F_m on Knotty Biscotti

Pride and Prejudice and Power

Fri, 05 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Leaning back against the cold marble pillar, Elizabeth Bennet surveyed the gilded ballroom. She was a splash of crimson in a silk dress that became her figure, her identity concealed by the fox-faced mask. The masquerade was the most celebrated event of the season—for a singular circle—and the most perilous. A wrong word, a careless touch, and the whole of England’s social elite could unravel.

Upon the dance floor bodies twirled and dipped in a raucous waltz. The assembly presented an odd mixture of attire: billowing lutestring, sparkling satin, and, in some cases, little more than oiled leather. Feathers, lace and papier-mâché masks concealed faces; yet Elizabeth sensed the pall over the room. Laughter, cries of delight and shock arose and echoed off the lofty, arched ceiling, but it was not as joyous as in former years.

The rumours were now too generally circulated to be ignored. The Prince Regent’s agents were steadily closing the net about that ‘Detestable dinner-club of Sapphists and Catamites.’ Even this may be their last fête.

She considered carefully each person in attendance, seeking not a partner but information. She set herself to learn who was an ally and who might turn. One attracted her notice. Standing somewhat apart from the crowd was a gentleman of remarkable height, whose lavish silver-and-black wolf mask rendered him no less conspicuous. Elizabeth knew the familiar set of his shoulders, the easy arrogance of his stance. She strode toward him, the heels of her boots clacking loudly.

The Wolf noted her approach and as she drew to a respectable distance he bowed. “Good evening, Miss Fox,” said he, extending his hand. Beneath the mask, his dark eyes glittered.

Elizabeth declined the courtesy. “I don’t believe you belong here.”

He stood erect once more. “A fox chasing off a wolf?” His voice was buoyant, but also held something else. Excitement? “I am intrigued.” He adjusted his posture to reveal the tightly braided leather cords he wore around his wrist.

Elizabeth understood the cords at once, and allowed herself a small smile. So that was how it stood. She drew closer. “Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy started visibly, though his composure was immediately restored. “Miss Bennet,” he replied, having returned to his ‘place.’ “An unexpected pleasure!” The steadiness of his manner vexed her exceedingly.

“Indeed? I have of late heard a great many accounts of you, Mr. Darcy. Accounts painting you as a villain in our little community.”

“You mustn’t credit every report that reaches you.”

“What of the report that it is you who turns the Prince Regent’s ear against us?”

Darcy drew a deep breath, filling his chest and pressing against Elizabeth’s breasts. “I’ve been turning the Prince Regent’s ear away from us, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth scoffed. “Mr. Wickham paints a different picture.”

“Wickham,” Darcy spat, “is a traitor to our cause. He thrives on suspicion and discord. He needs upheaval so he may appear their saviour.”

They were drawing attention. Elizabeth snatched his shirt-collar and pulled. Astonishingly, he had the sense to follow. Perhaps he really was one of them?

Safely hidden in a darkened side chamber—appointed for the masquerade, of course—she unmasked him.

For a moment neither spoke. Stripped of the silver and black, there remained only Mr. Darcy.

“Why should I believe you?” she demanded.

“Because you can see through a lie, Miss Bennet. You always have.”

Taking a step back, Elizabeth found her voice of command. “What, then, is the truth of you, Mr. Darcy?”

For perhaps the first time in her recollection, he appeared uncertain. A faint colour rose in his cheeks. “I’m a man who has loved you three years now. I’ve stood silent guard while you fought this battle, serving how I could, in hope you would someday see me.”

She took a deep breath. “Then let me see you, Mr. Darcy.”

He smiled—a small, vulnerable thing—and began to undress.

The coat was first, then gloves, his waistcoat, layer after layer revealing a little more of him. His pale skin seemed to glow in the half-light. Elizabeth touched his sculpted chest, letting her nails tease his nipples and drag slowly through his dark chest hair.

“Kneel.” He blinked, uncertain. She set her hands on her hips. “Must I repeat myself?”

He sank slowly to his knees, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Good boy,” she whispered, caressing his cheek. This was Elizabeth’s natural role; and yet to see Mr. Darcy upon his knees before her produced an intoxication she had not anticipated. He had bared everything to her, and she had offered nothing in return.

“Safeword?”

“Netherfield.” No hesitation. That insufferable man!

This would be more diverting than she’d hoped.

“Wonderful,” she began and her voice was a low rumble. She selected a silk curtain tie-back from the tools that had been placed in the room by the event’s organisers. She let it dangle, trailing the tassels over his shoulders and down his back. “Stand.”

He stood.

The first blow across his back was restrained. The silk rope and knot didn’t break his skin, but the lashes were firm enough to leave bright red trails. She paused between each, waiting for the word, while relishing the way he trembled. He grunted with each kiss of the rope, and when he finally took a half-step away, flinching, Elizabeth stopped.

She was nearly undone by the sudden rush of pride. He took it, every blow. He’d clenched his jaw, balled his fists, even cried out more than once, but he took it. This was a man who could endure, and he was hers.

“You’ve done very well, indeed,” she purred as she pressed herself to his reddened back. The heat of his welts against Elizabeth’s silk dress made her nipples stiffen. “Do you truly want to be mine, Mr. Darcy?” She hugged him from behind, holding the rope out before him.

His hands were trembling as he accepted the troth. “My fondest wish.” His voice quavered.

“Then you are mine, Fitzwilliam Darcy.” She placed her hands on his hips and pulled him against her. “I feel generous,” she purred as her hands roamed over his abdomen, tracking a trail of hair southward from his navel. He gasped as she reached beneath his cock with both hands. “Mine,” she reminded him softly as she cradled his stones in one hand while she curled the fingers of her other around his hard length.

Darcy’s head rolled back, resting on Elizabeth’s shoulder. His cheek brushed hers, behind her mask, but he seemed lost to anything but her movements below. She stroked slowly, tip to root and back again, but she soon sped up. “You’re leaking,” she murmured approvingly, and adjusted her strokes that she might anoint her fingers with the wetness he had begun to weep. She continued so until she felt a tightening of his stones, and his length give a fresh and telling start.

“Do you want to cum, Fitzwilliam?” She stopped moving. “Do you want to spill yourself for me?”

“God yes!” He sounded on the verge of tears.

“Then ask properly.”

His chest heaved and his abdomen shuddered. “Please, Miss Bennet! Please allow me to cum! I beg!”

Elizabeth resumed, her thumb circling the head at the crest of each stroke, squeezing his stones each time she reached the base. Darcy’s body trembled on the edge of release.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, cum for me, you arrogant creature! Let me see you fall apart.”

Darcy’s orgasm was announced with a guttural roar. She held him, hugging tight, as he convulsed, his seed arced to the floor, then flowed over her fingers in hot, sticky pulses. When it was over, she lowered him to the floor. He collapsed against her, his face buried in her bodice.

Elizabeth stroked his hair, her fingers tangling in the damp strands, while Darcy clung to her. Eventually, she disentangled herself from him, standing up and offering a hand to help him to his feet. “You are mine now,” she whispered, her eyes locked onto his. “I would see you at Longbourn House two mornings hence. For breakfast. We have much to discuss.”

Speaking thus, Elizabeth quitted the chamber and paused in the hall, the want still banked low, unspent and entirely hers. She listened to the mirthful sounds from the ballroom for a very long time.

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

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