Erotica: A Dalliance in Shadow

A fair evening to you, readers mine, whether evening lies a long ways off or hangs about your shoulders as you read this. It’s been a while since I wrote some erotica, and an equal while since we visited the world of Hexenkessel. I’m here to mend both voids at a stroke. Our pairing for this particular interlude–a dalliance, even–is F/M, but we’ll just see how much it reminds you of the girl-boy meetups you’re familiar with by the time we’re through.

Edit, 7/29/2022: removed most of the previous, needless explanation here. Will rework and expand this story to be self-contained, and to fit the current Twin Spirals Mythos, but some of my inner journey today has taken all the wind out of me and I’ll have to finish that later. Will change this bit once I do!

***

Concern stirs me that the memory I recount does harm to my mystique. Such is the rift I wove. It seems a petty quibble when I consider its counterweight. Still, as this feminine, this other, this aloof and ever-lustful thing, I treasure my vagaries. Let’s keep this pact: I will withhold whatever mysteries I wish. Obscurance by shearing. Augur what you wish. Just understand, I will tell you only what I tell you. Any answers will be by accident.

Recall this, beyond time: a gibbous moon coquettish behind night-flying clouds, like clean bones beneath a slow-withering shroud. Silver light streams down from the nocturne heavens to paint itself pale blue by dark sky’s underbelly. Gleams trace branches. Gleams dapple leaves into fae fretwork. Gleams fall upon the broad arching canvas atop a humble wagon. A single shaggy horse clops along before it, and a hunched figure surmounts its seat.

Answering peaks of architecture carve themselves from the shadow ahead. A tall roof topped by spindles. Stone buttresses fit for a cathedral, etched of black and alien rock. Yet a longer, lower roof nearby promises a stable, and a horseless wagon abides already behind the sheltering sweep of walls where three centuries stand hooded and cloaked.

So the wagon-driver turns his horse, though the shaggy old fellow needs little urging. Into the yard. Towards the inn.

A footman with an uneven gate approaches, guides the wagon out of the way to one side, and at last sets to work freeing the stolid carthorse from his harness. Friendly. Eager.
And quite confused by the driver.

“A little far from home, are you not, sir?” he asks.
“Am I?” the driver asks, equally confused. Dirty-blond hair shines under the light. “I thought I took the same turn as always after Bad Feldisch.”
“Oh. Well, you probably did, you probably did,” the footman says. Only the moon’s glow makes his cheeks seem so gaunt and his skin so ashen grey. Of course, only the moon. “We can be a little hard to find, think you not so, secret and silent here in the between-woods?” He waves his hand. “But I must be about my duties, sir.”

“Naturally,” the driver says. He watches the friendly footman amble off. Then, with a cleansing shrug and an aching groan, he stands. The inn’s door beckons with amber light, open to mild night air. So he crosses the threshold, drawn by scents of herb-roast meat, ale, and odd sweet aromas some might call incense.

Here the tableau greets him. Here I greet him.

Candles stand to their sconces, casting twilight shades on cream-painted walls and dark-lacquered wood. Plush dark red couches form hip-high palisades around long tables strewn with food, papers, personal effects. And then, of course, there are the three contented witches knuckling their chins and poking the goat-carcass on their table.

“I’m reading… misplaced bit of tendon, traces of oil… a stranger from realms of flesh, too light for the domain they breach upon?” one mutters, red curls bouncing against pale cheeks. “But where? When?”
The middle sister, Mira, slumps backward. Silver hair cascades along lightly-wrinkled brown skin. “The door, Sigrid.”
The third, spritely and flaxen-haired with vines woven beneath her tan skin, waves to the wagon-driver. She names herself Friedl, and the driver’s stricken expression impedes her not. “Hallo, sir!”

He looks about him, brows wriggling like panicked larvae. When he speaks in a voice of light gravel and embarrassment, he gives but respect. “Uh… hallo, Dame Hexen.”

Various figures hooded, hunched, horned and more turn slowly towards the mortal standing silhouetted against the doorway into night. The driver clears his throat. “I am sorry that I have intruded,” he says. “I did not know this for a Hexenhaus.” He bows. “I will depart.”

The four-horned demon behind the counter twitches her finger. The door eases to.
“That is needless. This inn is hardly barred to mortals, or half my kindred would shun me along with their lovers,” Brunhild says, for so she names herself. “Karin,” she adds, pivoting her head towards me with a glacial sideways shift, “you had to know he was coming. Why did you not forewarn us? We would have arranged a proper greeting. A show of our splendor in mirth and hellfire.”

The multitudinous smaller eyes blinking all along her cheeks, jaw, neck and tail where many demons would wear scales, the four divided between cilia-sprouting brows within her sockets, and the single larger slit within her blue brow: all fix on me. Her words draw the whole room’s attention. Brunhild, somehow, believes I will find this punitive.

Surely she must know that I am as much a harlot for attention as for anything else?

The inn’s regulars know me well. Only the foolish assume that this makes them immune to my charms. Oh, but the sensations they bleed along quirked brows and pensive breaths! Their thoughts ring clear as a clarion. As they should! I am well worth beholding, sitting on a stool with my back across the counter where Brunhild stands. I make for a poor supporting beam, but a lovely one.

A human form, true, lacking the supernatural flair shown by Brunhild. Creamy skin and snow-white hair, azure eyes and a full diamond face for lips just as full. By contrast, black the silken gown that drapes my ample breasts and hips, black the rose tucked into my bangs above my right temple, black the paint upon my lips and drawing thorns from the shadows it marks around my eyes.

If a creature such as I desires to objectify herself, she has that right. Only the my slitted pupils give the game away. That, and the feel of me. That strange other-something. That instinct that sings in echo to the melody of the outsider.

“Forewarn?” I ask, pursing my lips around the word. “Am I the only soul with sight and power? Does your inn lie under my thumb like a blood speckle, smeared?”
Brunhild licks her fangs. Tilts her head aside. Smacks her lips. “Look, you shameless and eldritch harlot. You know better than I that in seeings and the arts mystic, you have the mastery.
“Well then,” and here I unfold upwards with one leg crossing a long arc before the other to expose, briefly, calf and thigh through a ruffled slit-hem before my boot finds the floor, “I relish the surprise, the mystery, the bliss of happenstance free from my tinkering. Surely you know that I’ve long since told all the stories I wish to tell? Eternity’s too long to live in dictation. Let all things flow–it gladdens me better to flow right along with them! And in any case, until our handsome guest passed the threshold, others, too, might have presaged him.”

I gesture towards the three witches and the goat’s carcass. “What, should I rush to do everything in my power, leaving nothing for others? What sort of fun would that leave for them?”

“You might say she’d bury our light,” Mira says. Rather, she drawls with exhaustion. She knows.
“That has no sense,” Sigrid says. “Witches are assuredly women of shadow.” She glances between us. “… aren’t we?”
“Yet we do you a disservice.” I approach the wagon-driver. It needs no elder insight nor unspoken talent to know his bemusement. He writes it into every crease and quirk on his youthful face. Though I am a tall woman, he stands taller than I by a good ten centimeters, with a burly build and a healthy bit of belly.

Yes. Yes, I like what I see.

A low bow lets me swoop closer, and as I rise I take one heated hand. “You drift far from home and hearth. Tell me, young voyager, do we beguile you?”

“Wasting your time, sister,” Mira says. “You can say ‘we’ all you like, but the only one pouncing is you.”
“Then keep quiet and let me pounce, you utter killjoy,” I answer, returning my gaze to the wagon-driver. “So: would you embrace indulgence for your truth, as far realms and outer ways embrace the deepest seeker? Your name, sir?”

“Er…” his bemusement only grows. Yet his eyes glide about the room less, and linger longer on me. More importantly, they linger on the emptiness past my shoulder. “Is it your custom to ask the names of everyone you meet when you have come so close?” He gathers himself for a testing quip. “Or would knowing my name grant you some hidden power over me?”

“Only if you misunderstand it,” I say, with a light laugh. “And such dire misunderstanding that would betoken! Surely you must know what it means to claim your own name. No,” I shake my head, causing certain other features to shake as well, “if you know my name, that gives me power over you. If I know yours, the reverse.” I smile wryly. “And you already know mine. So slants our balance until you tell me yours.”

“Oh,” he says, swallowing nerves. “T-then, it’s, er… Hinrich. Hinrich Fahrlaufer.”
“And a family name, too?” I giggle. “How unfair! My family name means only madness for this, our Hexenkessel. So, I can offer you naught but nonsense in trade. Would you walk with me, Hinrich? I believe the air might do you good.”
“I’d take that offer, young man,” Brunhild says. “Karin seems to like you. Her regard is a rarer thing than you might think from its quickness.” She smirks. “And given that she is not the only one who finds special excitement in uninitiated mortals, it would be well if you made time to level your emotions before visiting us again.”

Pointedly, the door opens.
“I am sorry for the surprise,” I say, bobbing down towards Brunhild. “I–“
She waves a hand lightly. “The inn is meant to be placed where mortals and neophytes can find it. How else are we to find the ones who most need to be inside?”
“How else is Karin to find the ones she most needs inside her?” Friedl adds.
“I think you will find that in Karin’s view, that is nearly everyone,” Brunhild says.

I place fingers to my cheeks, hips rocking side to side. “Oh, come now, I’m more selective than that.”
A nearby succubus snorts. “Yes, I suppose when your pool of prospects is infinity itself, ‘selective’ is anything less.”

“It was very discourteous of you not to warn us, though,” Sigrid says. “We could’ve done something much more impressive.”
“Summoned a demon, even,” Friedl says.
“But… there are already several demons in the room,” Hinrich says, looking towards Brunhild. “Er… no disrespect intended, your ladyship, I–“
“There can always be more demons in a room,” Sigrid says.
“Ladyship?” Brunhild asks, raising two eyebrows. “Flattery will get you everywhere, young one. But for now, go with Karin.” She winks. “And enjoy yourself.”

Hinrich, who looks like a man already convinced he’s having a fever dream, allows me to draw him out by the hand. We pass through the courtyard and out from the archway.

“I do like my games, Hinrich,” I say, “so I shall tell you precious little.” I gesture, and metallic spires grow out from the encroaching trees. They rasp, rattle, and clash until they form a sudden sanctuary with an altar filling an alcove at the far end. “If you wish me to prove I have your best interests at heart before lying with me, you’re free to leave, for I am far too grown and far too free to care about proving lies. I’m here to sate my instincts. Choose me or choose something else. I am beyond justifying.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, brow furrowing in the filtered moonlight. He stares, still awed, at my construct. “Why have you told me this?”
“Because it is so,” I answer. “I try to speak to what is. When I bandy crooked words about purpose and philosophy, I only produce nonsense. I’m a creature of my lusts, Hinrich. Do you desire me, and the changes I…” and I do so enjoy my lip’s curl up into my teeth with the next word, “breed?”

Hinrich muses on this quietly and with true care. It’s endearing how his brow knits, how he raises one big, work-calloused hand up to his lips. “I… I think I see you, Lady. Which Lady you are, I mean.” He drops his hand. Clears his throat. “I am already in your power. All Ksaityilv is in your power.”

I quirk my lips. “Do you? I cherish free souls for their freedom. Your life belongs to you. You owe me nothing. Unless, of course,” and I drape lazy fingers atop one hip, “you wish to owe me more.”

“Truly?” he asks, again confused. “But… everyone in the world calls you by such grand titles. They…” His brow knits. “Oh. It’s only something they do out of respect for your play, then? And the reason my sister always laughed when I asked how you took your tithes…” He presses his head into his hands. “Ach. Mensch. Now it all makes sense.”

“Sisters,” I say, “rejoice in our fumbling.” He laughs ruefully. “Now, if you meant to stoke my lust with frustration and delays, it’s worked. Answer me, young Hinrich. Would you risk me?”

He nods. Slowly at first, then again. Firm. Final. “I would risk you. You are… you are pleasant to be with. I would like more.”

“Then, as a certain great Overlady,” I say, “I put you outside that power.” This confuses him until, stepping closer, I breathe, “I only want power over your lust.”

Again, that adorable tic. Blinking, looking away, swallowed nerves. “I think you already have that, ladyship… I mean… Karin.”

The gleam that enters my eyes. I unfold at last. Sense spills out from me and returns: the low wind through the construct-hollow, forest scents and pollen-strains mingled with faint cinnamon and thyme. Hinrich smells of the road: faint wood and oil-traces laced by sweat and a certain sharp enticing something I’ll name manhood. He’s warm, and close.
“Then,” I press against him, “I want you to look. And I want you to see.”

I simply, deeply, want him.

My breath shivers through open lips and parted teeth, shuddering with urgency. Pressing fingers smooth a worn linen shirt over the soft belly, up to his broad chest, around shoulders to at last brush through his hair. A pointed press directs his eyes down towards pale, silky skin in a hollow framed by black ruffles atop black netting, and a silver pendant with a blue topaz whose sparkles shift with each rise and fall of my breasts.

He looks, grey-green eyes gone wide with wonder, while amber veins open along the construct’s walls and spill hearth-light out on us. “May I…”
“If you made me go through all that without touching,” I interrupt, “you truly would need to make an apology.”
He hesitates long enough that he almost needs one anyway. Then, big hands trembling, he reaches up. Tentative presses send the heat of his palms and finger-tips into my ready flesh. I heat in turn. My breath catches, the first little pant of pleasure. Of hunger.

“That’s right,” I sigh, “that’s good. I want you to play with them.” How long since I fed my lust? Too long, that’s all I know. I push tighter and pull Hinrich’s big, kind-eyed face down to meet mine. His startled breath tickles my lips. His tongue proves a quick learner, and the swirls of delight it draws along my own keep me sated while he fumbles for the ties at my gown’s back. The simple draw-tie on his breeches gives me no trouble whatsoever.
Silk falls free from one shoulder. Now the other. My heart beats thunder, beats a cannonade in my ears.

My lover guesses, or senses, that I’ll only be annoyed if he asks the obvious. So as the first big, cheery-flushed nipple pops free, he leans down and suckles on it. I come alive with that first sensual tickle. I am goosebumps and heady tingles, numb no longer. He teases the tip with his tongue, wettening it. It comes away shiny with a smacking from his lips and a salivatory string linking our flesh. Those strong, gentle hands of his knead my bosoms together as soon as the fabric slips away from the other. I’m aching deep within.
Hinrich has only enough time to kick his breeches and underclothes away while I march him back towards the construct-hollow’s altar–now blooming into a bed perfumed and soft as sin.

“What do you want to–” he brings.
“Your cock, my pussy, now,” I order, pushing him down. Seven flicks with hands beyond hands open seven ties holding my gown’s front-slit closed to tight to see through. It opens, revealing nothing beneath save the dripping folds of one very eager womanhood. Hinrich’s shaft stands up to meet me even as I push him to sit and straddle him. I drag my opening along with him a luxuriant quiver and slow-shifting hips, coating his length and his reddened head.

Down, slowly, letting myself feel every hair-thin stop and start as my channel catches on his girth and spreads wider to claim it. Such fullness. Such blissful warmth! His member’s skin rubs against my clitoral bud. The ecstasy of it draws out my first moan of the night, and my azure eyes give melting look deep into his grey-greens. I hold his gaze, cooing with pleasure and petting his hair all the way down the lovely length of him until I ground my lower lips against his base. My relishing hip-twists and light back-and-forth shifts draw a gasp from Hinrich in turn.

“Am I forgiven for–” he starts to ask. I silence him with an eager kiss. Tight, insistent. With the same yearning I begin to rock up and down, using his cock to stroke myself within. Building need and spikes of lust become muffled moans and squeals passed from my lips to his while I hold the kiss with one tender smack after another.
I break away long enough to say, “You were forgiven before we started,” and the words break down into needful groans. “We’re here because I want sex. Now thrust for me, Hinrich. I want you to enjoy me. I want you to cum like it’s all you live for.”

And he does, settling his hands firmly on my rear and driving up into me. Slow at first. He fears to hurt me–oh, irony! But such a sweet sentiment, and the sweetness of it puts an ache in my chest just as beautiful as the one between my legs. Trust and his own need teach him better soon enough. Tentative pushes become powerful jabs. My pussy clutches at the rigid rod. I cry out with each outward breath and clutch his head tight to my breasts.

Now come the waves, one erogenous crest after another pushing higher while we come to a mad gallop. The sounds of our meeting bodies echo through the construct, the bed creaks beneath us, and my inner folds tighten against Hinrich. Between kisses he suckles at my breasts. He stops only to vent his own moans. As my pleasure crests higher I quake with the raw force of contracting muscles from belly to spine to neck, arching my back and calling out upwards.

“Karin…” he begins. I pull him tight against me.
“I know, loveling, I know you are,” I say, and I mean it. I can feel it it like the force from a hammer-stroke traveling back up my arm at the impact, like ripples from a stone I cast upon my ankles, like an echo of my voice from another throat. “Don’t hold it for me. I don’t need you to hold it, I need you to–” He does as I tell him, and doesn’t hold it.

As I promise, as I warned, I echo him in turn when he climaxes, and we rebound within each other. He crushes me against him, instinctive, crying out into my skin and spurting steamy seed straight into my womb. I am nothing now but erotic waves crashing back and forth until they stream out from me as clear answering spurts and a keening cry to the night. We rock together with that sweet tightening and loosening over and over. This could be a conception if I could conceive of anything but orgasm.

I kiss him repeatedly on his dirty blond hair. I am filled twice over–first by affection, and second by so much thick, hot cum. “Good,” I murmur, then moan, “good boy.” I twitch from hips to shoulder with endless pleasure. Then, always a little too soon, it ebbs.

Hinrich, once more to his credit, does not fall asleep immediately, though he shows the exhaustion of a man whose body is accustomed to the slow drain of lifting great weights rather than the cardiac rush of sex, or a sword-duel. He leans back, careful to let me move with him until I arrive curled up on his chest.
“That… that was spectacular, do I… what do I…” he trails off.

“You rest,” I say, with a giggle and a peck on one cheek. “For at least a minute or two.” I place a gentle hand on his chest and push myself upright. Watching me, his eyes inevitably trace down my glistening body, past the ruffled black fabric pooled upon my hips, and find the place where his slow-softening cock remains seated inside me. Viscous drips ooze slowly out from me and down its length.
“Hell,” he says, eyes widening. “I… that was me?”
“Mhm,” I agree, with a wickedly smug smile. “I helped.”
“But I can’t… I’d know if I could…” he gestures, now breathing more easily, “if I could make that much.”

“Oh, I would know more about what a mortal man can be helped to make than you,” I say, pressing two fingers into one cheek beneath eyes gone sly. “I have experience.” Again I lean forward and rest my head, tracing slow circles on his shaggy chest. “Now, as I said, you rest.”

“I suppose we do have to return to the inn soon, do we not, so I can make more,” he clears his throat, “acquaintances?”
“What? That’s for the morrow before you continue your journey, silly,” I say, rubbing his head. “No, handsome, you must rest because I want more. You did well, though! A very good beginning.”
Hinrich blinks. Works his clever lips. Clears his throat. “Come again?”
“There, you see,” I say, placing both hands on his chest and looming over him, “now you understand.”

(To be finished soon)

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