La Fée Verte

He cursed as he crumpled the page of parchment he’d scrawled onto. On the table to his right was an ornate fountain, the small spigot above the stemmed glass drip-drip-dripping water in endless monotony.

A dark green liquor that smelled of anise and licorice sat half-drank. No matter how often he partook, the writing never got easier. It was both his muse, and his curse. That cruel green fairy who would both taunt and entice him with sweet nothings.

“You’re so melodramatic, Husband.” A voice said soothingly, as soft as a whisper.

She embraced her lover, her object of affection, with arms as green as emeralds. Similarly, her hair and clothing were darker and lighter shades of the same verdant green. He flinched in her embrace to back away from his writing desk.

“You’re not real. I left the study’s door locked.” He muttered to himself, not returning her loving embrace. She let out an exasperated sigh, pressing her petite and perky breasts into his back, stirring a slumbering hunger from between his legs. “You’ve never been real. I’m just a poor, drunken fool.”

“Who said I would ever let a lock stop me from seeing you?” She purred, pausing only to slide one hand to his waist, teasingly playing with his belt. “After all, I’m just a figment of your writer’s imagination, aren’t I? Or do you truly believe the rumors surrounding your silly little drink.”

He spun as he took both of her wrists in callused hands, forcing the small of her back into the small table behind her. Holding them above her head he saw her give him a wry, sultry smile as she sidled her dress up to reveal voluptuously plump thighs atop long legs.

“Are you actually going to do it this time or are you just going to leave me expecting?”

Once again, he cursed, this time as he hurriedly unfastened his belt from around his waist. The legs dropped awkwardly to his ankles as he tore the hem of her dress to reveal the hidden slit of her sex. The fairy – his muse giggled, blowing a sweet peppermint wind into his nostrils.

Soporific fog clouded his mind as his erection, painful and erect found its way into her loins. She was tight, tighter than any human woman he’d bedded. Once, twice, three times he thrusted into her. Each stroke of his hips elicited a soft mewling yip from her. Her sharp nails found his back, tearing rows into the cotton of his shirt and bloodying his back as he continued to fuck, no – love her.

“Look at you, rutting like a wild beast even though you claim to ha-hate me. Slow down, let’s both just… enjoy the moment.” She rasped.

Her legs wrapped around his midriff in their iniquitous coupling, setting a slower pace for him. She smelled of anise and licorice as well, but her body was supple and warm as he continued to slowly push and pull his cock inside of her cloying warmth.

Everything seemed to irrelevant to him as he bent forward to kiss her, meeting her soft green lips with his. Her tongue intertwined with his as a flush found its way to her face. She could feel the throbbing of his member, so eager to pour its virile seed into her depths. It wouldn’t be long until he would again take her into his arms.

“I don’t hate you.” He growled, nipping at her bare clavicle, kissing the hollow of her neck. The hairs of his stubble rubbing against her tenderly, if not abrasively. “I absolutely detest you. You dragon.”

She blinked once, twice, as if taken aback by his half-mad muttering. Her laughter was musical and full of whimsy. Her arms wrapped around him in an embrace, the top of her jade gown falling to show him her bare breasts topped with erect nipples.

“A dragon, am I? How cruel of you to say that. Who am I but your wife?” Small drips of a creamy white-green nectar began to well up in her teats. “After all, no-one knows me better than you.”

His teeth found her nipples, a ravenous hungry rasp leaving his lips as he held her close to drink the sweet flavored milk coming from her. It tickled the back of his throat with menthol coolness, with a slight undertone of Anise to it. He wanted more, to slake his thirst on her while giving her all that he was.

She was giving him her body, each additional thrust while he suckled on her breast drawing out short and quick breaths from her. He could feel the vice-like grip of her vagina around his shaft growing more and more firm as he continued to plow into her. Their positioning was haphazard at best, his face buried in her breasts, their pelvises pressed together.

“Oh, yes.”

His eyes met hers. From deep within, the half-glazed eyes had been replaced with a primal fire from within. Fully lucid and alert as his bit into her nipple, enough to give her reason to scratch at his back. Her legs’ grip loosened as he thrust more forcefully and rapidly. The head of his penis struck into her deepest parts, tickling at her womb.

“Please, give it to me.” She whimpered.

That was all the incentive he needed. He pumped into her, hard enough to attempt to bruise her pelvis. Her arms hung around his neck as if she were trying to avoid falling. A scream built up in her mouth as his ramrod cock pulsed, sending thick spurts of white sticky seed into her. With wild abandon, her pussy contracted over and over, as if to gluttonously take in all of what he was giving her.

As her contractions stopped and he slumped his dead weight onto hers, she smiled. He was easy enough to lift, considering her nature. She wasn’t human, that much was true. A soft motherly smile crossed her face as she fixed his pants and shirt. The fountain with its six spigots had been jostled by their reckless tryst. Thankfully, however, the contents had not spilled. She couldn’t say the same for the glass, however, the liquor darkening the carpet beneath their feet.

“Honestly, you can be such the chore sometimes, darling.” She mused, moving his inkwell and writing utensils to the far side of the desk, out of arms reach. It would be problematic if he allowed it to spill on the paper he’d scrawled ideas onto earlier. As she reached down and lifted the page up, a tear welled up in one of her eyes.

“There is no pain greater than having some-one within your heart, but unable to hold them in your arms.”

She pressed that crumpled, thought worthless rambling of a half mad, half drunk man to her breast and gave a bittersweet smile. She wiped her tear away, leaning forward to kiss him on his forehead. He stirred and groaned, but didn’t wake.

“Don’t worry, Sir Charles. I’ll never leave you. No matter how much you think of me as fantasy.”

When the servants opened the doors to the study the next morning, they found Charles asleep at his desk. The bottle of absinthe was still uncorked, the stemmed glass on its side on the floor. Strangest, however, was the cool smell of mint in the air. It lingered in the study, filled with all those books, as if it were a signature.

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