NSFW Storytime- Mythos: Woodsong

Hi everyone! Do you like sexy stories? Supernatural creatures? Monster girls and eldritch guys getting their fuck on? Well, that’s what I’m doing now! Mythos is a kinda-sorta-continuity of short stories featuring… mythological creatures having sexytimes. Given this, obviously this is NSFW, so you’ve been warned, but otherwise… Enjoy!

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1 Woodsong fin

The old men kept telling Arthur: don’t take anything from the forest.

There must have been a reason why, of course. Some wild animal from the time of the village’s settlement that menaced the hunters and woodcutters that tried to ply their trade within, or poison in the soil that leached up into the wood. But nobody knew now, or if they did, they weren’t telling a newcomer anything. Still, Arthur asked, when the opportunity arose, when he left his little cottage and met the people of the equally little hamlet; it was a piece of local arcana that he found quite interesting, in its own way. Folk tales fascinated him, uncovering the roots they had sprung from entertaining him for many an hour.

Too many of the people there were old men, alas, and though they knew the injunction by heart, they remained close-mouthed, unwilling to even attempt to discuss its source. The young men were less successful in hiding that they did know something, though they shared the silence of the old on the subject; Arthur could only tell they were holding back by the tightness of their smiles as they lied to him, their eagerness to avoid his eyes.

Their wives, though, were honest in their lack of knowledge. That was a piece of the puzzle that Arthur hadn’t fully understood yet.

In time, he had simply given up ever finding out from the horse’s mouth, deciding instead to simply look it up in the library the next time he ventured into town. Little Potter’s End was too small to have one of its own, it would have to wait until he had other business in the nearest hub of civilization.

Arthur had had no inkling of Potter’s End’s strange, folk tale prohibition on using the forest for anything when he had moved there, though; it had merely been a place for a man newly wizened by his fortieth birthday, and newly unattached following his equally ravaging divorce, to come to write in peace, among people who did not know him, and build on an incipient career in writing that had begun with one novel born in the ashes of his marriage. If the woods hadn’t come up almost immediately after he had arrived, the townspeople gravitating naturally to the first newcomer for a good long while, ready to share their advice for living here, he doubted he ever would have thought of it at all; it wasn’t as though he had any particular interest in denuding the forest of its resources, after all.

But his cottage backed onto the borders of the woods, after all, the closest of any home in all of Potter’s End. It made sense that these people would want to share whatever superstitious drive that made them obey the old command with him, when the forest would be such a relevant concern.

After the first month of living there, Arthur had simply put the secret wisdom out of his mind, and gotten down to work. The occasional squirrel aside, the forest remained well behaved, keeping just shy of his back garden and never encroaching further. He let it be, and by and large, it let him write.

That is, until his niece came to stay.

It had been her idea initially, spurred on by her mother’s- Arthur’s sister- insistence that she use the brief break in her university courses to get away and see more of the world than the little home town that all three of them had grown up in. An artist herself, they had all seen the potential in Arthur’s little home, the inspiration that tranquil surrounds could instil, and so she had asked, all gangly five foot eleven inches of her, if she could visit for a while.

He hadn’t minded in the least, since he quite liked the girl and her endless kind words about his work, but it hadn’t occurred to him for the longest time that she was a woodworker.

Oh, she was other things too- one could never rely on young Trish to apply herself to one medium for any length of time- but amidst all the painting and sculpting and sketching tools she had dumped on his doorstep that cold afternoon, there had apparently been a small set of woodworking tools, nestled deep in one of the many- many, many- canvas bags she used instead of real luggage. Arthur could hardly be blamed for forgetting that facet of his niece’s chosen career, given that that same career seemed to be mainly about collecting new facets.

But then, ultimately, he still rather did.

It didn’t come up for the longest time, of course; Arthur had agreed Trish could stay for a few weeks, and the majority of that time had been filled with a peaceful and highly productive artistic rapport. Trish had set up shop in the sun room, where a trio of angled windows took in the forest and sent dappled interplays of sunlight and shadows drifting strange patterns over the far wall for most of the day. Arthur enjoyed writing outside on his terrace, where the thoughtful scratching sounds of his niece’s sketching could waft through an open door and remind him that there was some other creative person around to take as an example, to work all the harder. It hadn’t always been that way; the people of Potter’s End were farmers mostly, not the kind who would indulge him in writing talk much of the time, nor even to particularly take kindly to it. Some were of the mind that one had to earn their way into living here by the sweat of their brow, such that the newcomer artist using their landscape to fuel his “soft” work would be unable to do so. Arthur had countered them by simply being relentlessly gregarious and accepting their particular ways of doing things out of hand; it was hard to remain distrustful of someone so open, and few here actually felt terribly committed to their preconceptions of him anyway.

By the time Trish had to leave, he was feeling very comfortable with his place in Potter’s End. Then she had given him the table.

It was a nice table, darkly varnished and cut in a way that accentuated the natural shape of the wood, the smooth and graceful curves of the flat piece she had used for the top. As it stood between them, Trish explained that she had made it herself, as thanks for letting her stay as long as he did. He could keep it by his chair on the terrace- it had been treated for protection from the weather- to put his coffee down on. He didn’t have anything out there for that, after all.

It was made, she had said, of wood from his very own forest.

A shock of cold went through Arthur like a lance before he had time to think about it, the reaction reflexive and, honestly, a tad overblown. There would certainly be disapproval if anyone in the village discovered the provenance of his new piece of furniture, but that could be solved by Arthur simply keeping quiet about the whole thing, perhaps suggesting instead that he had bought it in the city during his next visit. His neighbours would have no cause to think otherwise.

Still though… the forest was spoken of in such reverent tones, such insistence coloured the injunction against harming it, that Arthur knew the people here took it very seriously. They would know, said a low voice in the back of his brain, even if by some form of magic, they would know. The new arrival suddenly coming up with a piece of new wood furniture, they would know. They would see the lie, feel it in the deeply suspicious marrow of their bones, even if they never voiced it. The thought would lay in wait in their minds, percolate throughout the town without any interference from Arthur, and then one day, simply bob to the surface as a new fact that they all had to live with, made real by the passage of rumour, so intuitively true that it required no confirmation.

But there was nothing he could do about it now.

Arthur had taken one of the trees…

There was only one thing for it, really: he had seen Trish off, and then quietly moved the table indoors, into his bedroom where it could serve as a place for him to store things. Nobody could see it in there, there would be no foothold for the rumours to start, and hence, no trouble. It all seemed like such an easy solution, so long as he never had cause to invite one of the townsfolk into his bedroom.

Arthur had seen all the women that lived here. Where they weren’t married, they weren’t bedroom material for him.

That night, the forest began to sing.

If you have never heard such a song before, composed as it is of wind winding its way through intricately arrayed tree branches, of the swaying of ancient wood, of the bubbling of water and the endless rustle beneath the soil, know that it is both subtle and insistent. It is not enough to wake a dreaming sleeper, not at first, but in time the call slips beneath the surface of the mind, winds its roots into all the corners of the psyche. It makes its presence known.

And then, you will wake.

Arthur awoke much the same way, heeding the song as it tugged him up through layers of dream, up to the waking world with gentle insistence that would not be denied. It had help, in that regard: the table, the dead wood, remembered the song and murmured along as best it could, the sound hollow yet undeniably present.

Under normal circumstances Arthur was hardly a morning person, and was in fact functionally useless for the first half an hour after waking; it was as though he had not woken up at all. This time, he awoke fully in an instant, like the volunteer at the click of a hypnotist’s fingers. The melody of life and endless growth had suffused his house, thrumming through the sympathetic timber frame, though it was not off the wood itself and could not carry the tune; it vibrated still, low and weak but perceptible nonetheless.

Still, it was the dead wood which retained the bulk of Arthur’s attention.

He rose from his bed, dishevelled and wary, the sandy blond hair at the back of his head sticking straight up, and stared at the… husk across the room. The word had come to him seemingly without conscious thought in his part, insisted that it be used to describe the gift his niece had given him. Lifeless as it was, it still carried the song, adding its own distinct notes. It was certainly its own source of sound, something that Arthur considered warily as he approached it, crouching down to get a better look.

He prodded the wooden surface, felt the vibration of the sound through the cool hardness of it, the music travelling up his arm for a distance before dissipating.

But it wasn’t just the table; the song suffused the room, seemingly the whole house. The shock of hearing it began to work its way out of Arthur’s system, and he stopped to appreciate it for the first time; sweet and flowing, the notes composed of the voice of the earth itself, it was an endless, wandering melody, ponderous and enchanting. The burbling tenor of running water, the rhythmic grind of the soil, the reedy and strange sound of the trees… these were noises that Arthur knew in the depths of him, in his bones, wound around his mind in deep trenches of ancestral memory. They tracked down his spine, made the muscles in his calves flex, aching to walk, to move.

… Toward the forest.

As Arthur turned his head to pick up the source of the sound, he realized: it was coming from deep in the woods. How far was hard to say, given the way the sound filled the world like a gentle caress that made his heart skip a beat. But it was out there, in the haze of fog that had settled over the place in the night, filled with waving branches and thick, gnarled roots. In amongst the ancient trees, something was making that sound, and it waited for him.

Again, it was a thought that he hadn’t truly meant to think, but once it was in his head it refused to leave. It snagged at the rest of his thoughts, pulling them into line with the idea that this song, this night-time serenade, was personal to him. All of a sudden, the idea of merely ignoring it and going back to bed was an impossible fantasy, an unfulfilling relinquishing of the… opportunity that the woodland chorus was presenting him.

And it was an opportunity: a mysterious song of unknown origin and execution flitting through his house in the dead of night? Even if it just turned out to be a car radio out there in the wilds, it would still be a story to tell, albeit a more self-deprecating one than Arthur would have liked.

Without giving himself an opportunity to debate the idea with himself and potentially talk himself out of it, Arthur grabbed a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt from his drawers and set about pulling them on, sparing a fortunate moment to glance in the mirror and realize the state of his hair. As the song flowed on, he dragged a comb through the tangle that had formed in his sleep, then went to find his shoes.

A light, chill breeze had settled over Potter’s End in the night, stirring the mist that lay at the edges of the forest as Arthur slipped out his back door and ventured out, crisp dead leaves crunching underfoot. Almost immediately his range of visibility shrank to almost nothing, grasping tree branches seemingly appearing from nowhere to tangle at his sleeves and snag his hair. To compensate, Arthur’s footsteps became tentative, shuffling to avoid tripping over outstretched roots; it was as though the forest had welcomed him inside, only to rebuff him, to hinder his forward progress in any way possible.

When one foot hit empty air and went slamming downward into the waters of a small creek, he almost gave up. But always, the music wrapped around his spine and drew him onward, through the fog, through the wooded claws and the strangeness of the night, toward what, he did not know.

Stumbling occasionally, eyes casting about through the murk for the source of the sound, Arthur walked onward, growing closer and more committed to his task the further in he drew. Like a leash tightening around his neck, a heady toxin running through his veins, a source of gravity beyond his power to resist, the song dragged at him, weighed upon his very being. It rose up from the stones and the grass and the roots, surrounded him, even in the fog he breathed, filled him up and set his mind to a single task.

And so he walked.

The interference seemed to grow thicker the further into the forest he drew, and this might have been the deepest into the woods he had ever gone; the borders between the endless growth and the village had been good territory for walking, but Arthur had never been able to gauge quite how large the woods actually was, and besides, his neighbours had seemed so wary about letting a newcomer venture into the trees too far on his lonesome. The soil seemed to give way entirely to gnarled and curving roots, knobbly and uneven beneath his feet. The trees seemed to reach in to grip him, branches growing thicker around head height to grab and claw at the important parts of him. The fog grew so thick that Arthur was barely able to see his own hand in front of his face.

And then, with a suddenness that made him trip and fall, the fog parted, the ground became unexpectedly even, and Arthur found himself sprawled in a clearing.

Moonlight flooded the surrounds, painting the dark earth beneath him a muted silver, dappled by the shadows of the partial leaf canopy above. It was, in fact, almost as bright as daylight, certainly light enough to see clearly that the fog had receded in a rough circle, stark lines of delineation between where it began and where it ended marking the boundaries of the clearing. Arthur stood at the edge of a rough circle, surrounded all around by roiling, thick clouds, tinted moonlight grey.

There, at the centre of it all, the source of the song, she stood.

Her eyes were closed, and for perhaps thirty seconds more she swayed in time with her rhythm, mouth open, throat undulating with a thousand different sounds, speaking the chorus of the wood into existence. She sung, a newly audible, sweetly human sound that formed the backbone of the music, and the land around her sprung to work at the sound, offering the other notes at her direction. She was the conductor of a profound natural symphony.

The light coloured her skin differently than daylight would have, and for a moment Arthur took it to be a trick of the light alone, but in time he realized: her skin was brown, mottled with prominent markings of green, licking up her flanks, curling vine-like around her thighs, over her breasts, up the sides of her face and into her hair. She stood naked, body gleaming and lithe in the monochrome rays of the moon, and among the large swathes of her skin that were visible to him, Arthur could see other colours, see them shifting; flecks of white, the yellow of pollen, rose red and deep violet and the amber of ripe peaches, tracing patterns across her flesh and vanishing, to be replaced with yet more colour. They were only the occasional interruption, but they were certainly there, and they certainly removed the possibility that she was just wearing body paint.

So too, did her horns.

They rose from the rear of her head, wavy and thick, lined and dark lengths of some impossibly old wood, disappearing into the woman’s mass of raven hair. Dotting the lower, outer edges of the horns were delicate, orderly lines of flowers; tiny white stars in the blackness of her features.

Her eyes slid open, revealing a colour like lilacs, and regarded Arthur with a momentary cool indifference that rapidly hardened. Her singing stopped, and seemed to ripple through the rest of the forest- her forest- leaving behind a span of almost studious silence, before the normal sounds of nature at night settled back in.

She glared at Arthur, advancing toward him on long, graceful legs, bare feet taking to the soil as though they had been born to it. She was tall, so tall, taller than Arthur even if he had been standing at his full height, rather than sprawled inelegantly upon the ground, and there was a sense of easy, obvious menace in how she loomed over him, expression unreadable, as though even naked and alone with him in the forest, he posed her no threat at all.

Behind him there was a crack of wood, as branches moved and shifted, forming a lattice of interlocked parts to seal Arthur in with her as she stopped, stood between his legs, and knelt down, still somehow towering over him. He tried to move, to scoot away and stand, to get to his feet somehow, but roots snagged at his sleeves and the legs of his pants, keeping him anchored in place as the woman crawled, slithered up his body in a manner both sensual and intimidating, her flawless form radiating eerie, ancient beauty, like nothing Arthur had ever experienced before.

Those bottomless pit eyes inspected him then, so close that Arthur could feel the strange coolness of her breath on his face, looking him up and down. A spark of approval lay deep in those eyes at the sight of him, hidden behind a cold, implacable hardness. Her lip almost curled up as, slowly, she raised her hands to his face. A full five fingers, had the left, but on the right… only four, a conspicuous, newly formed gap where her ring finger should have been.

In an instant, chill realization formed in the pit of his stomach. He knew why the old men told him not to take from the forest, what it was to cut into the trees of this nymph’s domain.

‘I’m sorry!’ He gasped, the words boiling up from inside him, and Arthur was surprised with the depth of feeling behind them. Regret bruised his soul, ached for the harm that had been inflicted upon something so rare, so precious, the sorrow at seeing a priceless work of art destroyed. He added, ‘It wasn’t me!’

She blinked then, the motes of colour swirling across her body turning momentarily a uniform yellow, the shade of fresh butter, and Arthur was left in no doubt that she was surprised. Her hair caught the moonlight as her head tilted, lilac eyes creasing at the edges in confusion; if she had understood his words, she didn’t exactly show it. She couldn’t be read like a human could.

Leaning in closer, the woman brought her face to Arthur’s, closing her eyes and craning her neck, her nose in the crook of his neck. He heard her inhale in short, sharp breaths, scenting him. The nearest of her horns bobbed into his view as she did so, close enough that Arthur could see each individual crease and whorl in the wood, even the pollen clustered at the centre of her flowers.

She licked him, then, wet tongue dragging the length of his throat, and Arthur gasped, unthinking. He found himself suddenly, sharply aware of the fact that, whatever she was doing, this being had the form of a woman, her naked appearance more than appreciable to his tastes. And she was straddling him.

For a moment she sat back up, looming over him with the moon haloed behind her, eyes glimmering with subtle light. Her body shone in kaleidoscope colours, the shifting patterns accentuating the shape of her musculature, the roundness of her hips and breasts, the delicate features of her face. Her horns stood framed in shadow, pointed and wicked, like some kind of forest demon come to life.

Then she dove upon Arthur and kissed him.

It was… chaste, in its way. It lasted a scant second, a mere brush of her lips against his, full of warmth, as her entire demeanour shifted. She lingered against him now, her body pressed against his, her nose inches from his own. One hand came up and, with surprising tenderness, stroked his cheek. Arthur certainly had little trouble reading her now.

She had been scenting him before, he suspected in some wordless part of his mind, searching him for the stain of injured wood, for the blood of her forest on his hands. It wasn’t there to find, of course; Arthur hadn’t gone into the woods with ill intent, hadn’t brought an axe to carve out that fateful gift that had led him here. In the crime that had struck up this song, that had called him here, he was entirely innocent.

Which raised an interesting question of its own: what did the wood nymph do to the innocent men that entered into her court?

Nails the colour of moss trailed a winding path down Arthur’s chest, and a few potential answers presented themselves in his mind. They slid down his side, long fingers encircling his wrist and pulling up, and he watched her move with mounting curiosity. She leaned in and prompted him to reach up, placing his palm at the curve of her ribcage, just below one heavy, beautiful breast, and guided him up.

Ah…

Without needing to think, Arthur took over for her, his palm sliding to cup the nymph’s breast, flesh soft and warm filling his hand. His eyes widened, as details that had completely escaped him during the earlier, aggressive part of their meeting swam into his view for the first time; the nymph had flowers for nipples, for one. The centre seemed human enough, a stiff and aching tip coloured the same deep earth tone as her base skin colour, but where an areola would normally be, there was a ring of petals, actually a shockingly deep purple, arrayed with the kind of effortless geometric perfection that only nature could produce. The nymph allowed Arthur to brush his thumb over them, watching them rise at his touch, only to adhere back to her skin moments later in its absence.

She shivered with pleasure at it, a blush the colour of an empty summer sky cresting her perfectly wrought cheeks as darts of dandelion white raced across her abdomen, her belly as it tightened, even between her legs. Arthur froze, his eyes like saucers as he regarded the creature astride him.

This wasn’t like anything he had ever done before. Not with some human woman, couched in some mundane setting, something he could probably find a partner to repeat the experience with any time he liked. No, now he had stepped completely out of the world he knew, been drawn to the heart of the forest, the centre of a world that even the people who lived here dared not enter, only to encounter something new, something worldview altering dwelling in her own private moon-drenched Eden.

… And she had chosen him.

He looked at her, truly looked, drank in her every detail; the vines that twined through her hair, the dappled green at her lips, like moss, even the pronounced curls of her eyelashes, looking for all the world like they could unfurl toward the sun once it had risen. She looked, truly, like a dream that he would soon wake up from, one that needed to be treasured while it was with him, learned by sight and touch and taste, so that when she eventually did fade away, he could carry her with him in his memory.

The nymph was, Arthur mused, a transitory experience in his life, and nothing more. After all, if such things were happening every day, all over the world, then surely they would be more commonly talked about. Instead, there was nothing, and so clearly, such meetings as this one were rare events indeed. Privileges, to be savoured.

He thought for a moment- just a scant moment, before his attentions were dragged back to the beautiful form atop him- of the men in the village, whose reactions all hinted at some additional knowledge of the forest and its secrets that they had never told Arthur. Reactions that their wives had not shared.

Perhaps the forest entertained visitors more often than one might initially suspect, from the talk of Potter’s End… but Arthur suspected that such events were one-time occurrences that left deep marks in those who were lucky enough to participate, those few who had been chosen, by this forest elemental, to touch a living myth, to take but a taste of the mystic before being returned to their mundane lives.

She smelled like damp earth and new flowers, as Arthur propped himself up on his elbows, determined to take in every moment of her, and placed his lips upon the fragile crest of her breast, taking that finely wrought nipple into his mouth. She sighed, she tasted like honey on his tongue, and her pleasure incited the forest to motion, a fresh, cold zephyr shaking the leaves on their branches as she leaned into his touch, sweet fingers curling into his hair. Her head tipped back, lilac eyes regarding the star-dotted heavens as the earthbound man circled her skin with his tongue, before planting a series of kisses up, across her collarbone, her neck, her chin, until finally he reached her mouth with his own.

That she tasted of mint there surprised Arthur for a moment, before he remembered that mint was a plant, and hence well within her jurisdiction as… whatever it turned out she actually was. In the end it hardly mattered; her kiss was intoxicating, her tongue in his mouth from the moment it began, hungry and sensual and elemental, giving herself to the moment with a wholehearted freedom that took Arthur aback. She held nothing back, even with a man like him, whom she had only met minutes earlier.

Perhaps there was little for her to hold back from; if her forest was as intricately linked to her as her missing finger suggested, then it was entirely possible that there were no other nymphs in the immediate area to catch wind, and it was hardly like Arthur was going to be sharing. The mechanics of her biology, her connection with the trees surrounding them, raised momentary questions that Arthur desperately wanted answered, but wouldn’t interrupt to pose to the nymph, assuming she could even speak his language.

He simply kissed her, basking in the warmth of her body, the gentle, insistent pressure of her breasts against his chest, the slow, rolling movements of her hips grinding his thighs. Her tongue licked his own, and when he closed his lips around it to suck, he drew a deep, throaty moan of satisfaction from her. One arm lay over his shoulder, crooked to draw him in to her, while the other strayed downward, over his chest before settling at the fly on his trousers.

Her eyes drifted like falling leaves, settling eventually on his face, her expression questioning. Her palm still lay flat against his crotch, and Arthur smiled, hoping it didn’t come across as emphatically as he was thinking, nodding encouragingly. Delicately, she reached inward with evergreen fingers, handling his fly like it was some alien device on its definite journey downward. A sharp inward breath, from both of them, marked the moment her fingers closed around his cock, and pulled it out into the open.

“Sultry” didn’t begin to describe the look in the nymph’s eyes, as they trailed upward after inspecting his member, soft hand pumping gently up and down the swelling shaft, expression burning with elemental passion. Her cheeks continued to blush a bright blue, as Arthur joined in, slipping one hand up between her legs, hoping as he did so that what he found there was analogous to a human’s.

There was a gasp, a soft purr from the girl, and Arthur found himself relieved as his fingers met soft, petalling lips and, after a moment of searching, a clit. The nymph leaned forward and laid her head against his chest as the two of them explored the other, her breathing laboured as her new paramour rounded her clit with his thumb, fingers extending lower to stroke the length of her pussy. She panted into his chest as he touched her, hips rocking, body squirming freely, her grip tightening on his cock as sensation washed over her.

There was a note of surprise in her features as he masturbated her, and Arthur began to suspect that, whoever else she had invited into her wooded halls, they hadn’t been quite as… giving, as he himself was willing to be. The idea perplexed him; who could be in the presence of such a rare creature as her, to be offered her sweet, supple body, and not want to prolong the experience, to share pleasure with her as fully as possible?

As he slid two fingers inside her, she shivered so delightfully against him, her whole body quaking with the most obvious, unrestrained of pleasures. In response, her hand left his shaft and ventured lower, cupping his balls, looking up at him as if to ask if this was okay with him. Arthur craned his neck, kissing her deeply, his answer silent yet clear, as she panted softly into his mouth, rocking her hips against his probing digits.

Gasping, trailing kisses over Arthur’s neck, the nymph rose up, away from his fingers, her own fingers encircling the base of his cock and positioning it, so her lusciously wet pussy could sink down on it all at once, taking the entire length in a single, confident fall. The two of them joined together in a spontaneous, throaty groan of completeness, voices entwined just as they were.

A moment of silence fell over them then, still and contemplative, as they simply absorbed their new state, drew it all in and etched it upon their memory as deeply as they could. The trees shook as the lightest of breezes wound its way through the forest, leaves trembling in concert with the woman atop him, the wind itself rising and ebbing with the rhythm of her breathing. A set of deep, warm reds and oranges radiated up her skin, inching across her body from her hips up, growing faster with every minute motion of her pussy, filled by his cock.

Her pleasure was the colour of autumn…

Small rolls of her hips gave way to larger motions, more expansive, with mounting urgency, as each new thrust of Arthur into her brought new heights of sensation. Strong, ochre tinted thighs lifted her delicate body upward, before allowing her to fall against him once more, taking him deep, deep as he could go, her slick inner walls clenching even at the base of his length, twitching and gripping so hard that Arthur growled, low and primal, each and every time. The sound simply rolled out of him, over and over; she was so tight, so hot and wet and burning with life atop him, he could hardly help it.

They kissed again, and her taste had changed, her tongue now hosting the sweetness of peaches as it licked along his own, and the strangeness of that fact electrified Arthur, excited him to the very depths of his being. He had the supernatural in his arms, could kiss a little bit of magic, and it roiled with auburn pleasure at his touch; the privilege of her moans, her wetness, the lust that glazed her eyes, was unparalleled. Once in a lifetime.

The boughs of the tree that supported them bent inward as she rode him, submerging them in shade and dappled moonlight, the clearing enclosing them in a singular, private moment. Her forest ensconced their lovemaking, and Arthur had to remind himself that it was all as much a part of her as the cunt tightly clasping his cock, the hardened nipple he reached down to lick, or the buttocks, firm and taut beneath his hands. The entire wood sussurated, rustled and whispered of its mistress’ ecstasy. Gaia’s chorus, celebrating the most elemental expression of life.

Arthur rolled his hips, feeling the evidence of the nymph’s arousal dripping down his shaft, plunging his erection into her to the root, yearning the warm feeling of her around him at every retraction. Breath laboured with exertion, his hand found the small of the woman’s back, pressed in so that she fell against him, no longer supporting her own weight but laying it all on him. She giggled, in the moment before he kissed her once more, longing for her taste, and the sound sent a hot flash scything through him, like a moment of pure summer penetrating his very being.

It was an addictive sound, sunlight in his veins, and Arthur committed himself, then and there, to seeing what other sounds he could get her to make.

With her body now atop him like this, Arthur placed his feet firmly against the soil- her soil- and raised himself at the hips, new leverage allowing him to take her harder, to dictate the pace of their fucking himself and, in doing so, to considerably increase it.

She gasped at the first thrust, so much harder, it was, than she had been expecting. He shot her a grin, wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, and continued; it was better this way, with her face next to his, and her soft, precious body laying on his chest. She carried the scent of flowers and damp soil, of growth and ancient wood, and this close it was all he could breathe. Their movements had left impressions in the dirt surrounding them, and it clung to them both equally, peppering the back of Arthur’s shirt and lending texture to the nymph’s thighs when he gripped them, feeling the very essence of nature pulse through every aspect of their sex.

And through it all, his hips scythed back and forth, with a speed borne of passion, magnified moment to moment by the lovely, lust-filled tenor of the moans he was eliciting from his newfound lover. The nymph spread her legs wider around him, granting him greater access to push deeper, move faster, pound into her harder. Panting with the effort of it, Arthur pushed on, feeling her muscles tighten, taut as bowstrings, her back arching her body into his. Moonlight glittered on her skin, illuminating reds and oranges and yellows, falling like leaves on the canvas of her body, faster, faster, as though they were caught in a gale, framed entirely within the nymph herself. Those warm embers even reached her eyes, desire flickering in them as she locked them to his, biting her lip as he fucked her.

Oh, yes

His teeth showed through his smile as he committed all his strength to one final push, watching the nymph tense and twitch, thighs flexing restlessly as the wet sounds of her arousal rose to join the chorus of panting and groaning that dominated Arthur’s hearing. Her voice rose, in pitch and volume, in concert with the tightness of her body, and she curled into his chest, shivering with lust as her breath caught in her throat.

Just a little more…

It had been brewing within her for a while, Arthur thought, but when it finally took her fully there could be no doubt. Her hands gripped at his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric. Her thighs suddenly clenched down, hard. Her back arched, the curve only growing deeper for a silent, spasming moment…

… And then she screamed.

Sitting bolt upright, simple gravity pulled her down fully onto his cock, the rippling tautness of her inner muscles keeping it there. The nymph’s head tilted back, her voice ringing loud and clear through the dark, howling her orgasm to the moon overhead. All at once, the fragments of hot colour that had been flitting aimlessly, excitedly, across her body darted inward, toward the point of their sexual union, collecting together before bursting outward in a unified wave of colour, a climactic sunrise daubed on her beautiful naked flesh. She trembled, absorbed in the peak of bliss, and all Arthur could do was watch, drinking in the work of art that was the nymph in orgasm.

She was glorious, revelling in her pleasure without reserve, and it spread outward from her like a ripple on tranquil waters, the ground beneath her blooming in lurid green life, a circle of pure springtime expanding further and further as she came. Grass grew tall, flowers bloomed, the trees above and around bearing fruit and blossoms in equal measure, a parade of muted colour in the moonlight. Wind stirred the new garden of paradise, caused the flowers to shudder in time with their mistress.

By the time she was finished, her body relaxed and sweating, the entirety of the clearing was alight with colour, daubed from end to end with new foliage, with petals, with acorns and berries and, at the centre of it all, the couple in their embrace. New buds grew quickly along the nymph’s horns, in her hair, and her body was tinted a uniform, sunset orange, slowly fading to her natural brown as the last vestiges of orgasm left her, tickling her nerves with dissolving, sea foam pleasure.

She moved slowly now, still panting with need, lilac eyes locked to his, pleading, needing what came next. To share in the feelings that Arthur had elicited in her. Her hips rolled, deliberate strokes designed to stimulate his shaft, to bring him to his own release, as they lay together in a silence broken only by their own breathing, and the susurrus of new plants swaying in the breeze. The nymph kissed Arthur when he finally came, her tongue twirling over his in time with the spurting hotness of his seed inside her, her buttocks tautening with delight at each new shot.

They savoured the moment for a few seconds more, coupled and in close proximity, eyes closed and panting, roiling in the heat and wetness of their fading arousal. When they finally disengaged, it was with a shared rueful look, a simultaneous regret that it had to end at all. Arthur shivered as his cock slipped out of the nymph, feeling oddly bereft at the separation, as she stood up, running her hands through her hair.

On unsteady legs, Arthur stood too, brushing dirt from his pants and picking sticking seeds from his shirt. Unsure of what happened next, he simply went about the business of straightening himself out in silence, replacing his shrinking erection into his pants and, ultimately, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

The nymph stretched, methodically and completely, each muscle in turn, before placing her attention back on Arthur. Smiling brightly, she covered the distance between them with deer-like strides and planted a kiss on his lips, fingers entwining in his hair as her tongue probed his mouth. When she pulled away, he was gasping for breath.

With a look of fondness on her face, and a wave of her hand, she turned her back to him, and began to walk.

Trees seemed to close in behind her, boughs and branches obscuring her for just a moment, but it was apparently enough time for her to vanish from Arthur’s sight. Spellbound, struck with a desperate desire to recapture the rarity of the moment, he followed, walking quietly through the shadow-lined forest, alone but for the buzz of insects, the croaking of the occasional frog.

He was almost unsurprised when the direction she had taken him deposited Arthur right back in his own backyard, where all this had began. He had a sneaking suspicion that it would have done that no matter what direction she had left him in.

This close to the town, even the animal sounds of the forest seemed distant, the trees behind him stark towers of wood with only blackness between them. The light of the moon no longer seemed so bright, was unable to penetrate so far into the forest that Arthur would have been comfortable venturing back into it. The message was clear: don’t try to find me again.

He was alone.

Arthur sighed. Walking back to his home, existing in that familiar space after all he had just seen and done seemed… hollow. Lonesome. What was he expected to do? Walk back through his front door, get back into bed and sleep the rest of the night? Pretend he hadn’t just met the nymph, hadn’t shared in that moon-soaked scene with her?

Just… be normal?

Shortly before a wave of bitterness at being discarded threatened to sour the experience he had just partaken in, he heard it. The woodsong curled out from the forest once more, sound like tendrils wrapping around him, the nymph’s voice rising cleanly through it all, supported by the symphonic arrangement of the sounds of her halls.

It was a different song from the summoning melody that had called Arthur to the centre of the woods before, and it had a different effect on him. The first song had roused him from slumber, but if anything, her second song was a lullaby, quickly subsuming Arthur in a drowsy haze. It called to him just as her first attempt, but the location was different; the first had attracted him to the forest, to her, but the second made the idea of his bed irresistible. His feet were moving toward it before he even consciously realized.

It was a short trip, buoyed by the beautiful sound of the nymph’s voice, and that little touch of caring from her, guiding him home and singing him to his rest, obliterated all misgivings about how quickly their liaison had ended. Perhaps, he considered briefly, this too was an element of the nymph-music in his mind, subtly manipulating him to positivity, but Arthur could hardly bring himself to care.

As he slipped back into the familiar comfort of his bed, not even bothering to change out of his dirtied clothes, Arthur knew this wouldn’t be the end of things. He had touched the unimaginable, spent time fucking in the moonlight with magic made flesh, and he couldn’t imagine simply returning to Potter’s End, to normality, after that. One didn’t leave gold behind for tin.

He slept, then, with the nymph’ voice caressing his ears through the night, and dreamt of creatures beyond mortal imagining.

Of meeting each and every one.

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