Oral on Knotty Biscotti

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

Valentine's Spice

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

“Hey everyone! BooBuster is telling me dinner’s waiting on me so I’m gonna stop the stream here! Thanks so much for hanging out with me today! We’ll do another one again soon!”

The chat flared to life, they wanted BooBuster on cam, they wanted her to wave, they wanted to know what was for dinner. Hazel—TwitchWitch to her fans—laughed, waved and shut down the streaming program.

“I didn’t even choose that name!” Lena said, drily, from the doorway to the little room they’d set aside for video editing and Hazel’s recent streaming kick.

“You love it,” Hazel brushed past Lena on her way to their modest dining room, going up on her tiptoes to kiss Lena’s lips at the same time.

“You love it,” she countered, but she was laughing softly now, “because it lets you say ‘boob’ on every video without getting demonetised.”

“Shush! What’d you make me?”

“Oh my GOD, babe! What’s in this?” Hazel scooped another forkful of risotto primavera into her mouth, making sounds of absolute joy.

Lena beamed. She adored Hazel’s praise, it gave her a little flutter in her belly every time; maybe a little more than a little flutter. “Same old recipe, Haze,” she replied, though she immediately knew that wasn’t quite true. “No, actually, I added a bit of that weird spice you left on the counter. It wasn’t labelled but I took a little taste and it’s pretty good. Maybe that’s it?”

Hazel looked simultaneously uncomfortable and confused. She was feeling good. Really good. Like, not-eating-dinner-with-your-girlfriend-on-Valentine’s-Day good, more like after-dinner-with-your-girlfriend-on-Valentine’s-Day good. She tried to tamp down those … feelings for the moment. “What’re you talking about? I didn’t buy any spice.”

Lena paused, her mouth full of the creamy pasta and perfectly steamed veggies. She thought, chewed more, then swallowed. “Yeah, y’did. At the farmers’ market last weekend.” The look on Hazel’s face was unreadable now, so she went on, getting herself another forkful of the risotto at the same time—to hell with being polite, this really was the best risotto she’d ever made, “In that weird, eggplant-shaped bottle? Or mushroom? Whatever it is, the weird one.”

Hazel’s eyes went wide. “Babe,” she said softly, then swallowed and broke into wild laughter.

“What?” Lena couldn’t decide if she was relieved or annoyed by Hazel’s reaction. But she also couldn’t understand why she was getting another forkful of risotto.

“That’s not spice! Oh shit! You put magical aphrodisiac in our food!” Hazel’s giggles left her nearly breathless.

Lena squirmed awkwardly in her seat, she caught herself stroking her crotch through her jeans and glared down at her risotto. “Haze, did you buy ground mealworm from a spinster because she told you it was magic?” She tried to sound like she was scolding Hazel, but the growing need between her legs was betraying her.

“Dunno,” Hazel replied as she stood up from the table. “But I’m hornier than I’ve ever been. You?” She giggled again, but this time it was something…more sultry.

“I’m always horny for you,” Lena murmured, feeling her face grow hot. She was already unbuttoning her jeans under the table.

Hazel made a ‘mmm’ sound in agreement as she walked around the table. She was taking her time, doing that sexy-walk that always made Lena want to grab her hips and squeeze. When she finally reached Lena’s side of the table Hazel ran two fingertips over Lena’s lips. “Mmm, look at you…” she purred, looking down at Lena’s thin silk blouse. Lena couldn’t take her eyes off Hazel, off Hazel’s hips, specifically. The blouse—Lena’s favourite because it was Hazel’s favourite on her—wasn’t tight exactly but it was tight enough that Lena’s nipples, stiff little peaks, were standing out proudly beneath it. Lena rarely wore a bra and just now she was very glad of it.

Hazel took Lena’s hands in hers, gave them a gentle squeeze then tugged her out of the chair. They crashed into each other, Lena’s lithe, runner’s body colliding wonderfully with Hazel’s soft, beautiful curves. Their lips parted before their mouths met, tongues thrusting deep, exploring with desperate hunger. When Hazel broke the kiss to gasp for air, Lena lightly bit her lip, then laughed at Hazel’s expression.

“Getting rid of these.” Hazel’s voice was thick with lust as she carefully removed Lena’s glasses and set them on the table. “I won’t need ’em where I’m going.” Lena struggled frantically to get her jeans off. Hazel came to her rescue, steadying her until they were cast off. A second later, her panties followed while Hazel unbuttoned Lena’s shirt. She threw it back over Lena’s shoulders then descended on Lena’s nipple, sucking the achingly erect tip deep into her mouth, petting it with her tongue.

“Fuuuuuck, Haze,” Lena groaned. Her hands had first moved to her crotch, desperate for release, but she quickly changed her mind and instead took the opportunity to yank Hazel’s yoga pants and cotton panties down, exposing her ass to the cool apartment air. Hazel moaned her approval as she continued suckling and grabbed both of Lena’s ass-cheeks with her hands. “Stop, stop-stop-stop!” she hissed suddenly and Hazel released Lena’s tit with an audible pop, a thin trail of drool connecting her lower lip to Lena’s bud.

“Here,” Lena followed up instantly, and gently pushed Hazel to the table. The table creaked beneath her weight as Lena half-guided, half-lifted her onto the surface. “There, perfect.” Lena knelt, opened Hazel’s legs wide, and buried her face in Hazel’s fat, glistening pussy. She lapped all around Hazel’s entrance, drinking down the creamy arousal and moaning far louder than she intended. Satisfied, she pushed her tongue deep inside, wiggling against Hazel’s walls as she sucked. Hazel began rocking her hips and Lena moaned again at the pure joy of having Hazel’s mons squishing against her nose.

For her part, Hazel tried to move the dishes, glasses, and cutlery aside, but when Lena started eating her out, she was lost. “Baaaaabe,” she called out, trying and failing to get a grip on Lena’s short hair. “God-FUCK, that feels good!” Hazel’s voice was high, trembly and loud. She wasn’t normally loud but her senses had been turned up to eleven. She tore off her sweatshirt and hurled it toward the bedroom, causing the table to shake and groan again. “Fuck, babe, fuck meeeee! I’m gonna–suck my clit! Please! Fucking, please!”

Lena was more than happy to oblige. She pulled back, trailing saliva and pussy-juice in long ropes from her chin. “I gotcha, Haze.” And then her mouth was on Hazel again. She wrapped her lips firmly around Hazel’s pearl, then gently pinched it with her teeth and flicked her tongue over the tip, drawing exactly the sort of whimpering sobbing shudder from her girlfriend she’d been expecting. Hazel wasn’t using words now, just cries and gasps and grunts as she barrelled toward her climax. Before she reached it, Lena slipped two fingers back into Hazel’s dripping hole and began pumping. She knew exactly where to find Hazel’s g-spot and she petted it relentlessly.

Hazel screamed and locked her ankles behind Lena’s back as she started cumming. Her head swam and she rocked ever harder against Lena’s fingers pounding into her while Lena’s tongue and teeth did their magic on her little pearl. She made a sound that was a thready ululation as she heard utensils clatter to the floor, then the bread basket. Lena finally offered some mercy, no longer thrusting, just staying there with her fingertip pressed against Hazel’s most sensitive spot. Her thighs twitched, her pussy throbbed around Lena’s fingers, and she sighed deeply.

Hazel’s vision blurred—and then the third finger entered her. Lena was picking up the pace again; growling, the sound vibrating through Hazel’s crotch in a way that she’d never felt before. “Oh, fuck, yeah, do it, just like that! Keep—”

She didn’t get to finish her thought, there was a voice in the hall, just outside their door. “Hey, keep it down in there!” Both women stopped for a beat, then Lena began thrusting even harder, faster, the wet sounds of their sex getting ever louder while the table wobbled. Something small and metallic bounced across the floor.

Lena finally released Hazel’s clit with a soft ~~pffah~~ and pulled all three fingers from Hazel’s slit. Hazel squirmed in protest, trying to wiggle across the table to chase Lena’s fingers—and then the table went. Food, glasses and plates crashed across the floor.

“Holy shit, Haze, are you okay?” Lena stood over her, her fingers, mouth, cheeks and chin covered in Hazel’s sex juices, her thighs glistening with her own slick, and she had such a look of concern on her face that Hazel burst out in a fit of giggles.

“Get down here and sit on my face!” she ordered, desperate to drink Lena’s nectar.

“I’m gonna call the Super!” another voice shouted from the hallway.

Lena grinned, stood over Hazel’s head, then lowered herself down. Her pussy was just below Hazel’s chin and her face hovered over Hazel’s well-used cunt. She began licking Hazel clean, from clit to ass-cheeks, making loud, animal sounds of pleasure.

Hazel gripped Lena’s perfectly toned ass cheeks again and pulled them apart, exposing her delicate little rosebud. She felt Lena shiver with anticipation. Hazel lifted her head and placed a wet, lingering kiss there, then moved her right hand. Two fingers slid easily between Lena’s sloppy folds. Hazel’s thumb began circling Lena’s clit. “Y’ready?” Hazel asked, her voice gravelly. Lena simply licked harder, and further down. “Good.”

Hazel began licking a circle around Lena’s asshole, gently nudging and probing at the beautifully puckered ring. She didn’t know how long she carried on like that, but before long she was also finger-fucking Lena’s pussy, stroking her clit with increasingly wet and firm thrusts, and when she heard Lena’s plaintive call for release, Hazel relented. Her tongue bore down on Lena’s sphincter, wiggling and worming and pushing harder and harder until she was finally inside. She curled the tip and pulled back out, then worked her way back in again as Lena’s first cataclysmic orgasm arrived.

Orgasms chained—Lena convulsing, squirting over Hazel’s breasts; Hazel shuddering, her juices trailing down her legs, it became a blur of lust and bliss and connection. Their cat, Egon, emerged once, only to flee when Lena kicked over a chair in the throes of ecstasy. Voices continued—occasionally—to threaten calls to the landlord, to bylaw enforcement, to the police, but no knock at the door interrupted them.

They lay entwined amid the ruin, bodies sticky and sated, the whole apartment reeking of sex and spices. Egon had finally emerged from safety and sniffed the air warily.

“That was apocalyptic,” Lena murmured, nuzzling Hazel’s neck.

“You were outta control,” Hazel whispered back. “I kinda liked it. I’m telling that nice old lady at the market she really knows her stuff.”

Knotty

The Hall of the Ice Queen

Fri, 09 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

In Juvielle’s fifth Year of the Owl, she had been the Greenwhisper of Little Stoneleaf hardly six seasons. Oviña had declared her time was done after the Green Winter and had chosen Juvielle to guide the village, bless the crops, and direct the harvest. Oviña had returned to the green before the first frost, so perhaps she had been right.

Juvielle had been born in the Year of the Owl, or so Grandpère told her; Mère had left in her coming and Père had left before that. The Year of the Owl wasn’t like the Year of the Flood or the Year of the Fallowfield. The Year of the Owl was when it was, prepared or not.

The Year of the Owl ended. Crops, people, families.

Communities.

Looking up to the sky, the flat, dull grey of a poorly tended ploughshare. She drew a deep breath, then coughed as the icy air stung her lungs and made her eyes water. The next treeline wasn’t far now. It would be warmer there, in the embrace of the slumbering forest.

She snugged her ceinture fléchée around her waist, binding her cloak tight against her thin frame. “Nechta,” she whispered to the killing cold, and resumed her forward march through thigh-high snow.

It had been three weeks since Juvielle had left Little Stoneleaf. She should have left at least a week sooner than that, but she had denied it to herself. It couldn’t be The Owl. She wasn’t ready! She didn’t know how to prepare for The Owl!

She left before the turning of the year, when daylight finally began to linger. Before the Midwinter Feast. It would be a paltry feast this year, anyway. She would not have missed much in the way of celebration. It was the cruellest of Winter’s jests that as the days began to grow longer, the cold grew stronger; mean.

Juvielle suddenly looked around in confusion. All around, absolute darkness. How many hours had she been walking after reaching the next forest? In her memory was a hole. There was frozen, snow-packed plain, then there was frozen, snow-dappled forest trail, and then…this?

She couldn’t see the sky for the forest canopy, but the way her body ached told her the sun had not set recently, it was hours gone to its slumber. She searched around her for familiar signs, any sort of hint that might tell her even what direction she had been walking, but there was nothing. Even the trees seemed strange, familiar bark and needle and dried leaf that somehow weren’t.

And then she heard it; a sound; a song; voices! Raised in song! She thought she recognised the melody, if not the words. The sort of song that would be sung at the Welcoming of the Dawn after the feast!

Impossibly, she found the strength to run.

The voices had dwindled to distant echoes before Juvielle could locate them, but in her pursuit she found something truly impossible. Rising from a natural clearing, a tower of pure, luminous blue ice. She stopped at the edge of the clearing. The tower was impossibly tall, blocking out the stars above, and somehow, she had arrived exactly at the base of a wide, low stair leading to towering double doors.

“Nechta,” she whispered again, steadying her resolve.

The doors opened, smooth and silent, at her touch. Not locked. As if she were expected. Invited.

The hall beyond the doors was bright, and so warm! After so long in the elements, surely anything would feel warm, but Juvielle found herself first loosening her ceinture fléchée, then opening her cloak. It was too warm here for so much clothing.

“Hello?” she called, sounding to her ears like a nervous child rather than a grown woman, Greenwhisper of Little Stoneleaf, no less! Everyone she’d ever known depended on her now! “Queen Nechta? I–” she coughed nervously and started again, trying to sound confident. “I s–seek an audience with Queen Nechta.”

A sound—a voice?—from further down the hall.

The hall was bathed in a soft, ethereal light, despite the absence of visible lamps. It was as if the tower had simply decided to be lit like a field at midday. It was far too long to be within the tower she had found in the clearing, she realised, a trickle of fear running down her back. Finally, she arrived at another set of doors, open, revealing a wide, circular room beyond. It had columns toward the centre, rising up to a ceiling she couldn’t see from this angle, and in the middle a bed, piled with furs and cushions. Strangest of all, the columns and the walls were nothing but mirrors.

“Queen Nechta?” she asked softly as her heart hammered in her chest. It was far too warm now, Juvielle felt a trickle of sweat running down her cheek and so she loosened her ceinture fléchée enough for her to slip out of her cloak, leaving it in a pile on the polished-ice floor. She snugged the wrap around her waist again and stepped into the room.

“I come with respect,” Juvielle began softly while nervous butterflies filled her belly. “I must—” and then she had no words.

Her reflection, in the mirror-clad column to her right, was no longer moving with her. It smiled warmly, knowingly at her. Reflection then turned away and shed her tunic. Juvielle’s eyes widened as she stared at her own naked back, her hair caressing her shoulders. Reflection looked over her shoulder at Juvielle, removed her ceinture fléchée, and stepped out of her trubhás, leaving both the sash and her leg coverings behind.

“What—” Juvielle whispered as her reflection embraced another figure—shadowy and indistinct. They kissed, then again. Spectral hands moved on Reflection’s behind, squeezing and lifting, and Juvielle felt a new stirring as she watched this unfold. Reflection’s caresses soon shifted to direction. Her shadow-lover lowered themselves to their knees. Reflection’s hands settled on their head, and they began a most intimate dance. Juvielle watched intently, one hand gliding absently between her own legs, beneath the trousers she still wore. Her other hand drifted upward, and just before her trembling fingertips touched the strange mirror, Reflection turned her head again, locked eyes with Juvielle, then succumbed to an orgasm more intense than Juvielle herself could ever remember.

She stepped away, heated and panting softly, then moved deeper. The next column was also Juvielle, but this Juvielle was naked, tied to a tree in an orchard she didn’t recognise. Reflection was helpless, exposed, and Juvielle’s breathing grew ragged as her desire built. The mirror was showing her a place near harvest, with golden sunbeams dappled on Reflection’s bare skin—her stiff nipples, her chestnut-brown curls crowning her pussy.

Another figure appeared from somewhere behind or beyond the mirror and approached Reflection. The figure, again, was insubstantial, difficult to focus on despite the afternoon light. It moved toward Reflection with a pair of wild roses. Reflection’s expression was one of pure love and absolute trust as her attention turned toward her companion. Juvielle watched as the rose petals teased and kissed all of Reflection’s most sensitive areas, as the thorns first grazed nipples, lips, and thighs, then did more—drawing shivers, gasps, and cries from Reflection. When one thorn became a switch against Reflection’s hip, Juvielle moaned with desire. Her fingers were slick with her own juices, though she didn’t remember touching herself.

The next column was much more direct. Juvielle was slowly dancing with a woman. She was taller than Juvielle’s reflection, a hand-width, at least. Slim but not skinny, as winter had rendered everyone in Little Stoneleaf. Achingly beautiful. Her skin had only the slightest hint of warmth, the colour of fresh cream. Her hair was a lustrous platinum, flowing freely around her shoulders. Her eyes were flinty and almost colourless; chipped ice. Reflection was dressed as Juvielle was, but the woman wore nothing at all. They both looked out of the mirror at Juvielle as they danced, then as they kissed and caressed, then again as the woman moved to the reflected bed and sat, opening her legs in welcome. Reflection followed, still fully clothed, and knelt before the woman, kissing her thighs, then her hips, until her movements became ones that Juvielle recognised, though she had never witnessed them before. The woman gently placed one hand on Reflection’s head as Reflection pleasured her, but the woman’s eyes never left Juvielle’s.

“All can be yours,” came a soft, but somehow still crisp voice from behind Juvielle. From the bed. Juvielle spun, pulling her slick fingers from beneath her ceinture fléchée, and lowering her other hand from under her tunic. The woman from the mirror was seated on the bed, legs crossed demurely at the ankles, wearing the most marvellous gown Juvielle had ever seen; it sparkled like sunlight on fresh snow. Aside from her position and clothing, though, she was the woman in the reflection.

“Queen Nechta!” Juvielle’s face grew hot with shame, and certainly some lingering lust. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all!

“Why do you call me that?” The woman regarded her with an almost predatory calm.

Juvielle was confused, “A–are you not Queen Nechta? The Ice Queen? The Lady of Winter?”

The woman blinked slowly and tilted her head to one side, studying. “Those are all names given to me. By the fearful.” The tiniest hint of a smile. “You are not fearful.”

Juvielle tried to steady herself, though the need remained, buzzing around her head and muddying her thoughts. She’d prepared a speech. “I am Juvielle Wode, Greenwhisper of Froatburn Dell and Little Stoneleaf. I have come to beg your aid.”

“I know what a Greenwhisper is,” she said. “None have come in some time.” The Queen paused, her thoughts impossible to read. “The last one turned back at the high ridge. I wondered about her. Did she find what she sought by other means? Or did she simply learn to live without it?”

“I can’t turn back.”

The queen inclined her chin—approval? “No, you cannot.” She directed her attention to another mirror, just a flicker, but it was enough to cause Juvielle to look as well. Within, Juvielle’s reflection lay naked, glistening with sweat, in the very centre of the bed while Queen Nechta caressed her. One hand twisted and teased Juvielle’s nipples while the other curled beneath her sex. Juvielle could not see exactly what the queen was doing, but she could imagine, had done it for herself often enough. Mirror-Queen brought her lips to Reflection’s other breast, lips parting—“All can be yours,” the queen repeated, drawing Juvielle’s attention back to her. “You would not see, if you did not desire it.”

Juvielle expected another wave of shame, but instead she felt… welcomed? Understood? Needed? “My queen, please. I do! I want that, but my people, I must help them! Please!”

The queen rose slowly from the bed; her movements were menacing elegance. She walked slowly to Juvielle, stopping only when her breasts pressed against Juvielle’s collar-bones. Juvielle fingered her ceinture fléchée nervously. It had protected her all this way, but would its magic work now?

The queen gave it no notice. “There is no choice.” Juvielle gasped, panic gripping her heart, but the queen continued. “All can be yours.” Understanding came to Juvielle so quickly she stumbled back a half step.

“An early thaw, hidden stores will be found; I will take none from Little Stoneleaf this year, Greenwhisper.”

Juvielle laughed as she had not laughed these last six seasons! “Thank you, my queen!” But before she could say more, the queen held a finger to Juvielle’s lips. Her eyes flickered to the mirrors once more, then back Juvielle. “Linger here. For a time.” Juvielle understood this to be a request, an invitation, possibly a promise.

“I will return, my queen,” Juvielle said softly as she finished packing her supplies for the hike home.

“My true name, Greenwhisper. Talvra. I await you.”

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

Rainy Pub Romp

Fri, 14 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The sleet chases you through the door as you struggle to close it behind you. The warm, smoky, whisky-soaked air wraps you in a lover’s embrace. The only one to take note of your arrival is Noah, forever tending bar, and he only offers a nod and a flick of his head that says, “Wherever you can find a seat.”

The cozy space is filled with the sounds of laughter and camaraderie and it feels almost like stepping into your childhood home only to smell fresh cookies. It’s marvellous.

Outside, the sky is black and tiny, stinging pellets of ice hammer the windows that look out over Stockwell Street. The sun set a little after 4 p.m. today, but you’d hardly know it; it’s been coorse all day, pure Baltic, and you couldn’t be happier to be out of it for a spell; probably more than a spell.

“Up here!” you announce, dragging Taran deep into the pub, toward a relatively quiet corner in the back. You know the snug would be empty when you got here, the previous occupants having only just left, the scent of stale cigars and sweet uisge beatha lingering. You know it because the book wrote it that way.

Taran laughs, letting you lead them through the patrons, hesitating only for a beat when you both reach the snug. They have their free hand in their Mackintosh and you know they are touching their strange heirloom; the pocket watch with all the cracks in the face, the one that tells time but never time right now.

Another time.

You direct them to the far side of the snug and, without a word, you duck below the table.

“Blair!” Taran hisses, equal parts amused and shocked by your behaviour.

“Shush, you,” you hiss. With the door of the snug closed, they can hear you over the noise of the pub as you peer up at them from the floor, from beneath the table. “Not a word.”

The door to the snug opens abruptly and Taran jumps, just as you were setting their legs aright over your shoulders.

“Guid evenin!” It’s Millie. You know her voice well; her accent is hard as Henderson’s. “Thought I saw Blair comin’ in as well.”

“G-gone to the bog,” Taran stammers; your heart swells at their nervousness. “Two pints of heavy; we’ll get food later on.”

“Two heavy it is, luv,” Millie says. You smile as you hear the snug door latch.

You unbutton the front of Taran’s trousers, revelling in the mix of excitement and panic on their delicate features.

“Blair!”

“Shut up an’ use your Mack,” you giggle as you duck down, roughly tug their pants to their knees, then return to your place between Taran’s thighs, lightly raking your nails over their tender flesh.

Taran drops their heavy trenchcoat over their lap, and by extension your head, as you alternate between kissing and nibbling their inner thighs.

You feel their hand on the back of your head, beneath the coat, gently but urgently guiding you up. “Blair,” they murmur in that voice that would unhinge your knees if you weren’t already on them between their legs.

You oblige.

The smell, the feel, their heat, you can’t remember anything feeling, smelling, or tasting as good in your life, and the reflected glow you feel from their love is beyond words.

Your mouth eagerly accepts them. Your tongue probes, searches, explores. You know all their secret places, but every time is also a new adventure; a new way to make Taran gasp or sigh or whimper, and oh do you love the way Taran whimpers.

“Here y’go, luv!” Millie announces, the door suddenly open. You nearly squeal with delight at the panicked squeezing of Taran’s thighs on the sides of your head. “Blair not back yet?”

“No!” Taran sounds nearly frantic and you can’t resist. You use your teeth – just a little, just enough – drawing a most embarrassing sound from your lover. “No, but we ran here from the Uni, Blair’s probably—” you send your tongue further down than before and Taran’s body responds just as you’d like. “Warmin’ up!” Taran squeaks, nonsensically, “Back soon!”

Millie sounds dubious, “Right, well, if y’want somethin’, shout at me or go see Noah.” The door closes again.

“Blair!” Taran whisper-shouts at you but you can’t be bothered with words; the trembling in Taran’s thighs and elsewhere give you all the direction you need. You carry on. Your tongue performs while one saliva-slick finger plays counterpoint.

Taran is nearly there – you’re nearly there, too, truth be told – when Millie returns again. The door opens and you can’t fully stifle the oof as Taran’s legs squeeze your head so hard you worry you might pass out.

“Still good? Should I check on Blair, luv?”

“No!” Taran yelps. “No,” they follow quickly, “no, they got a call from the Uni, nipped outside.”

“Alright,” Millie replies and you know she’s not convinced at all, but the door latches and seconds later your mouth is overflowing with Taran’s bliss.

When the door to the snug opens again you’re sitting opposite Taran, holding hands across the table. Millie gives you her usual, merry grin. “Blair, luv! Need anythin’?”

You fix Taran with an evil smirk then glance up at Millie, “How’re the eggs tonight? I want something filling.”

Knotty

Sweater Weather

Fri, 07 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

“Mmm, you’ll be wantin’ to stay the night,” the old man says to me and I can smell the blend of fried fish and sour beer on his breath. I give him my most withering look, but he must be too pickled to read my body language.

“Nah, moving on to Stonehaven,” I reply icily as I drop a few crumpled notes on the bar. “That should cover it,” I say, then leave the Reedgrave Inn, I hope for the last time. I step back into the white, almost choking fog that never seems to leave the town of Fenkirk.

Four hours later, the sun has long set and somehow I’m still walking along the county road between Fenkirk and Stonehaven. I was sure I’d be there by now, it shouldn’t have been more than a three-hour walk, even taking my time, but somehow I’m still out here; the sun is down and the Beaver Moon is high in the sky. At least I’m far enough away from Fenkirk to be free of that fog.

I haven’t even seen a single vehicle this whole time. That sets me on edge a little, but it isn’t the first empty road I’ve walked at night, probably won’t be the last. “Not like any of you offered me a ride,” I grumbled to the memories of Fenkirk, but I also couldn’t remember seeing all that many cars when I was there.

And I suppose I wasn’t exactly the friendliest drifter they’d ever met when I was there.

Cresting a hill I come to a stop so quickly I nearly fall over. On the shoulder of the road is a woman, looking right at me, as if she’s been waiting. The tiny hairs on my arms stand up and my world suddenly feels a little less solid.

She’s tall, taller than me — almost six feet, I’m guessing — but that’s in no way her most striking feature. She has long, straight, silver-black hair that shines under the full moon. Her skin is the colour of heavy cream and, somehow she’s close enough for me to tell in the moonlight, her eyes are large, reddish-brown pools. She’s wearing nothing but a heavy red cardigan that exposes her shoulders but covers down past her hips and in spite of myself I catch myself staring.

“You’ve come late,” she said softly, taking a step toward me, her bare feet heedless of the frost already covering the heather that blankets the ground. She offers her hands, and I take them, bringing her fingers to my lips and kissing them like some courtier eager to marry into her favour.

The whole world has taken on a dreamlike haze as I see her approving smile. “Follow,” she commands, and I do.

We are in a clearing not far from the road, but well hidden from it. She is lying on her back on a soft, mossy patch of ground. Her legs are spread wide causing her cardigan to ride up over her hips, exposing herself before me; inviting rather than commanding now.

I accept. Eagerly.

I kneel between her milk-pale thighs and breathe deep. The air is full of frost and heather, fresh earth and moss, blood and salt and sex and I hear myself moaning as my fingers press into the tender flesh of her thighs.

“As you will,” she says to me, both hands on my cheeks now. I can’t place her accent and somehow it feels important but also irrelevant.

I kiss her in the most intimate way possible and I feel her nails scrape against the back of my head. That’s all the encouragement I need.

I lick, first all around, playing with her folds, further down to the musky bridge between her vagina and her anus and I’m gratified by the startled moan of pleasure this draws from her. Butterflies fill my stomach as I look up at her over her mons pubis. She is looking fixedly at me and then my tongue is on her clitoris and her eyes close as her head rolls back. I lick, lapping shamelessly at her, then suck, as if I could draw her nectar from her nubbin, then bite gently. The way her thighs tremble against my cheeks I know I’m doing well.

I want to do well. I want to please her so much.

My finger enters from below, the tiny grove is filled with the wet, tender sounds of our lovemaking as I probe her with my tongue and my finger and as I suckle her clit like it is the source of all life. Time slips. I have no idea how long I stay like that, kneeling between her legs, worshipping at her altar, but when she orgasms I am flooded with a sense of fulfilment I’ve never felt in my life.

Time passes. The moon moves. The woman whispers softly in my ear, “Time for what’s mine.” I’m filled with nervous lust as she begins removing my pants.

Morning arrives far too early. I don’t remember falling asleep but I awake naked, covered only by her red cardigan. I roll over slowly to find my clothes folded neatly not far away. They’re damp with morning frost, but otherwise perfect. They smell faintly of heather I have the sense that they’re cleaner than they were yesterday. I dress gingerly. My inner thighs bear many bruises and other parts of me have been very well enjoyed.

Once clothed, I look around the mossy clearing that had been last night’s bedroom and smile. I pull the red cardigan on over my shoulders then heft my rucksack.

“I’ll try to not be late next time,” I say softly before I return to the road.

Knotty