higher in contrast. Hungry hands unbutton, search, and stroke. We are almost frantic when we make it through the front door. But when I explain my desires, she balks, and the mood is abruptly lost. To flout society's norms of sexuality is one thing; she finds it harder to fly in the face of convention about what is dirty, untouchable. I cajole, persuade, caress. Finally, she shrugs, yields, dares.
