Explicit on Knotty Biscotti

Strange Blooms in the Secret Garden

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The station was a tomb—life-support failed five days ago—but this corner still thrived. The colossal bio-dome bolted to the side of Dunsmuir Station almost as an afterthought was now the only section of the facility capable of supporting life. It was where Dr. Holles Enmore, the station’s senior botanist, had made her sanctuary. A riot of impossible flora created a jungle inside the station. Bio-luminescent fungi pulsed with a faint, pink glow, fibrous vines dripped sweet nectar, nearby was a patch of flowers with jet-black petals that felt like soft, wet skin. The humid air was heavy with flowers, earth, and decay, but it was the only breathable air on a station that otherwise reeked of fear and violence. Everything would freeze and die eventually, but with any luck they’d be rescued before that happened.

We’re due some luck, Pope thought grimly. The maintenance engineer was shoulder-deep into an access-pit beneath the floor, struggling to do the job of three people with only two hands.

“Can you fix it?” Doctor Enmore asked softly. Pope considered using her spanner to shut her up. She chewed a matchstick instead.

“Doc,” Pope began, allowing her irritation to come through, “I ain’t ‘fixed’ nothin’ in a week. Whatever broke here, my Class 3 ain’t taught me shit ‘bout fixin’ it.” She slumped back. Pope could already feel Enmore’s helpless gaze on her back. “The patch’ll hold,” Pope allowed. “Yer plants’ll get their water. For a while.”

“They’re making—”

“Doin’ my best with what I got, Doctor.” Pope stood up slowly, brushing loamy earth from the bottom half of her coveralls. She wore a tight tank-top that might have once been white but now was covered in dirt and stains, shading from brown to black. Pope ignored the soil still clinging to her upper body.

“I—I know. I’m sorry.”

The fear, the sadness, the utter exhaustion in Enmore’s apology broke something in Pope. She took a step toward the scientist. “Look. Uh. Listen, Doc? We’re gonna be okay. The company sent someone soon as Commander Fanning called.”

Enmore met Pope’s measured gaze. “Yes. Of course.”

“Doc,” Pope said softly, placing a grimy hand on Enmore’s bare forearm. Enmore didn’t move away. “The bug hasn’t come ‘round here, maybe your plants’re scarin’ it off. We just gotta keep our heads down ’til help gets here.”

Enmore moved closer, Pope could feel the shorter woman’s breath on her sweat-slick chest. “Yes, of course,” she repeated. She smelled familiar, vanilla and cinnamon beneath the tang of dried sweat. Pope was seized by an urge to embrace her, to comfort the woman she’d been furious with only moments ago.

“I know a place,” Enmore began. “We can hide but still see most of the bio-dome. There’s fruit, too, that’s safe to eat.”

Pope felt a genuine smile approaching. “Outstanding, lead on, Doc.”

This portion of the bio-dome rose higher than the rest of the enclosure and it did, as promised, provide both good shelter and a good view of the space. Pope’s relief was so complete she laughed as she sat on the ‘ground’ beside Enmore. “Doc, this is perfect. Now all we need’s a deck of cards.”

Enmore kissed her. Full on the lips, warm and soft and Enmore’s tongue even gently probed Pope’s lips. It lasted only a few seconds, then she retreated. “I’m sorry,” she was stammering, but Pope was struggling to focus. “I just…I…without you I’d be…”

Pope cut her off, caressing her cheek softly, then kissed her back.

It wasn’t gentle, as Enmore’s had been. Pope’s mouth claimed Enmore’s, passion fuelled by too much caffeine, too many days of absolute terror and the sudden rush of hope this little corner of the station offered. Enmore stiffened, then seemed to melt, her arms wrapping tightly around Pope. The kiss deepened, growing messy and desperate, a clash of tongues and teeth and quiet moans.

They broke apart, panting. Pope whispered, “Here?”

“Back there, my garden.” Enmore’s voice was low, throaty.

She led Pope to a bed of glowing moss beneath a low-hanging, vine-like plant with thick, leathery leaves and fruit that looked like a crimson eggplant. Enmore pushed Pope down then straddled her. Her palms skimmed Pope’s stomach, hard and flat as a deck plate, then slid up, first lifting then removing Pope’s tank-top, freeing her large breasts and revealing her dark red nipples. Enmore wore a simple tunic and leggings, gone before Pope thought to help. Pope watched her, admired Enmore’s naked figure, toned from years of working the soil. Pope’s breath hitched as her rough, calloused hands brushed carefully over Enmore’s hips.

Enmore knelt in the moss next to Pope. Her mouth found Pope’s neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks. She murmured something Pope didn’t understand, then moved down. Enmore kissed a path down Pope’s body, her tongue tracing the muscles of her abdomen. When she reached Pope’s waist, she tugged the coveralls and underwear off in a single motion, leaving her fully exposed.

Pope was already slick, and when Enmore’s lips pressed down on Pope’s clit, she nearly came. Enmore sucked hard, her tongue flicked over Pope’s little bean and to steady herself, Pope buried her hands in Enmore’s hair. It was too much. She cried out, her back arching off the mossy bed, but Enmore’s hands held her hips down, her mouth relentless. She feasted, as though Pope’s juices were the purest ambrosia.

“Fuck,” Pope gasped, her hands leaving Enmore’s hair, fisting in the glowing moss. “Don’t stop.”

Enmore made a sound in response that sent a delicious vibration through Pope’s pussy. She slid two fingers inside Pope and curled them to find that rough, sensitive patch deep inside. She fucked the whimpering engineer with her fingers and her mouth, sending Pope spiralling toward the edge. The air filled with the wet, sucking sounds of Enmore’s mouth and Pope’s desperate, hushed moans.

Then Enmore was gone.

“No,” Pope whimpered, body trembling with unfulfilled need.

Enmore loomed over her wearing a wicked, knowing smile. She reached up and plucked one of the ripe, glistening fruit from a nearby vine. It was about the size of her hand, smooth, tapered. “We don’t have toys,” Enmore said with a quiet lilt. “But we have…options.”

She coated the fruit in a slime weeping from another plant. One that, Pope now noticed, was almost obscene. “Papaver-Yvagae,” Enmore breathed. “My own version of Papaver Somniferum.” Pope thought her pupils seemed unnaturally small. “You’ll like it.”

Enmore knelt between Pope’s legs, teasing her entrance with the slippery, rounded tip.

Pope was lost. No words, only the silent invitation of spreading her legs wider.

Enmore slid the fruit inside her. Pope’s eyes rolled back, a guttural moan tearing free before she could stop it. Enmore gave her a moment to adjust, then began pistoning, twisting and thrusting, every movement driving Pope closer to the brink. The fruit was cool and firm and the perfect size. With each stroke, the tip reached Pope’s core exactly when Enmore’s hand met Pope’s labia. Her mouth found Pope’s again as she sped up, fucking Pope harder and faster with the improvised dildo. She smiled in a way that might have unnerved Pope under other conditions. “My garden provides.” She fucked Pope faster still, her thumb circling Pope’s clit. The orgasm tore through Pope, a violent, spraying release that left her breathless on the moss.

“How’re you feeling?” Enmore asked, a smug satisfaction in her tone. “Should we look for some cards?”

Pope fixed Enmore with a vicious, predatory gaze. Her head swam, her cunt throbbed and her thighs trembled.

“My turn,” she purred.

Knotty

Thaw

Fri, 27 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Year of the Orchard had arrived early, exactly as Juvielle had promised the people of Little Stoneleaf, and the Time of the Tapping had been upon Froatburn Dell when Juvielle departed, reassuring her people she would return before the Time of the Sowing. The trip to the high ridge had taken her nearly three weeks when she last came this way, but she hadn’t known the way, and it was deep winter then. She should have reached the hall of Queen Nechta—Talvra—in less than two.

Juvielle, Greenwhisper of Little Stoneleaf, planned to mark Balance Day with Talvra. The day when the sun first remained in the sky longer than it slept was sacred to her kind—those who spoke the words of earth and water and plant—and she needed to share that day with the Ice Queen. But the path from the ridge to Talvra’s forest faded, failed, and Juvielle had more than once needed to backtrack, moving purely by memory.

Despair had gnawed at Juvielle when, finally, she found Talvra’s palace. She choked back a sob of relief, it wasn’t too late, Balance Day was on the morrow. She would still be able to celebrate it with her love, the Lady of Winter. What did it matter if the clearing seemed smaller, the walls of blue ice less luminous? Juvielle had returned. Smiling as she had not since leaving Talvra’s side—three full moons ago—Juvielle snugged her ceinture fléchée around her waist and tucked it under itself, both ends lying loose against her thigh.

“My queen?” That wasn’t Talvra’s title, but Juvielle felt she needed some words of respect. When there was no response, Juvielle approached the doors. As before, they opened silently at her approach, almost beckoning her inside.

“Queen Nechta?” The hall seemed shorter, the door to Talvra’s bedchamber closer than when Juvielle was here last, and icy prickles of fear touched her heart once more. “Talvra?” she called, hating the quaver in her voice, echoing back to her from the vaulted ceiling.

“My Greenwhisper,” came the soft reply from beyond the doors at the end of the hall. “Still I await you.” Juvielle’s relief hit with such intensity she stumbled, before breaking into a run.

The bedchamber was much as Juvielle remembered. Vast and empty, walls and ceiling lost in shadow, columns of mirrors guiding one toward the most luxurious bed Juvielle had ever seen, piled with warm furs and soft cushions. Seated in the middle of the bed, the willowy woman Juvielle had come to see.

Talvra was just as Juvielle remembered. Long limbs, delicate fingers, slim but shapely, skin the colour of fresh cream, platinum hair cascading around her shoulders, and flinty, colourless eyes that, on another, could appear cruel, but in Talvra were curiously protective.

She was naked still, and the sight filled her with the sister feelings of love and desire. She was halfway across the room—catching visions of herself in the mirrors—in a heartbeat. The mirrors showed her fantasies, her desires, her needs—Juvielle on her knees before Talvra, offering herself; Juvielle standing over Talvra, holding the queen’s head between her legs; Juvielle wearing something she had no name for but giving her the form of a man—but she had no time for those.

Talvra was wrong. Smaller, thinner, Juvielle couldn’t tell quite how, but Talvra was less vibrant.

“Talvra!” Juvielle’s concern rapidly spiralling into fear. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

The Ice Queen held up both hands in greeting, and Juvielle went to her. Cold fingers found her cheeks. She didn’t smile—Juvielle didn’t think Talvra knew how to smile—but she exuded pleased contentment. “The end is here,” she said simply.

Juvielle gasped, “The end? What? No! No, Talvra, please!”

Talvra shifted on the bed, cold hands still holding Juvielle’s warm cheeks, but the queen was rising to her knees now, offering her lips. “Night ends, the star remains,” she offered, then her mouth met Juvielle’s. She slid her tongue between Juvielle’s lips, then began to explore her mouth once more. Juvielle moaned in response, her hands first brushing over Talvra’s shoulders, then to her breasts. When she had been here last, she had fallen asleep many nights with her face between those generous, pale mounds. Most of all, she had loved Talvra’s response when her tongue circled those nipples, those raspberry-bumped areolae.

“But Talvra—” Juvielle whispered, breaking the kiss for a beat even as her hands continued exploring Talvra’s breasts, then began moving further down.

The Ice Queen studied Juvielle, her expression inscrutable. “I would ask this. Before the dawn.” She locked eyes with Juvielle and began to remove her ceinture fléchée, allowing Juvielle’s tunic to fall open, exposing her rather modest chest. “Dawn,” Talvra repeated, unhelpfully.

Juvielle struggled out of her clothing, then pushed Talvra back onto the bed, her small, hard nipples rubbing against Talvra’s in a way that made her toes curl. She lay atop the queen, her hips pressing against Talvra’s, her dense, untended pubic curls scratching deliciously over Talvra’s hairless mound. She kissed and suckled and touched every part of Talvra she could, desperate to hold this moment in her memory forever. The way the Ice Queen sighed and arched her back, the way Talvra’s raspberry-areolae felt against her tongue, the way Juvielle’s coarse, scratchy mound felt against Talvra’s unblemished skin, even the way it felt when their hip-bones bumped.

She moved down. Kissing and licking and nipping at Talvra’s chin, then her neck, then her chest and finally her mound. She guided Talvra’s legs over her shoulders, then squeezed those porcelain thighs snugly against her head. “I love you,” she whispered, desperate to say it but hoping she’d been too quiet for Talvra to hear. Then her nose was against Talvra’s clit, her lips pressed firmly against Talvra’s labia and her tongue deep inside.

She licked, she sucked, she drew deep of Talvra’s juices. The subtle twitch and shudder of Talvra’s thighs against her head guided her. More there, less here, just like that. When Juvielle felt Talvra’s hands on the back of her head, she understood it was encouragement, not direction.

Juvielle continued.

Juvielle lost herself.

She licked and sucked and nibbled at Talvra’s clit, then slid a finger inside her cunt and drove it deep—wild, desperate, relentless. The bedchamber echoed with the wet, tender, loving sounds of their sex, and when Talvra finally climaxed, her thighs gripped Juvielle’s head so tightly the Greenwhisper’s vision dimmed.

I also love you. Juvielle heard without words.

Balance Day passed. Neither Juvielle nor Talvra—Queen Nechta, the Lady of Winter, so many other names—left the bedchamber. As the sun reluctantly settled below the horizon, Talvra caressed Juvielle’s cheek a final time. “Dawn,” she whispered. She seemed so weak now—Juvielle fairly wept.

“I await you.” Talvra’s eyes closed.

“The star remains,” she murmured, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips as a light snow began to fall outside.

Knotty

I Got You

Fri, 20 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The dilapidated tenement shuddered as a spinner passed overhead with that uncanny blend of whine and growl Imani loathed. “How ugly d’you want this scar to be?” A disapproving tch came from the far corner, but Imani had neither time nor energy to spare.

“W-what?” Imani’s patient gasped, confused and frightened.

“Sit still,” Imani hissed as she resumed stitching, “or it’s gonna be really ugly.”

“B-but m-my—” Too afraid to put word to thoughts.

“You gonna do what I say?”

“Y–yes, Doc Shen.”

Imani’s chocolate-brown eyes flicked up to meet her patient, angry. She waited until the patient’s eyes sank. “You’re both doing great.”

Imani drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with untold pollutants, surely shortening her life, but still glad to be outside. She still wore her “work clothes,” wet with sweat, blood, and some amniotic fluid, but the constant wind that hugged the Sepulveda Sea Wall, and the ocean tang easily overwhelmed all of that. She fumbled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket—always kept in the plastic—shook one out and brought it to her lips.

The lighter wouldn’t cooperate.

She glared and flicked at it, turning her body one way, then another, trying to shelter the lighter, but most attempts didn’t even produce a spark. “Fuck,” she cursed softly as the lighter slipped from her fingers and bounced along the broken sidewalk.

“I got you.” The voice from the corner. A strong, steady, perfectly vertical blue-orange flame appeared to Imani’s right.

“Thanks,” she said, after her third lungful of opt-in pollutants. “How are they?”

Jude took up position beside Imani, back against the building that, for now, was their medical clinic, looking up at the impossible structure that kept the Pacific from washing all of Los Angeles away for good. “Happy family.” Jude turned her head just enough to study Imani’s profile in the half-light. “Thanks to you.”

Taking another deep breath—ambient pollutants only, this time—Imani allowed herself a ghost of a smile. She tried to return the cigarette to her lips, but found her hand was less cooperative than her lighter had been, and her little indulgence slipped away. “Fuck,” she repeated, watching it come to rest in a puddle, hissing angrily. “How many more?”

“Bad news, Doc. None. You might have to try sleeping for once.” Jude’s teasing was the last thing Imani remembered before the waking world vanished.

The debate had been surprisingly short. Last night’s patients were always going to be the last; an LAPD contact warned the raid was coming. By the time Imani woke to the smell of fresh coffee barely overpowering disinfectant, Dewitt and Chopra were loading the van with equipment. Jude appeared and, with a few careful words, Imani agreed. She’d slept nine hours and was still bone-tired.

She’d earned a break. A short one.

She was asleep in the rusted-out sedan’s passenger seat before Jude pulled away from the curb.

“We can’t afford this,” Imani declared, again, looking around the room. They’d ridden to the 39th floor, then entered the sort of amber-lit, smooth-carpeted hallway Imani had only seen in old vids.

“I told you,” Jude insisted. “I did a job—this is payment.” She secured the retinal-lock on the door, then dropped both duffels they’d brought. She shrugged out of her oversized trench coat and let it fall to the floor. “How about a shower?”

Imani turned so slowly Jude nearly laughed at the sight. “Shower?” she asked.

Jude smiled, inverting her shirt as she pulled it over her head. Her full, pale breasts bounced and wobbled as they were freed. “Yeah, a real one. We can stay in as long as we want.”

The tiny room, just big enough for a sink, a toilet and the promised shower, had filled with steam moments after Jude had turned on the water. She had finished undressing before entering, and now found Imani standing, touching her cheeks in wonder. Jude smiled and placed her hands on Imani’s hips. “You can’t shower like this, Doc.”

Jude’s fingers were efficient, confident, as she unbuttoned Imani’s cream-coloured shirt. She tugged it free of Imani’s threadbare jeans, then set it down carefully on the sink, brushing her bare breasts against Imani’s skin. The jeans followed, then Imani’s bra and finally her panties.

Imani allowed herself to be led into the shower. She marvelled at the water bouncing off her skin, the patterns it made on Jude’s skin as it ran down her back. She caressed Jude’s hip, giving it a squeeze. Imani loved the contrast, her mahogany skin against Jude’s almost milk-pale colouring. She was sliding her fingers up Jude’s belly when the other woman stopped her.

“Not right now, ‘mani.” Simply turning around in the shower meant Jude’s arm, then her hip, then her breasts pressed against Imani’s, but then Jude was turning Imani around, to face away. “Taking care of you first.” She filled her palms with a thick cleansing cream, then brought both arms around Imani’s body, pressing her hips against Imani’s ass while her breasts squished wonderfully against Imani’s shoulder blades.

Imani shivered at the first touch of the cream; it was much colder than the water or her skin, but then Jude’s hands were exploring. Both found Imani’s breasts and began working them in exactly the way she loved best. She moaned softly as her nipples, the colour of dark chocolate, stiffened beneath Jude’s palms. She followed with a lower, louder moan at Jude’s lips against her neck. “Jude…”

“Shhh,” Jude replied, then went back to kissing Imani’s neck, then gave her a gentle bite. She kept one hand on Imani’s breast, the contact firm but almost frictionless with the cream, but the other roamed down. She giggled at the way Imani stiffened and squirmed when her fingers found the stubble on Imani’s mound. Maybe a week since she’d shaved last, Jude guessed, the perfect growth. She loved the way it felt as she moved over, then further down.

Imani widened her stance—balance, and invitation. When Jude’s fingers spread her open, she moaned for a third time, this time long and pleading. Jude obliged. Two fingers pinched Imani’s clit, then Jude’s hand started pumping. Her fingers held Imani’s clit from both sides, but the co-mingled cream and Imani’s juices meant Jude’s fingers were sliding over the sides of Imani’s bud as much as they were pulling it. Imani tried to grab some part of Jude, reaching around behind her, but as Jude worked harder against Imani’s clit and her nipple, she found herself needing both hands to support herself against the shower wall.

Jude’s own breathing was growing ragged as she slid her hand down and curled her middle finger inside Imani’s pussy. The whimper this drew from Imani was almost enough to give Jude her own orgasm, she barely managed to regain her focus. She ground her hips against Imani’s pillowy ass cheeks, while she finger-fucked the dark-skinned woman from behind.

As Jude’s finger, two fingers, then three fingers, pounded harder and faster into Imani’s cunt, Imani felt herself get lightheaded. She’d needed this so much, and Jude—she shuddered as the first wave loomed over her. Jude was whispering in her ear, “I got you, ‘mani. I got you. Let go, I got you.” Jude’s fingers filling her, the way the heel of her palm still attended Imani’s button, the way her coarse pubic hair scratched over Imani’s ass—perfect.

Jude felt Imani tense, then shudder all over; she sped up her delicious assault on Imani’s passage and barely two thrusts later Imani was screaming wordlessly, gushing over Jude’s fingers.

Hours later, Imani lay in bed, studying the patterns of light and shadow on the ceiling. Jude was next to her, smoking silently. The new clinic would come. The exhaustion would come. Jude would disappear again into whatever shadows she always melted into. Not yet. For the next few days, maybe a week, Imani decided she would enjoy this little break.

Knotty

By Degrees

Fri, 06 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Eleanor had been invited to give a keynote at next week’s symposium on Journalistic Integrity in the Age of Social Media.

She was profoundly disappointed.

She would not be here for Valentine’s Day. The first Valentine’s Day since Heidi had come into her life.

She texted Heidi to give her the news, which, of course, she was absolutely jubilant over.

🎉👏🏆

Omg congrats!! so hyped you’re literally amazing 😭💖

I’m going to miss our Valentine’s Day, won’t be home until after 10pm on Saturday.

😢

j/k another time?

…

im free tonight 🙏

Eleanor’s disappointment vanished.

“Comfortable, Pet?”

Eleanor was using her ‘in charge’ voice, but the question came from a place of true caring. Heidi nodded eagerly. She never used words until invited to speak. Eleanor had trained her well.

“Wonderful. I have something special planned for us tonight.” Eleanor moved from the side of the bed and into her bathroom. When she returned, she paused to admire the sight. Beautiful, ginger-haired Heidi, secured wrist-and-ankles, was lying face up and spread-eagle on Eleanor’s bed. The bright red webbing of the under-mattress restraints contrasted beautifully against Heidi’s pale skin.

As would Eleanor’s own black, see-through, crotchless body stocking.

Once again, Eleanor marvelled that this brilliant, breathtaking Journalism major at Ashford College had come into her life. Members of Eleanor’s own graduating class had children her age! She bit her lip for a moment, suddenly uncertain, but then Heidi shifted on the bed, twisting her hips and revealing the neatly tended patch of fire-orange pubic hair and confidence returned.

She moved to the foot of the bed, the clacking of her heels announcing her approach. Heidi’s little shiver of anticipation sent a thrill through Eleanor’s belly.

“Now, Pet,” Eleanor began. “Tonight I want you to speak any time you like, do you understand?”

Heidi’s eyes grew wide. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good.” Eleanor lifted a cigarette lighter into Heidi’s view, delighting in the suddenly nervous look on the young woman’s face. The massage candle followed soon after and Heidi’s concerned expression shifted to desire. “I’m going to give you a massage, Pet. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to prepare the oil first, but you won’t mind if I apply it to your skin, will you.”

Not a question.

“I’d like that so much, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

“Good,” Eleanor said again. She decided to reestablish the boundaries once more before going all in. “Remember what I told you about speaking tonight, Pet.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The cigarette lighter flared to life.

Heidi flinched, hissing loudly as the molten oil dripped on her bare foot, and again as another drop hit her other foot. Eleanor surreptitiously glanced up at Heidi’s face before setting the candle down and beginning to massage the sub’s feet. Eleanor took great care, pressing her thumbs along the curve of Heidi’s arches, working the oil and the heat into her bridges, attending each toe. When Eleanor’s hands left Heidi’s feet, the younger woman looked nearly asleep.

Heidi yelped in pain when the oil trailed a long line up each of her thighs. Her eyes flew open and locked on Eleanor…and said nothing.

Eleanor began massaging Heidi’s left thigh, down to her calf, then back up, inching ever closer to her perfect, innie pussy. Heidi shifted just a little when Eleanor nearly reached her crotch, moving to meet her domme’s fingers, but Eleanor was faster.

“Not yet, Pet, I’m not done pampering you yet.”

Heidi moaned softly, sounding disappointed…and said nothing.

Eleanor was beginning to feel light-headed with all the build-up when she finally dribbled hot oil over Heidi’s perfectly champagne-glass shaped breasts. She squirmed so beautifully, her chest rising and falling so fast with her deep breaths that Eleanor caught herself rubbing her own clit. Soon, she promised herself, then set the candle down and massaged Heidi’s breasts until her nipples were hard little pebbles. When Heidi made a quiet, lustful groan, it struck right at Eleanor’s core, her clit ached.

“One last part, Pet.” Eleanor leaned over Heidi, kissing her softly on the lips, then stood up. She picked up the candle again and blew it out. There was far more oil than she needed now. She moved to the foot of the bed for a final time and stretched over Heidi’s body. Heidi writhed slowly. Eleanor tipped the candle over and let the oil drizzle over Heidi’s perfect pussy.

“Oooow!” Heidi wailed and struggled against her restraints.

“Heidi?” No longer the ‘in control’ voice.

Heidi shivered, gasped, then locked eyes with Eleanor. “Thank you, Mistress.”

Eleanor set the spent candle aside. She took hold of Heidi’s ankles—gently, deliberately—and adjusted her position before swinging her own right leg beneath Heidi’s left and draping her left over Heidi’s right, opening them to each other. When their pussies kissed—and it was a kiss, lips pressing soft and warm against lips—both women gasped. The massage oil between them, their own arousal, slick and warm—Eleanor felt it all the way through her. She led, grinding her cunt against Heidi’s, rolling her hips constantly, her clit greeting Heidi’s again and again. As their passion built, their movements became jerky and uncoordinated. Eleanor’s head was filled with a lust-fuelled buzz, she realised she had been humping the inside of Heidi’s thigh, rubbing her ass-cheeks against Heidi’s cunt while Heidi was squeezing and twisting her breasts in a way Eleanor never would.

“Pet?” Eleanor gasped.

“Please, Mistresssss,” Heidi whimpered.

“Yes,” Eleanor gasped as she returned her sloppy honeypot to Heidi’s. She rubbed harder, ground and rolled and bucked and then she heard Heidi screaming and felt Heidi’s thighs twitching and felt Heidi’s vulva shuddering against Eleanor’s crotch and—

When Eleanor’s mind returned she and Heidi were lying limp on the bed, pussies still nuzzling together. Carefully, Eleanor moved away from Heidi, then shifted and lay down beside her, face-to-face. She slowly reached up and began undoing the restraint on Heidi’s left wrist.

Heidi’s eyes fluttered open. “N-not just yet? Please, Mistress?”

Eleanor blinked once, smiled and kissed the other woman softly on the lips. “Anything, Pet.”

Knotty

New Year’s Resolve

Fri, 02 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

“FOUR!” the party chanted in unison.

“Yeah, but what’s your naaaaaaame?” Rhiannon slurred, spilling her drink without noticing.

“THREE!”

“I tol’ ya already! Trystan.” He was gorgeous—square jaw, swarthy, all angles and muscle, with the sort of dark stubble Rhiannon wanted to absolutely grind against.

“TWO!”

“No, you din’t! Tell me!”

The pillar of pure manliness before her stumbled a little and shook his head. “Nah! Tell me yours first!” She imagined climbing him like a tree.

“ONE!”

“Shuddup!” Rhiannon grabbed his shirt with both hands, completely forgetting the champagne she’d been holding only seconds before. “Fuckin’ kiss me!”

The morning sun had the utter gall to shine directly onto Rhiannon’s face, dragging her back to the waking world like she was a toddler at the candy rack and it was her mum.

“Where’s my fuckin’—” her thoughts crashed to a halt. Everything? Aw, fuck. The night came back to her: Cassie’s New Year’s Eve party, the cocktails, the pot, the shots!

… the guy?

She shifted in the county-sized bed and looked around the room. She was completely naked, of course, and dangling from one of the blinds was her shiny pink (crotchless!) panties. Her tiny tube-dress was in a heap by the door to the en-suite bathroom. No sign of her stockings, shoes or coat.

She’d decided a bra would only spoil the fun last night, so at least she didn’t have to find that.

She groaned, piecing more of it together: too many drinks, impending panic over being alone at midnight, that hot guy appeared out of nowhere. Her body ached in the best way; her pussy sore and sticky from whatever wild shit they’d done last night.

Where was the guy?

The fuck was his name?

Were the sheets made of pure cloud or something? She’d never felt anything so soft and smooth against her skin.

“Good morning!”

Whirling as best she could while naked and sitting in the middle of a larger-than-king-size-bed on the kind of sheets Rhiannon imagined literal fuckin’ royalty might sleep on, she pulled the overstuffed duvet up to her neck. For all the good it would do. Memories from last night and their little ‘after-party’ were flooding back to her now and letting him have a good look at her tits in the morning light would be maybe the tamest thing she’d done since meeting—

“Trystan!” Thank FUCK she’d found his name before it got really awkward. “H-hi. Good morning. Hi?” Rhiannon’s head hammered and she thought she wanted to puke, but her tummy also did a girlish little flip-flop at the sight of him standing in the doorway.

He was tall. Fit, but not muscular, with the most perfect little swirl of pitch-black hair on his chest between his pectorals. He wore only a pair of thin, cotton pyjama pants that left no doubt he was going commando. He looked weathered but also perfectly polished.

“You remembered my name,” he said affably. “That’s pretty great.” He chuckled as he entered the bedroom, a Greek statue come to life. “I, um, I made breakfast.”

Holy shit! He’s shy! Rhiannon thought wildly, and the butterflies in her stomach had moved further south.

“It’s just coffee and scones.” He sounded apologetic as he approached the bed, carrying his tray bearing a thermal carafe, two mugs, an earthenware cream pitcher, and a plate laden with golden brown squares embedded with peach chunks and covered in a frosting drizzle.

“I’ll get you a car if—” his comical earnestness after last night threatened Rhiannon with a giggle fit, but she knew that would ruin everything that might come next. Her crotch throbbed with growing eagerness at the thoughts of what might be next.

He was big. She remembered that. Like, gasping-for-air big.

It’d be stupid to leave now, right?

Putting on her most casual, “bad-girl” air, she offered him what she hoped was a lusty smile. “It’s New Year’s Day, where do I gotta be?” She lifted the duvet away from the bed—an open invitation—revealing her modest breasts, small nipples, and raspberry-dotted areola.

Trystan looked shocked, then chuckled, handing her a mug. His eyes raked over her as if he wanted to devour her right there. The coffee burned her tongue, rich and bold; the scones flaky and warm, crumbs and warm peach chunks tumbling down her chest. She licked her lips slowly, watching him watch her.

“Somethin’ I don’t recall from last night,” she began, finishing her scone and washing it down with a mouthful of hot, bitter coffee. “I don’t remember gettin’ a proper taste for myself.” Rhiannon’s fingers brushed the patch of hair on his chest, then slid down, between his abdomen and his pants, finding the thick, wonderful warmth between his legs. “You put it all somewhere else, didn’ya?”

Curling her fingers around him, she squeezed, stroking, fascinated by the feel of his skin. Not clean, not at all; his cock was coated in a sticky, slightly grippy film—her own dried juices. Rhiannon had marked him; he belonged to her now.

The ache surged again, heat pooling between her thighs, her filthy mind already racing. No way was she leaving without round two. She released him, set aside the breakfast, and raked her nails lightly over his abs. “I’m gettin’ down on the floor over there and you’re gonna fuck my pretty mouth. Okay?”

She slipped from the bed, blushing a little herself as she stood fully on display, noting the way his attention settled on her waist, then her hips, then her slit—freshly shaved just before the party last night—and shook her head.

“Nuh, uh. Maybe for dessert.” She knelt on the floor and opened her mouth wide, waiting.

He hesitated again; she didn’t think he was used to taking such blunt direction. She gave him a smirk. “Trystan, get over here and fuck my face!”

She sat on the floor, her sopping wet pussy leaving a smear across the wood, arching her back to present her mouth and modest tits as an offering. She wanted to be below his cock, so he could use her throat from above. The position felt exposed, animalistic—exactly how she craved it—her offering a willing, wet hole and asking nothing in return but to provide primal gratification.

He responded quickly to her second command, shoving down his pyjama pants with the force of a dam bursting. His cock bounced free, already leaking pre-cum. He was thick. And long. With a slight curve toward the tip she didn’t recall from the previous night.

“Oh fuck, yeah!” Rhiannon breathed, then opened wide for him.

He climbed out of bed and took the two steps he needed to be standing right over her. The heat from his dick, the smell of his body, and the lingering scent of their fucking the night before filled Rhiannon with desperate need. She didn’t wait for him to take the lead, instead catching his cock with her mouth and drove it down until he bottomed out at the back of her throat.

“Fuck!” he gasped, sounding utterly shocked. He started to pull back, but Rhiannon drove her nails deep into his ass-cheeks and pulled him hard against her face once more. Tears welled as she struggled to relax, as she pulled him harder still, as she tried to force him down her throat.

Then she felt his fingers in her hair, gripping her tight and she nearly climaxed from that alone.

“Uuuh, kay,” Trystan said, mostly t0 himself, and pulled back—pulled Rhiannon away by her hair—and began pumping into her mouth. The first few strokes were slower than Rhiannon would’ve liked, but the way he was pulling her hair more than made up for it.

She encouraged him with her tongue, rolling and flexing, curling it against the underside, fluttering against the tip each time he nearly pulled out.

“Your fucking mouth,” he groaned as he rammed his cock back in, causing Rhiannon to snort and twist a little on the floor. “Fucking hell!” He slammed against the back of her throat again, and Rhiannon stifled a gag. “Mouth made for dick!”

Rhiannon made a whimpering sound she hoped sounded like agreement, but the way he was thrusting, the way he was slightly pulling her head to one side or the other with each attack, she knew he didn’t need any more encouragement.

“I bet—” thrust “—you got—” thrust “—cock—” THRUST “—in here—” thrust-thrust “—all the—” THRUST “—time!” He was in!

Rhiannon shuddered beneath his rough usage of her mouth and those words. She was holding one tit, squeezing and kneading it, and rubbing her clit furiously with two fingers, but the moment he finally entered her throat, she stopped completely. She gagged once, managed to control it, then waited for the real fun to begin.

“FUCK!” Trystan howled. “Tight!” He managed again, then yanked Rhiannon’s face off his throbbing cock only to bury it back down her throat again. Rhiannon gagged again, snorted again, and went back to masturbating on the floor while he used her head.

Again and again, he pounded her mouth; Rhiannon’s only sounds now were labored, desperate breathing, the wet sounds of her fingering her cunt, and the ‘gwack’ she made as he face-fucked her faster and harder still.

Finally, mercifully, just as she began to fear she might pass out—it was so hard to breathe like this—Trystan let out a growling wail. His smooth, shaven balls rested on Rhiannon’s chin, and he shot load after load of his hot cum directly down her throat. She tried to focus on milking him, but by now, she was cumming as well, sitting in a little puddle of her own sweat, spit, and sex juices.

The sun had left the bedroom, well on its way to its zenith, while Trystan and Rhiannon snuggled once more under the duvet.

“Hey.” Rhiannon’s voice was soft with a hint of mirth.

Trystan said nothing, just made a quiet, questioning ‘mmm’ sound.

“I still didn’t get proper a taste. You’re gonna need to try again.”

Knotty

Reindeer Trials

Fri, 26 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Eleanor stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows in her apartment living room. The snow piled up on the balcony, and below, the city twinkled with a festive glow. She savoured a slow sip from the short-stemmed wine glass, delighting in the sweet, creamy texture. The eggnog flowed smoothly over her tongue and into her throat. The glass, with its squat, heavy body and square-ish bowl with a gold rim, was a ridiculous bit of nostalgia for her. The side of the glass featured two colourful stripes, one red and one green, topped with a ring of holly and berries. A childhood holdover, the glasses made the holiday feel somehow more special when she drank eggnog from them.

She heard a quiet movement behind her, but didn’t turn, not yet. Instead, she gazed at her ghostly reflection in the window, the city lights casting an ethereal glow. She kept herself in excellent shape exactly for nights like tonight. Her long, dark brown hair was tucked behind her ears, and a playful Santa cap held it in place, adding a touch of whimsy to her overall look. Her only other attire was a sleek, red leather bunny suit—sans puffy tail—which showcased the swell of her bust and the curve of her behind in a deliberate, tantalising way. A thick, black leather belt with a shiny gold buckle cinched at her waist, complementing her knee-high, shiny black leather boots. Each boot was held tight at the top, snugged against her thigh with its own shiny gold buckle.

After a prolonged moment, she turned, offering her beautiful young guest a faint, enigmatic smile. The sight of Heidi made her heart soar, but she kept her excitement in check. Not yet, that was for later.

Heidi, the pretty redhead, had shed her buttoned-down, overly serious classroom persona tonight. Eleanor recalled how earnest and driven that Heidi had been when they first met. Eleanor had given a Journalistic Ethics lecture at Ashford College and this brilliant young woman had waited for her afterward, eager to debate many of Eleanor’s assertions. She knew immediately that she must possess this girl.

Things had gone remarkably well, better than Eleanor had dared hope that first day.

Heidi stood exceptionally still, her shoulders squared and chin slightly lowered, just as Eleanor had taught her. Her hands rested on her bare thighs in a pose of subtle, patient submission. Perfect.

Her rice-paper-thin green teddy—one of several Christmas gifts from Eleanor this year—clung to her curves, perfectly complementing her petite frame. The delicate fabric seemed to glow in the light, and Heidi’s skin radiated a warm, golden undertone. The unlined top of the teddy provided a subtle lift to Heidi’s delicate, champagne-glass-shaped breasts, accentuating their gentle curves. The front panel covered her torso, but the sheer fabric revealed more than it concealed, leaving her sides, waist, and hips completely bare. The teddy’s open bottom was an invitation, and Eleanor’s gaze lingered on the exposed skin. Heidi was stunning.

“I have good news and bad news, Elf,” Eleanor said softly, using her ‘in charge’ voice. Eleanor’s commanding tone was unmistakable, and Heidi’s body responded instinctively, her muscles tensing in anticipation of what was to come. However, Heidi knew better than to speak out of turn, and she remained silent as she awaited further instruction. The air was thick with anticipation, and Heidi’s silence was a testament to her training and devotion to Eleanor

“The bad news is that one of Santa’s reindeer can’t work this year, so I will have to find a replacement. Fortunately, that leads me to the good news.” Eleanor approached Heidi with the deliberate slowness of a cat stalking its prey, her heels clicking out a rhythmic pattern on the hardwood floor. The sound seemed to echo through the room. “The good news, Elf, is Santa has one more gift for you.”

With a subtle movement, Eleanor used the toe of her boot to slowly slide a box from under the sofa. She left it at Heidi’s feet, the beautifully wrapped gift reflecting the warm lighting of the room.

“You can open it.”

Heidi squatted slowly, then knelt, just the way Eleanor had taught her, and carefully opened the box, the lid creaking as it opened. The label on the top seemed to gleam in the light, the words ‘PROPERTY OF SANTA’ emblazoned on it a promise. Inside the box, a bed of red silk cradled the contents. In the centre, a beautifully crafted under-bust harness lay waiting, the smooth brown leather gleaming with a subtle sheen. The harness was adorned with gleaming gold studs, and a bright red lace-up corset seemed to pulse with a vibrant energy. A row of three gleaming brass bells lined each side of the harness. A matching silicone bit-gag accompanied the harness, featuring a bell on each side, with a strap made of matching brown leather. At the bottom of the box, a candy-cane striped strapless strap-on lay waiting, prominently labelled ‘For Santa’s Use Only!’.

“Try it on, Reindeer,” Eleanor said, her voice slow and husky as she loomed over the kneeling girl, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Heidi stood up without hesitation. She carefully slipped out of her lingerie, and Eleanor couldn’t help but gasp softly at the sight of her sub’s enthralling beauty. As Heidi began to struggle into the harness, Eleanor’s eyes never left her. She watched Heidi’s squirming with amusement, her eyes glinting with pleasure. “Would you like some help, Reindeer? It’s only your first day, I know.”

Heidi’s eyes met Eleanor’s, and the look of giddy excitement that sparkled there was almost too much. She felt a laugh rising up, but suppressed it, not wanting to break the spell. What an incredible girl!

“Yes, please, Mis–Santa.” Heidi caught herself almost in time; tonight’s play was different, and she had to remember new things.

Eleanor took her time securing Heidi into the harness. She spoke in a cool, clinical tone, her words a steady stream as she announced each buckle, as if she were performing an inspection, her fingers moving with precision as she worked. As she finished cinching the last buckle, the one that held the harness snugly around Heidi’s waist, a shiver ran through Heidi’s thighs, a hint of her growing arousal that didn’t go unnoticed.

Eleanor took her time lacing the corset, her fingers moving with deliberate slowness. Once it was secured, she ran her fingertips over the whole affair, her touch light and teasing. Then, she cupped Heidi’s breasts briefly, her palms cradling them possessively. The sub’s sharp intake of breath and the stiffness of her nipples gave Eleanor all the confirmation she needed.

“Good, you’re almost ready,” Eleanor said as she bent down and retrieved the bit-gag from the box. “All we have left is this.” Eleanor stood behind Heidi, her hips brushing against the girl’s bare ass cheeks. She brought the gag over Heidi’s head, holding it before her mouth with a silent insistence. Heidi opened wide and Eleanor placed the bit inside, then tightened the straps until she was certain Heidi wouldn’t be able to properly close her mouth or talk for the duration.

“Perfect,” Eleanor intoned, sounding satisfied as she stepped back to inspect her handiwork. “But listen closely, Reindeer,” Eleanor said, her voice taking on a stern tone. “A noisy reindeer will wake the children and spoil Christmas. You need to move with precision, or you don’t move at all. Understood?”

A small pearl of drool had already formed on Heidi’s lower lip. She nodded, causing both the bells on her bit and at her side to jingle softly. Heidi’s eyes widened in surprise, her face a picture of shock as she realised the noise she had made. “Uhh-huh-whah.” Understood.

“What a good reindeer you are. Now let’s begin your training. Down.” Eleanor had to turn away to hide her smile as Heidi carefully got down on all fours. The jingling of the bells, the creak of the straps and leather, and Heidi’s own very loud breathing all combined to create a symphony of sound that thrilled the domme. “That was terrible,” Eleanor said, turning back, in control of herself again. “The family dog is barking his head off at all that racket.”

Eleanor slowly began to circle Heidi, taking in the sight of her sub on her hands and knees. Heidi made such a pretty picture, her breasts hanging free, her skin aglow. She was completely naked from the waist down, and Eleanor couldn’t help but feel a surge of desire at the sight. As Eleanor circled Heidi, her fingertips slid over her sub’s skin, tracing the curves of her body. She lingered for a long moment behind Heidi. Her legs were spread wide enough apart that Eleanor could admire Heidi’s firm, plump ass, but also her pink folds between her legs. They glistened a little, already slick with arousal. Below that, Eleanor caught sight of the thick, orange pubic hair she had told Heidi to grow out.

Heidi’s left thigh twitched.

“Are you getting tired, Reindeer? You woke up the family dog, and now you need to stay perfectly still. No sounds out of your bells, no matter what. You need to wait until the dog stops barking.” Eleanor very slowly caressed Heidi’s ass cheeks, tracing the curves of her body. She let her fingertips follow the gap up to Heidi’s tailbone, her touch light and teasing. “You told me you understood, Reindeer. I’m sure the dog will get bored soon, and then you can move again.”

One minute.

Two.

Heidi began to make a pained sound, the noise muffled by the bit in her mouth. Drool pooled on the floor beneath her, a testament to her growing discomfort. Eleanor watched, fascinated, as Heidi’s thighs and ass twitched and shuddered. The lactic acid must have been building up, and Eleanor could see the tension in the sub’s body.

Four.

“I think he’s almost tired himself out,” Eleanor announced, her voice a near monotone. She had retrieved another of their toys, a feather duster, and Eleanor began stroking the insides of Heidi’s thighs with it. Eleanor’s self-control slipped the tiniest bit, and she found herself running the feathers over Heidi’s pussy. It was pink and swollen with need, and Eleanor could see the dew collecting in Heidi’s pubic hair. The sub moaned in desperation and moved back against the duster. She was practically presenting, but she did it with such slow and careful movements that not a single bell made a sound. Eleanor was amazed.

“Very good, Reindeer,” Eleanor said, standing up slowly and feeling a little light-headed at her own excitement. Excitement and overwhelming feelings of love, admiration, and connection. “You may move again, if you like.”

She allowed herself a steadying breath, then another, before turning her attention back to Heidi, who was standing again and facing Eleanor, in the preferred pose; shoulders squared (We don’t do shame, we don’t do meek, we do proudly respectful.) and eyes slightly downcast. “The next training task, we’re going to practise following instructions. Stand at the windows, face the city.”

As Heidi walked to the windows, standing almost exactly where Eleanor had, there was barely more than a whisper from the bells. She learns so quickly, she always tries so very hard. “Stop there. Now, you’ll do as I say, but you’ll do it as evenly as possible. No bells, no rush, precision in every movement. Understood?”

A slobbery sucking sound came from Heidi before she responded. “Uhh-huh-whah.” Understood.

“Stand tall, hands on hips.” Eleanor started her with something easy.

“Touch your toes.” The bells whispered again, but Eleanor ignored it in favour of admiring Heidi’s bare bottom, her exposed slit and her beautiful, long legs.

“Squat.” This was more difficult still, but Heidi had been practising, not just in their sessions. Eleanor had her hold the position for nearly a minute as she retrieved the “For Santa’s Use Only” device.

“Knees,” Eleanor’s voice was sharper this time, less controlled. She was certain Heidi would notice, but no matter, she would know why soon.

“Stand, heel-turn to face me.” This time there was a faint jingle out of some of the bells along Heidi’s side, but their game was nearly at an end. She was sitting on the sofa, in the middle, with the strapless strap-on rising comically up from between Eleanor’s legs. The large bulb that held it in place was deep, deep inside Eleanor.

“Do you want to go for a ride on the sleigh, Reindeer?”

Heidi nodded eagerly, drool trailing from her lips all over her chest. “Yuth, plah, Sanha.”

“Come for a ride, then,” Eleanor beckoned her over. Heidi moved with the same precision as before, threatening to destroy Eleanor’s willpower, but as she lowered herself onto the fat, fake cock, Heidi’s eyes grew wide. It was bigger than anything they’d used before, but Eleanor knew her pet was ready. “Ride. Enjoy yourself, Reindeer.”

Eleanor’s voice was low, throaty with desire and she didn’t bother to stifle her moans as Heidi began bouncing. The thick bulb deep inside Eleanor slid and ground and thrust in response to Heidi’s every twitch.

Eleanor’s hands moved to Heidi’s perfect little tits, caressing each, smearing Heidi’s own drool all over the exposed skin, then she gave each nipple a sharp pinch and a little twist. In response Heidi’s belly flexed and rolled and her hips drove the dildo deeper into Eleanor than she’d thought it could go. In her silly Santa-domme boots, Eleanor’s toes clenched and flexed as her own pent-up desire barrelled toward release.

No! Not first! Eleanor thought wildly, watching Heidi’s perfect body, watching her soulmate, fuck herself madly on the ridiculous, candy-cane-striped silicone dong that ground and squirmed inside her own hot passage. She released Heidi’s left nipple and brought her hand down. She locked eyes with her sub as her thumb navigated Heidi’s dense orange thatch and then attended her clit. She circled, stroked, pressed, never losing contact as Heidi whimpered and twitched and dribbled spittle everywhere.

They didn’t climax together, Eleanor wasn’t able to manage that, but the way Eleanor’s climax crashed through her body, sent her into very un-domme-like squeals of delight, was enough to push Heidi over her edge. Within seconds the two women, the lovers, were connected by pure, animal bliss.

“Heidi, dear, where are you?” Eleanor was using her lover voice now. This voice didn’t command, didn’t instruct; this one confessed and praised and encouraged. Sometimes, only sometimes, it hoped—hoped it could be like this forever.

They were still tangled on the couch, the strapless strap-on still inside them both, both basking in the blush-pink afterglow of their shared lovemaking.

Heidi was slumped against Eleanor, her face buried in her domme’s neck. After a very long pause she replied softly, “Home.”

Knotty

Naughty or Nice

Fri, 19 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I ought to say no, no, no sir.
Mind if move in closer?
At least I'm gonna say that I tried.
What's the sense of hurting my pride?

“Heidi, dear, where are you?”

Heidi’s face grew hot as she turned, heart racing in her chest. She’d been staring out the windows of Eleanor’s apartment and lost in the music playing from … somewhere. She never saw speakers but the room was bathed in the warm, comforting sounds of jazzy Christmas standards. Beneath her, the city spread out like glittering quartz on a dark beach. The apartment was warm and dim, lit by nothing but fairy lights and the Christmas tree, now that dinner was done, and for a moment Heidi had lost herself in the view; in the moment.

“Sorry,” she responded, quickly, whirling and moving toward the kitchen. “I was—”

“I know what you were doing, dear,” Eleanor purred, blocking Heidi’s path. “You love the view up here.” The older woman regarded her guest for only a moment—just long enough for Heidi to feel a flicker of concern—before offering her a tiny respite. “I finished up already. Dishwasher running, others put away.”

Heidi looked stricken. Eleanor had invited her over, made her dinner, and now she was left to do most of the cleaning up? She was already mentally berating herself as Eleanor’s warm hand touched her shoulder and guided her toward the living room. “Dear, you’re my guest. You don’t need to concern yourself with little tasks like that. Don’t be silly.”

The women moved around the roll-armed sofa before the tree. The leather was so shiny that to Heidi it appeared wet. Eleanor sat carefully down in the middle, directing Heidi to stand before her. “Are you dressed?” she asked simply.

Heidi squirmed—she’d been doing so all evening, truth be told, because she was, in fact, dressed. Eleanor had asked her to wear something flattering but modest as her outer layer but beneath … beneath Heidi was wearing only a full-body leather harness. The one they had picked out together last week. “Yes.” Her voice so quiet even the soft music filling the room nearly drown her out.

“Are you dressed?” Eleanor didn’t want words and she wouldn’t ask a third time.

Heidi’s blush deepened as she unbuttoned the thin silk blouse—another treasured gift from Eleanor—but the older woman was as serene and unfathomable as a winter landscape, her beauty frozen and unyielding, with only the barest hints of warmth and life beneath the surface.

Standing back up, before her mistress, Heidi undid the shiny gold buttons on her left hip that held her midi-length pencil skirt in place. She didn’t dare let it fall away, Eleanor had been working very hard, teaching her to respect her possessions, but instead placed it carefully on the sofa atop her blouse. She took the smallest steadying breath she could manage then stepped out of her chunky-heeled pointed toe shoes. Eleanor had commented on them one day they were out shopping together and Heidi returned to the store to buy herself a pair the following morning.

Standing before her like this, in the glow of the Christmas lights, somehow more exposed than if she were fully nude, Heidi waited in silence. Hoping for something she knew not what. The glossy green leather consisted of straps secured with gold buckles, studs, and rings. Diamond formations framed her champagne-glass breasts, their nipples painfully erect. A strap ran down from each ‘cup’ to a belt that encircled her waist then continued on to connect two more belts around each thigh, one at the very top of her thighs and a second a few inches below. Both of these Heidi had snugged tight enough to squeeze her flesh just a little. It felt like safety, like Eleanor’s embrace.

As she stood before Eleanor, Heidi felt a thrill of exposure, her crotch bared to her lover’s gaze, with only the soft, orange curls of her pubic hair providing a fragile sense of protection. Eleanor had told her to grow it out and it felt wonderfully decadent every time she touched herself now.

After long moments, the elegant woman seated on the sofa finally spoke. “Good girl,” Eleanor intoned, offering Heidi the smile she so coveted. Heidi felt her knees go weak at the praise and let out the breath she had been holding, unconcerned that, of course, Eleanor could see that she’d been holding it too.

“Now, down.”

Heidi squatted before Eleanor’s seated form, then lowered herself to her knees. She knew Eleanor preferred her to go to her knees in stages. She didn’t commit the sin of sitting on her heels, instead she remained upright and placed her palms on her thighs, waiting.

“Stay there.” Eleanor stood and strode purposefully to her bedroom. A moment later she returned with a large, lumpy Christmas stocking. It was the sort you would find in a pet store, with a clear, glossy pocket designed to hold a picture of a beloved companion. This one bore a photo of Heidi. It was from last September. She was looking right into the camera, laughing. Her messy, uneven hair was shockingly bright orange, except for the nearly-bare scalp of her undercut, where the stubble was a rich auburn."

Eleanor carefully placed the stocking before Heidi on the floor, then knelt behind her. Heidi could hardly contain her excitement with her mistress so close. She could feel Eleanor’s hot breath on the bare skin of her shoulders and her neck. Her breasts ached, swollen with need, as she leaned into the promise of Eleanor’s caress while the thrumming in her core intensified, a pulsing hum that vibrated through her entire body.

But Eleanor would ensure she had what she needed. What she deserved. She just needed to be patient.

“Tell me, dear. Have you been naughty, or nice this year?”

Heidi’s mind reeled. What was the correct answer? What would earn her rewards, and what might bring punishment? She had no way of knowing—she’d never been told.

“Oh, sweet girl, you don’t need to think, you just need to answer me.”

“I’ve … been … nice?” Heidi ventured, the tiny hairs on her bare arms standing up in excited anticipation.

“Wonderful. Then why don’t you see what’s inside your stocking?”

Heidi’s mind spun again. She’d answered correctly—hadn’t she? But she’d been given a command, no time to reconsider or to hesitate. She carefully, reverently, removed the first item from the stocking.

A paddle. An impression paddle. In a candy-cane pattern. Heidi’s eyes widened, and her thighs twitched involuntarily, a shiver running through her.

“That’s for you,” Eleanor murmured, her voice a husky growl against Heidi’s earlobe. “I’ll hold it for you while you look at the rest.” Heidi relinquished the paddle without a sound, though the promise it held and her mistress’s clothed body pressing against her naked flesh from behind, it was already more than she could take.

A jewellery box? Oh no! Heidi felt her stomach fill with butterflies. It was the box!

“Open it, my good girl.”

With trembling fingers, Heidi opened the jewellery box, though she already knew the contents so very, very well. A receipt from the campus coffee shop. The first time they’d gone out together. A book of matches with two missing. Eleanor had Heidi use them to light the candles the first time they used wax. The box was full of trivial little reminders of all the important moments they’d shared. She had no idea Eleanor had known about it.

“Have you been naughty, or nice, pet?”

Heidi was beginning to understand the shape of this game. “Nice,” she responded softly, her voice shy and uncertain. She felt foolish. Like a little girl.

“You have,” Eleanor agreed, and Heidi gasped as she felt the paddle caress her bare behind, soft as dandelion fluff. “See, it’s very easy. Now, there’s more.”

Heidi set aside the jewellery box and retrieved the next item from the stocking. As she pulled it free—an ominous weight in her hand—Heidi’s bare skin prickled with gooseflesh. The room was warm but suddenly she was very cold.

“Have you been naughty … or nice, darling?” Heidi couldn’t see her mistress’s face, but she felt sure Eleanor was glaring at the wooden spoon.

“I…” Heidi’s voice barely a squeak. The paddle caressed her buttocks again, its gentle touch both a warning and a promise.

“Words, Petal. You must use words.” Eleanor’s tone had taken on the menacing edge that filled Heidi with equal parts excitement and dread.

“I don’t underst—”

SMACK!

The candy-cane paddle’s sharp crack cut through Heidi’s words, leaving her gasping, tears welling up in her eyes. Her ass flared with pain immediately and she nearly toppled forward, but Eleanor swiftly pulled her upright by her harness. Still kneeling on the floor behind Heidi, Eleanor brought her lips to the sub’s ear once more.

“Heidi. Naughty or nice.”

Heidi’s teeth sank into her lower lip, her mind racing with the consequences of deception, struggling to find the courage to speak the truth. “Naughty,” she choked out. The paddle touched her skin again and she flinched before understanding it was a caress.

“There’s my good girl,” Eleanor breathed into her ear. Her fingertips were playing over Heidi’s bare stomach now, sending an electric thrill all through her body. “Explain.”

No! Heidi thought. She couldn’t confess. She couldn’t … she couldn’t deny Eleanor.

“W-w-wooden,” was all she could manage.

“You’re being very brave right now, my sweet. Now tell me.”

“I can’t,” Heidi felt herself getting light-headed. She couldn’t say these things out loud. Not to Eleanor! But she couldn’t disobey her either!

SMACK!

“I’m trying!” Heidi was gasping for breath, desperate for any way to avoid confessing.

“No trying. Tell me.” Eleanor never raised her voice. She never had to.

“His n-nickname, W-woodenSpoon,” Heidi finally began. The words came easier the more she spoke. She confessed everything. How he was a dom she’d met on VelvetChains, how they’d never met in person but how Heidi had submitted to him online. It was only once, early in the year, before Eleanor and Heidi had fully committed, but the weight of it had grown every time Heidi had kept it from her mistress.

“Please!” Heidi was shivering all over, crying, nearly hyperventilating at the idea that this might cost her Eleanor’s love and care.

Instead, the paddle was set aside, and suddenly Eleanor’s warm, protective arms wrapped around her. Eleanor was in front of her now, hugging her tight, in just the way Heidi loved best. “Shh, shh, shh, shh,” she whispered softly. “There she is. My brave, strong girl. I’m so proud of you.” She kissed each of Heidi’s cheeks softly. “You’re doing so well for me.”

They stayed like that for a long time. Heidi wasn’t sure how long. She’d practised kneeling even when alone in her apartment, and had become very good at it.

Eleanor’s voice was a gentle breeze on a summer’s day, “There’s one more, my flower,” she said, her words dripping with promise as she stood before Heidi, the stocking still on the floor. Heidi’s emotions had been wrung out, leaving her drained, yet somehow renewed. She was a canvas waiting for its next brushstroke.

But she’d been given an instruction.

With trembling fingers Heidi reached into the stocking once more. As her fingers closed around the device inside, Heidi’s mind reeled with confusion, followed by a thrill of shame that left her breathless and eager. She knew that looking up without permission risked another paddle—or something worse. But how could her mistress have known?

“Have you been naughty or nice,” Eleanor asked and her tone, as always, was gleaming marble under ice.

“Naughty,” Heidi responded, her blush colouring even her pale chest as she pulled the black, silicone covered device from the stocking. The electrical cord trailed behind. Then came the carefully wrapped selection of glass electrodes. Her breath caught as she studied the rake, then the mushroom.

“Is this what you wanted from me, my beautiful thing?” Eleanor’s voice was almost bored, but Heidi knew better. She knew in her heart that the wand was a gift for them both.

“Yes.”

Trembling, gasping, truly naked now save for a sheen of sweat, Heidi lay on Eleanor’s bed. She vaguely remembered Eleanor guiding her here at the end of their session, but what she remembered most was the overwhelming love she felt for Eleanor—and the deep, bottomless love Eleanor returned when she surrendered completely.

“Rest, my love, you’ve done wonderfully.” Eleanor returned to the bedroom, wearing nothing but a silk robe now and carrying drinks for both of them. “Drink first—you need electrolytes—then sleep. I have you.”

Knotty

A Quiet Storm

Fri, 12 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The storm.

The light fades from blue to grey to black over the lake. All but the closest trees have been invisible all day as the blizzard turns the world into a light-grey blur. Now, as the wind continues to batter the isolated century home they share, the world shrinks to nothing but their quiet living space. To the quiet living room.

The pen scratches across the page. Stops. Hesitates. Drags a frustrated black line through what came before, rewriting history. Another attempt. Another pause, a tight exhale—the page is crushed in ink-stained fingers and tossed to the floor. The sheet joins its kin, scattered around the writer’s feet like autumn leaves. She glares at the blank, mocking page before her; at the ink staining her fingers—a galling reminder of every line that won’t breathe for her; of the truth the story refuses to reveal.

On the rug before the crackling fire, her lover reads in silence. A forest green blanket beneath, a red minky one draped over her shoulders—cast in a golden glow that makes the writer’s heart ache with love. She peeks over the pages from time to time, eyes full of the soft, steady warmth the writer has come to need more than air itself.

She tries again. The words will come; she just needs to try again. The words don’t come; the fury inside outstrips the storm outside. She crumples another ruined page, then looks again at her lover—the steady one, by the fire. Quiet. Supportive. Patient.

Calm.

In the storm.

The red blanket slips from her shoulders, lips parting in a wordless welcome. She rises, setting aside her useless papers and her inconstant pen. Ink-stained fingers clench unconsciously, her breath trembling as she crosses the room—answering her wife’s silent call. The distance is small, but each step quickens, driven by need and frustration. The eye of her storm turns, the red blanket falling away to reveal only warm, pale skin. The writer falls to her knees. Supplication.

She places her hands on either side of hips she delights in kissing—hips that have inspired her writing for years. Her lover, her wife, responds by hooking thumbs into the waistband of her tights, pushing them down as far as she can. A flurry of movement, and suddenly she’s sitting in her partner’s lap. Her thighs hug her inspiration’s waist, hungry mouth meeting waiting lips in a grounding kiss as unblemished fingers settle to guide the writer’s hips.

The writer makes a quiet, wordless sound of gratitude and need. Gratitude for her love, need for her body. They kiss again, slower, deeper, both moaning softly into the other as their tongues circle and curl and explore. As they part, both are a little surprised at the intensity, at the way she bites the lower lip of her partner. A quiet giggle follows, then smooth, clean fingers with perfectly manicured nails move down over the writer’s belly, through her wiry curls, and over her sex. Already warm. Already eager. The steady one giggles again at the sharp intake of breath and the almost animal way the writer responds, grinding and bearing down with surprising force.

The other hand moves to her hip. The writer’s fingers are always ink-stained, but her hip bears its own ink: two quills shaped into a heart. The muse loves to touch it; loves to kiss it; sometimes just looks at it in the early morning light while the writer sleeps. Now she presses a thumb hard against it and guides her love forward, back, forward again, back again, each cycle a little faster, grinding a little harder against those fingers now deep inside.

The writer’s gasps and sighs are so soft they are almost lost in the sounds of the fireplace and the storm outside. She swallows, parts her lips, and runs her tongue over bottom then top. Her soulful hazel eyes are locked on the reader’s green ones. She rides harder, faster. Her breasts bounce gently with each thrust. She steadies herself with both hands on her lover’s shoulders.

The reader’s hand leaves her hip, her fingers a feather-light touch over the writer’s waist, up her back, beneath her arms. She traces the shape of the writer’s glistening lips, smiling as she catches a glimpse of that wonderful tongue in the firelight. She lifts her chin and stretches her neck again, offering herself, and the writer claims her again. The kiss isn’t slow, nor gentle this time. The kiss is white-hot in its intensity, full of desperate urgency. The muse’s free hand moves down, over the writer’s clavicle and then claims the full, perfect swell of a breast. When she pinches the nipple firmly and gives it a slight twist, the response is immediate and satisfying!

The writer tenses, all of her, the pair of fingers inside her are squeezed and flooded with warmth. The writer’s shuddering, trembling gasps, sobs, giggles, they fill the quiet space with pure joy. The muse holds her—firm but gentle, knowing just how the writer likes to be embraced during these moments. The moments when there’s nothing but warmth and love and the afterglow of intense sex and the anticipation of more to come. When the last of her climax recedes—a wave pulling back from the beach, leaving everything fresh and new—the reader guides her onto the floor, in the middle of the green blanket. She pulls the red one over both of them and snuggles into a honeymoon hug.

Calm.

Knotty

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Fri, 05 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The night air was bitterly cold. It was the first week of December, but this was the sort of weather Alex associated with the depths of winter.

She didn’t care one bit.

Two months ago, on a whim, she’d gone leaf peeping, a guided hike for “city folk” led by Harper. They’d spent every weekend since that one together, and now, tonight, the two women were cuddled together, standing at a chest-high barrel table beneath zigzagging fairy lights, listening to a band perform a mix of standards and holiday songs on a stage somewhere near the temporary skating rink. The Christmas Market was overwrought and overcrowded, and Alex was having the best night of her life.

Every night she’d spent with Harper had been a new “best of her life” night.

It might also have been the steaming, fragrant mulled wines they’d been sampling since arriving. At some point, they’d decided they were going to sample every one on the menu, and while Alex wasn’t regretting it yet, she knew she would be in the morning.

“Another round?” Harper asked, her sun-kissed cheeks practically glowing. From the cold? From the wine? From the company? All of it, Alex decided.

“We should go. I’m so cold I can’t feel my toes!”

Harper laughed softly and threw her thick woollen poncho over Alex’s shoulders as well, drawing Alex into a cosy tent that smelled like woods, smoke, and Harper. “Should’ve worn real boots, City Girl,” she teased gently.

Alex glanced down at her heeled ankle boots with the shiny silver buckles that had looked so cute in the store. “They’re perfectly practical! They’re waterproof!”

Harper didn’t reply with words, just that low, thrummy sound she made deep in her throat whenever she chose to let Alex enjoy a fantasy about life outdoors. Alex was about to protest when she felt Harper’s hand sneaking first up under her coat, then beneath the waist of Alex’s stretch corduroys. How drunk was Harper? … how drunk was she? Maybe “drunk enough”?

“Harper!” she hissed softly. “People will see—”

“Lexi?” The voice sent a chill down Alex’s spine. Andy!

Alex looked up, blushing furiously, noting the way Harper’s questing fingertips had suddenly stilled. “Andy?” she said, incredulous, hoping she didn’t sound too wicked.

Andy. Until September, she and Andy had lived together. Had been a couple since they were high school juniors. Everyone they knew “knew” they were going to get married and raise a family someday.

Until they weren’t. Until Alex figured out why she didn’t want that. Andy was sweet and kind and caring and would only ever be the star of his own story. There’d never be space for Alex. So she left.

And then she met Harper.

Harper only wanted Alex to be the star of her own story.

Who was the woman with Andy?

“Lexi?” felt, rather than heard, Harper ask softly in her ear. Those impossibly warm fingers had resumed their adventure beneath Alex’s waistband.

“Lexi!” Andy seemed genuinely overjoyed at the chance encounter. He manoeuvred himself and his female companion through the crowd, then bellied up to the barrel table Alex and Harper had half-filled with earthenware cups. He gave them only the briefest, but still judgemental, glance. “How are you?”

Alex grew cold at the same time a heat was building below. Thanks to Harper. “H-hey, Andy! H-hi! Merry Christmas!” The last bit came out a little shrill as Harper’s fingers somehow found their way beneath the waist of Alex’s panties, all very hidden by the dim light and the thick, warm poncho slung over them both. Alex still felt fully on display.

“Merry Christmas!” Andy responded almost on instinct. “I, um, heard you had a new … friend?” Poor Andy, he was trying so hard, and he was so unprepared for this. He awkwardly shot a hand out toward Harper. “Andy Travis! Alex’s … Alex and me … I was … hi!”

Harper fixed him with the smile Alex had come to recognise as the one she reserved for the greenest of the city folk who signed up for her hikes. “Harper. Ellison. I’m a park ranger up in Foxlight Highlands State Park. Nice to meet you, Andy.” She practically purred his name as her fingertips found the top of Alex’s dense pubic curls. She gave Andy’s hand a firm shake, then turned her attention to the woman at his side. The intense, attentive look Harper gave this other woman filled Alex with a tiny flare of jealousy. “We haven’t met, I’m Lexi’s girlfriend. You can call me Harper.”

The pretty woman at Andy’s side looked nearly scandalised at the open admission, but recovered herself admirably. She took Harper’s offered hand, gave it a light squeeze, and said softly, “Lindsey. Lindsey Hartwell.”

Harper smiled in an almost predatory manner. “Hi, Lindsey. It’s really fuckin’ cold tonight, huh?”

They made small talk for hours—or so it felt to Alex. Andy kept pretending to be nice, his bland, hollow persona he used around new people on full display; polished and superficial, like a bowl of cold oatmeal that looked comforting but lacked any real warmth or substance.

But Alex was too lost in Harper’s secret touch beneath the heavy poncho to dwell on it. Harper was relentless. The moment she had understood the dynamic, her fingers slipped past the waistband of Alex’s pants, teasing and firm, igniting a molten heat that spread through her body. Every slow, deliberate stroke made her gasp softly, her knees trembling as she struggled to keep her composure.

While Alex, Andy, and Lindsey made small talk, Harper’s hand persisted, unashamed—her fingertips exploring with unyielding purpose, driving Alex to the edge of control. Harper alternated between dipping her index finger deep, deep inside Alex, curling and petting the most sensitive ridges along her “front”, and pinching and twisting her sensitive little nubbin at the top of her pussy. Each touch sent shivers down her spine, her breath hitching as desire pooled painfully low, threatening to drown her in a wave of pleasure she could barely contain.

Harper was revelling in every sensation, her pleasure raw and unmistakable. Alex knew she’d make Harper apologise later—once they were alone—but right now, she was equally consumed, her body trembling under Harper’s electric touch, drowning in the heat, the shame, and the overwhelming rush of desire.

“Y’know what?” Harper suddenly announced, voice loud and unapologetic, enough to turn a few heads at nearby tables. “I’m really sorry, but I think I’ve had too much mulled wine. It’s so good, I just—” She fixed Andy with a look that was half-challenge, half-confession. “I gotta go.”

Her hand was still deep inside Alex’s pants, her middle finger still buried inside her, insistent and sure.

“No!” Alex shot back, sharp and desperate, voice trembling on the edge of protest.

Harper knew with complete certainty, there had never been, nor would there ever be, anyone more perfect for her.

“No,” Alex repeated, voice steadier this time; though Harper was flexing her finger, tormenting those sensitive spots inside her with slow, deliberate teasing. “You can’t drive! I have to take you home. I promised, Andy. Nice to meet you, Lindsey.”

Alex’s toes clenched inside her impractical but irresistibly cute boots as Harper curled her finger again, pressing hard before slowly dragging it out, savouring every second. Alex hoped she wasn’t whimpering, but she really couldn’t tell. Harper knew exactly what to do to send her spiralling over the edge—she was just holding on by a thread.

“You’re such a horny bitch!” Alex hissed, straddling Harper in the pick-up truck as the engine rumbled and the windshield fogged behind her. Alex was naked from the waist down, but the interior of Harper’s truck was warm, inviting, and thick with anticipation. “We could’ve gotten arrested!”

Harper chuckled softly, her fingers curling around Alex’s most sensitive spots again, teasing and demanding. “Your boyfriend and his new girl are going home wishing they were us,” she murmured, her lips brushing Alex’s ear. She stretched lazily, offering her lips as an invitation, eyes hungry.

Alex glared for a moment, then burst into a breathless, heated laugh. “No more stuff that’d get us arrested,” she said, trembling with need. Some nights were just for her—nights where she surrendered entirely to Harper’s touch. She pressed down hard on Harper’s fingers, desperate for the release Harper owed her, body trembling with anticipation.

Harper nipped lightly at Alex’s neck, her voice low, sultry. “I wanna meet this ‘Lexi’, I bet she’s hot.”

Knotty

The Pumpkin Lord's Price

Fri, 31 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Rhiannon weaved through the chaos: mummies, ghosts, an axe-murderer, three sexy nurses, and two witches in addition to herself. She tried to focus on Heather, her forever bestie, but bumped into an inflatable dinosaur, spilling her margarita down the front of her costume. “Aw, noooo!” she blinked, uncomprehending as the cold hit her. A shaky step back brought her to the table, where she knocked a tray of sausage rolls onto the floor. “Oh, nooo,” she wailed, then, somehow, Heather was at her side.

“Hey, RhiRhi,” Heather said gently, wrapping an arm around her. “The party’s kind of winding down. How about I get you a ride home.”

Rhiannon blinked slowly, her cold, wet boobs forgotten. Going home sounded great. Crawling into bed would do her wonders. “You’re the best, thank youuuu,” she slurred, trying to hug her friend.

“No thank you,” Heather responded quickly but kindly, still supporting Rhiannon, holding her phone and deftly avoiding getting margarita on her fairy princess costume all at once.

“Shit, sorry! I made a mess, huh?” Rhiannon looked at herself, then tried to focus on the party as Heather expertly manoeuvred her out.

“It’s fine, let’s just get you home, huh?”

“I’m sorry I wrecked your party!” Hot tears stung Rhiannon’s eyes. “A.J. leaves, I didn’t get that job, my car broke down–”

“That one’s probably good luck,” Heather teased gently.

“That’s what I need,” Rhiannon gasped, excited. “Some good luck. A whole year of good luck. Thaaaat’s what I neeeed.”

Heather had guided her to the front porch. “It’ll turn around soon, babe. Just get a good night’s sleep. Ride’s almost here.”

Rhiannon spied the twelve foot tall figure with the jack-o’-lantern head looming over Heather’s other Halloween decorations. “I really like your pumpkin guy.”

Laughing softly, Heather replied, “Thanks, we call him The Pumpkin Lord.”

“Hey! Pumpkin Lord!” Rhiannon staggered toward the decoration. “Hey! I need some luck! You grant wishes? I’m wishin’ for a whole year of luck!”

“Okay sweetie, let’s just sit and wait for – "

Rhiannon allowed herself be led back toward the porch, then suddenly had a new idea. “He’s huge. I bet he’s really hung!” She tried to turn back, slipping out of Heather’s grasp. “Y’wanna get lucky, Pumpkin Lord? Gimme some luck, an’ you can have whatever you want.” She tried for a sexy pose but ended up falling backward into Heather’s arms.

Rhiannon woke to the sound of leaves rustling, which was strange. She never slept with the windows open and she had no plants. Blinking in the dark – was the power out? she didn’t even see the glow from her clock – and she tried to roll over. Tried, and failed. Her arms were above her head and her wrists would move. Something was wrapped snugly around them. Her ankles too.

Panic shot through her. She jerked hard, but the restraints only tightened against her skin. Vines? She looked up, blinking in the near total darkness. Vines! Fresh and green, coiled up from the mattress, holding her down, squeezing her into the mattress.

“The hell…?”

A rumbling sound cut her off, making her squeak in fright. Half distant thunder, half something massive moving through bushes; menacing, mocking laughter.

From the shadows in the corner of her room, near the foot of her bed, he emerged. Gigantic and only vaguely man-shaped. Instead of a head, he had a jack-o’-lantern crowned with curling vines, grinning with blazing firelight. His carved eyes flared as he looked her over.

“You called to me, witch” he rumbled. He circled the bed, the vines twitching against her skin, tightening as he moved. “You offered yourself. In every way. So I have come.”

“I–I was drunk!”

The ragged vines scraped against her skin as they tightened further and Rhiannon heard the tangled vine-crown he wore scraping the ceiling as the Pumpkin Lord bent over her. “You deny the bargain? You offered yourself in every way.”

Something primal in her quailed. She shivered, looking up at him. She was afraid, yes, but overpowering that was a molten ache low in her belly. She whispered: “What if I deny it?”

“Bad luck. Rot. Misery.” Somehow his carved grin widened. “Should you honour it … bliss.”

The vines snaked up her legs, past her knees, rough and sensual along her thighs. Her heart hammered in her chest, terror and desire blending indistinguishably. Rhiannon swallowed hard, chest heaving. “Yes.”

He bent over her, one clawed hand pressing the vines deeper into her skin until she whimpered. His voice crackled like logs in fire, “Your fear feeds me. Your arousal feeds you. We both win, little witch.”

She felt the bed sink as he joined her. One knee between her legs, the other on the outside. The darkness that shrouded him parted revealing an undeniably masculine body, but constructed from braided roots and vines and not to any human scale. Rhiannon gasped and, in spite of herself, spread her legs a little more. The co-mingled scent of smoke and pumpkin and earth gave her an inexplicable thrill. Already she could feel her need pooling beneath her on the bed, soaking the sheets.

“It has been too long I’ve waited, witch,” he growled, each syllable like an electric current through her body, teasing her desperate sex. The vines crept further up her thighs and – almost tenderly – parted her lips, one even moved further up to caress her clit, drawing a wanton groan from her. “I am honoured to serve…”

“Wha–?” Rhiannon managed, suddenly confused, but then the Pumpkin Lord had revealed … what? Where a man’s cock would be was something unutterably obscene. Pale yellow with stripes so dark green they could have been black, covered from tip to root in bulbous nodules and bumps and ridges, the tip adorned with six wide, knobbly wings. dispersed around the tip of his phallus. A gourd! she thought wildly, nearly giggling before he thrust the monstrous appendage into her.

“Aaaaah~” she gasped loudly, her toes clenched into little fists, almost painfully so, as she tried to ride the Pumpkin Lord. The tip was too big, too strangely shaped, too uneven, as the horrific monster thrust again and again Rhiannon could do little more than whimper and struggle against her bonds. She so desperately wanted to claw at his back, not to deter him but to drive him harder. He pounded her hips, his gourd-cock plunging deep into her cunt and each time he reached his full reach the flared tip seemed to throb inside her, and Rhiannon tried desperately to clench her Kegel muscles on him. She needed to milk him, she needed whatever monster-cum he would pump into her and she needed it now!

“I want every hole, little witch,” The Pumpkin Lord rumbled as he pulled out of her, causing Rhiannon to whimper with shameless need. He trailed a syrupy orange liquid between her cunt and his gourd-cock, she dimly wondered if that was his precum.

“Yes,” she groaned as she rolled her hips, desperately trying to rub herself against his bizarre member. She needed it, she was close, and he could push her over the edge with barely a –

“No,” he seemed to reconsider and Rhiannon nearly broke into tears at the implication. Instead, though, he entered her slippery passage once more, filling her so much she could hardly breathe. “I have no need to rush,” the loamy, pumpkin-ish breath washed over her.

Her body betrayed her, shuddering under his control. Every pull of the vines made her writhe harder, every scrape of their rough fibres pushed her closer to something she didn’t want to admit. Every thrust of that horrible, bulbous gourd-cock filled her with dread. She should have been horrified. She was horrified. But she was also burning, every nerve alive with sensation she couldn’t deny.

His ember-eyes blazed as he studied her, a king pleased with his tithe. “You’ll remember this night,” he promised. “And when the year is sweet, you’ll know it was earned.”

The vines cinched tighter, locking her down completely. She let out a strangled cry that melted into something breathless, wanton, shameless.

“Good,” he growled. “Thank you, witch.”

By the time dawn glowed faint at the window, she was spent. The vines slowly uncoiled, leaving her wrists raw and her thighs trembling.

He leaned down, heat radiating from his carved grin, ember-eyes flickering low. “This year is yours. Next October…” His grin widened. “We will bargain again.”

Her lips trembled, throat dry. Shame should have drowned her, but the word that left her mouth was soft, aching, hungry: “Please.”

Knotty

Pumpkin Spice

Fri, 17 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Lightning split the night sky, casting the rain-slick sidewalk in stark relief, startling pedestrians with the ferocity of the crack. It was close, no doubt one of the taller buildings that loomed over the street like shadowy sentinels. The rain hammered mercilessly against the windows of The Perkatory Café, as if the storm were a living thing trying to claw its way inside.

The door swung open on hinges that sounded to be in pain as Lydia stumbled in, being chased by the vengeful storm. She’d covered her head with her ancient satchel and as she forced the door closed – against the objections of the storm – shaking the rain from it to the floor.

“Hey Lydia!” Rowan called from behind the counter. The chaotic barista was only an employee but Lydia couldn’t remember a time when they weren’t working. The tall barista had their sleeves rolled up, showing off intricate sleeve tattoos on each arm, patterns of densely packed sigils they swore made the coffee better.

The café itself was cozy like the witch’s cabin in Hansel and Gretel. Everything slightly too warm, too inviting, it felt ominously homey. Behind the counter, the shelves were overburdened with a collection of mugs, no two alike, and everywhere one looked were glass jars holding lit candles. The chalkboard above the counter read:

Try Our Haunted Latte! Taste The Moans!

Lydia squinted at it, wrinkling her nose as she considered. Rowan, Lydia concluded. They just couldn’t help themselves with the bad jokes. “That’s filthy.”

Rowan seemed to appear behind the counter, directly in front of Lydia, a self-satisfied grin on their lips. “That’s what I was going for,” they said. “Want one?”

“Haunted?” Sceptical.

“Or filthy,” Rowan shrugged, teasing.

Sighing in defeat, but happy to be out of the storm and talking to her favourite coffee-slinger in the world, she said, “Surprise me.”

Rowan gave their favourite customer a slow once-over. Probably reading the energy clinging to me from the rain, Lydia thought, not unkindly. “Haunted it is.” They turned to the espresso machine which made a low, contented hum.

The latte arrived in a mug the size of a cauldron. It was steaming, golden-brown, and the foam moved! It formed a spiral that shimmered and pulsed; a heartbeat.

Lydia regarded Rowan, raising her eyebrows,“That’s not … normal, right?”

Rowan shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Lydia raised the cup to her lips. Rowan had a knack for brewing exactly the right temperature for Lydia. She closed her eyes and took her first sip. Heat, sweetness, spice and … something else. Something velvety smooth and teasing that slid over her tongue and down her throat like a promise.

The tension left Lydia’s shoulders, and her cheeks flushed as something deep inside sighed.

She sipped again, the air shimmered. Lydia’s thoughts were drifting to … bodies. She opened her eyes slowly to find Rowan smiling at her, expectant, and Lydia’s cheeks flushed more. She was thinking about touching, teasing, tasting … not Rowan, not anyone, really, just the idea of …

The espresso machine exhaled a long, steamy rumble.

Lydia blinked in surprise, struggling to ignore the heat not just in her cheeks now but also further down. “Did the machine just … purr?”

Rowan laughed softly, “He does that sometimes.”

“He?”

“Hmm? Oh, that’s Obadiah. Former barista. Real nasty accident with the steam wand. He’s still committed to customer satisfaction, though!”

Lydia laughed, “Rowan!”

The slowly throbbing spiral in the foam shifted; now there were faint lips, curling in a smile. Lydia stared, gobsmacked. The lips dispersed back into the pulsing spiral, and the warmth surged again. In Lydia’s mouth, over her chest; like hands caressing her lips, her breasts, down her arms, her hips…

“Rowan," Lydia kept her voice perfectly even, “don’t panic, but I think your latte’s touching me.”

Rowan’s eyes flicked up. “He’s friendly.”

“He’s fresh!”

The espresso machine let out a hiss that sounded like laughter.

“You can tell him to stop,” Rowan offered, but Lydia shook her head quickly and took another sip as she sat at the bar. The over-warm, over-cozy air in the coffee house felt thicker somehow, there was a sensual charge that made the tiny hairs on Lydia’s arms stand up. Lydia sat perfectly still, clutching her mug like a life-preserver in a sea of cinnamon-scented lust.

“Okay,” she said, mostly to herself. “It’s fine. Totally fine. It’s not even real, just the caffeine and the storm and—”

The chair beneath her shifted. It didn’t move, it caressed her butt.

“Rowan?”

The barista’s head appeared above the counter. “Hmm?”

“My chair’s grabbing me.”

“Oh. Sorry, he gets really touchy at night.”

“He?”

“Obadiah,” Rowan said, as if discussing the weather.

The espresso machine gave a low, throaty groan and Lydia was sure she could feel something delicately caressing her ankles. She tried to stand, but warmth pulsed through her and her legs already felt weak. She bit her lip trying to focus on anything other than her growing need.

A couple at the corner table laughed too loudly, another had started kissing passionately, heedless of the other customers. At a booth near the back two women had opened their male companion’s shirt and were licking his chest.

“Okay,” Lydia said, breathless. “This is weird.”

“Define ‘weird’,” Rowan was stirring a drink with uncommon focus. Lydia thought their voice might be a little higher pitched that normal.

“Everything’s vibrating.”

Rowan their face a little flushed as well. “It’s supposed to do that.”

Lydia squirmed in the very friendly chair. “Excuse me?”

Before Rowan could answer, the lights flickered. The speakers pulsed with static for a second, then the lo-fi jazz was replaced with something sultry and full of bass.

Soft, amused, distinctly masculine, a voice that seemed to come from nowhere said, You missed me, didn’t you? Lydia jumped. “Nope. Nope. Note a bit. Don’t know you, latte ghost.”

You do, the voice purred. Every lonely night you wished someone would warm you up… I was listening from the grinder.

“Gross,” she gasped, still trying to ignore her building lust. “Also kinda hot?”

You smell like rain. I loved customers like you.

Rowan was bent over the counter now, their head hanging low as they supported themselves on their elbows. “He’s been like this since October ‘07. The night he w-went out miii–” they gasped then went on, “mid-doppio. T-tragic.”

The steam wand was hissing constantly now, filling the café with humid warmth, fogging the windows. Out of the billowing clouds appeared a shape. A torso outlined in mist, eyes glowing faintly amber, a smile like a burn mark.

Every breath Lydia took made the air taste of espresso and something darker. She wasn’t scared. She was aware. Aware of skin, of pulse, of sounds filling the café; sounds normally reserved for bedrooms. Shy, curious sounds, sounds of discovery, of exploration. Laughter deepened, sighs lengthened, limbs tangled under tables.

Lydia gasped, her toes curling inside her very sensible flats. “Is this happening?”

Rowan, red-faced, grinning, tried to shrug as they squirmed behind the counter. “It’s an i-immersive experience.”

A decorating pen in a half-full frothing pitcher clattered in approval. Lydia half-laughed, half-gasped. “You should charge extra for this!”

“Please don’t give him ideas,” Rowan groaned, looking like they may be about to lose their footing.

Steam filled the café like fog at a séance. A bar stool toppled with enthusiasm. The couple who had been kissing a moment ago were now standing, facing each other, hands down one another’s pants. One of the two women at the back had disappeared, the other broke her kiss with the man long enough to look down in horror, “Stop it! You’re vegan!”

Don’t fight it, the ghost murmured. I just want to feel alive again.

Lydia’s laughter melted into a shiver. Unseen hands pulled her panties to the side, ghostly fingers finding her sensitive bean, sending a thrill straight to her core. “Buy me dinner first?” she giggled wildly.

Done. As Lydia felt a new sensation between her legs, one that immediately brought to mind other lovers, other places, she was dimly aware of a charcuterie snack box leaving the display and approaching her, completely unsupported.

Dawn came slowly, softly, filling the day with new promise. The storm was gone, the windows were still fogged, but the café was empty save for Lydia and Rowan. Everyone else had departed in groups of twos or threes during the night.

Lydia was on her third mug of black coffee, sitting at the bar once again, Rowan leaning against the bar nursing their own strong, black brew. “That got steamier than usual,” they said, giving Lydia a playful grin.

Lydia snorted into her mug, “I’ll help clean this up before someone calls the health inspector, but you owe me!”

The espresso machine released one long, satisfied hiss. Rowan hip-bumped Lydia gently as they started preparing for the morning rush.

Knotty