Sensual on Knotty Biscotti

No Rest Here by Morn

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

My skin was wet beneath my clothes, though I could not say if it was due to the soft mist that had refused to become proper rain all day, or my own sweat, earned as I followed one overgrown trail after another. A lost churchyard, west and south of Pen Cerrig-calch, but not far. A local “historical society” had hired me to find it, but I had not accounted on getting lost. Nigh on an hour since I’d given up on finding it and still I could find sign of neither Pen Cerrig-calch nor Pen Allt-mawr, though my app had said the full loop wouldn’t take half a day to walk. Little good it did now, it told me I was in Cardiff.

When the mist at last gave way, the rain came in a relentless, drumming downpour. Though the sun would not set for another hour, the woods had already settled into a gloom, premature twilight, not the coming of evening, but the retreat of the day. I had not seen a proper trail—one furnished with markers and directions to a car-park—since early this morning.

I took a moment to stand, breathe, and curse inwardly. No good doing it out loud, nothing would hear.

I shivered at the thought of another night sleeping rough. The prospect rendered no more agreeable by my clothing: my jeans, already grown heavy in the damp air, slipping steadily downward, while my underwear pursued with equal determination an uncomfortable ascent.

The road didn’t so much appear as manifest before me. Barely broken trail, stinking of wet earth, moss and rot one moment, a stretch of double-track the next, then spreading to a gravel road maybe a lane and a half wide. Opulent in this region. My worthless app had given up, now simply showing me somewhere in the United Kingdom. Possibly northwestern Europe.

I walked a kilometre, or five, or two, or ten—it was a blur of vague anxiety and acute discomfort—when a light finally appeared ahead.

I followed.

Moments later I was studying an old, weathered sign outside a begrudging building that proclaimed itself the Red Thorn Rest. A collection of letters above the name that I could not form into words suggested I was still in Wales.

Promising.

The rain lashed against the ancient windows as if it were driven by some purpose, a relentless rhythm that mirrored the chaos in my head; and my chest. This place, I already knew, was somewhere between, and it had invited me in. The pub was a husk, wooden beams groaning like a great, but tired animal with a fatal wound. A single oil lantern flickered over the bar, casting elongated shadows over the common room.

I shouldered through the door, my pants, my jacket, even my shirt dripping onto the flagstone floor. The air was thick with peat smoke and sour beer, the ghost of too many bodies and too few dreams — and none present now. Behind the bar, a gaunt man nodded once, his eyes hollow, before shuffling into the back. And there, in the corner booth, sat the only other soul: a man—or something appearing as one—with a beard and long hair like burnished copper and glittering emerald eyes. He held a pint glass of something rich and dark, his fingers were long and tapered, and his nails glinted like obsidian.

“Evening, stranger.” His voice was laced with an Irish lilt that put me in mind of the mist that had dogged me. “G’wan then, sit. It’s been a long while since someone new come through that door.”

I hesitated.

He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. I know you.”

“You don’t.” I grew furious at his smile.

“Ya, I do. Not you, but your kin. Morrow.”

“Not anymore,” I told him, intent on ending the discussion.

He considered, nodded. “Ya, not n’more. Sit.”

Not a command, an invitation.

I slid into the booth opposite him.

“Riven,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my heart.

He smiled. “Fionn mac Cumhaill.”

I snorted and stood to leave. I’d take my chances with the storm if this was what the Red Thorn Rest had to offer. “Fuck off.”

He faltered.

He faltered.

“Well,” he drawled, trying to recover gracefully. “I was there for what made ‘im Fionn, an’ he never would’ve been if I’d sat quiet. Yeah?”

I studied the beautiful liar for a long, long time. So long I could see his discomfort on his face.

“You have my true name, I’m owed yours,” I said, returning to my seat opposite.

He laughed so loud I jumped in my seat. “Finbar Foxember, or what’s left of ‘im. Banished these—fuck me, what year is it?”

I told him.

“Fuck. Three hundred years from hearth an’ home for a fool’s wager. Lost the wrong coin to a mortal, ye see. I bring it home or I don’t come home ’tall.”

I had a knack for spotting lies, and he spoke pure truth. I was seized by sympathy for this fae. Exiled by his own for being the wild spirit they expected, while I exiled myself for the opposite crime.

We talked as the rain raged outside, our words coming easily, confessions easier still. He spoke of deals struck, of mortals fooled, of women loved—not only women—and of the land that still beckoned him home. He spoke of ‘home’ with such loss that, I admit, my heart ached. Just a little. I almost felt a longing for the old estate.

He never lied during those hours. Never once tried to deceive.

I gave him the same respect.

I confessed fragments. The family business I was doomed to inherit, the suffocating prospect of a life forever in one place, and always, the prying questions—‘But what are you?’—from relatives, staff, society, all demanding I fit their boxes.

We talked through the night, Finbar and I, but the dawn didn’t come, and still we talked. Hours? Days? Years? We talked and drank from mugs that never emptied but were never refilled. The gaunt old barkeep, a comforting lie? No matter. The barkeep had not returned, and I found I did not expect him to.

Finbar’s hand brushed mine across the scarred wood, his skin fever-hot. “How’d y’feel ‘bout this?” His words were gentle, his voice soft, but his eyes darkened, pupils dilating to abyssal depths. I nodded, pulse thundering.

I touched him first, my hand caressing the coarse curls of his copper-red beard. He leaned in, delivering a kiss that tasted of whiskey and heather and wild honey, tongues tangling with desperate need. We broke apart gasping. My hand slid down, palming the bulge straining against his trousers. I unlaced him, pulled the flaps wide and set him free.

His cock was long—nearly the span of my thumb to my pinkie, I measured—and thick, festooned with veins and shaped with a slight upward curve that made me blush at thoughts of it inside. Inside me. The head, flushed a deep crimson, glistened with pre-cum, another tiny pearl appearing as I watched. “Touch yourself.” My voice husky.

His breath caught, then he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slowly from base to tip, thumb circling the slit.

I only allowed him a handful of strokes. “Stop,” I commanded, bewildered at my assertive tone. I took his wrist in both hands and lifted his hand away from his member, drawing it to my lips. My gaze trapped his as I first licked his palm, shivering at my first taste of him, then spit in the centre. He kept his eyes on mine as he resumed, my saliva smoothing the friction just enough.

I unbuttoned my jeans and stood up just enough to work the hateful garments down to my mid-thighs before sitting back down. My right hand moved my underwear aside, then attended myself as I liked best. My left hand moved to his cheek, caressing him as we each fucked ourselves in the empty common room.

Time passed, I couldn’t say how long, the two of us in the booth while the storm raged outside and the only sounds between us were the grunts and gasps and wet sounds of our masturbating. I tasted his fingers and spit in his palm more than once while he offered me the assistance I desired as well. He was so charming while the two of us wanked, my hand never leaving his cheek and more than once he turned his head to kiss my wrist.

Finbar started pumping faster, fist gliding over his length, veins bulging under his grip. His pre-cum flowed freely, some landing on my bare thigh. I matched his pace for a while, but his stamina outstripped my own.

“By the fuckin’ dark roots, Riven,” he growled, his free hand grasping the table edge, knuckles white. His strokes grew erratic, hips bucking slightly. My climax was already in the booth with us, but I wouldn’t fault him for not noticing.

He came with a sound like a lion’s roar. Thick ropes of cum spurted from his dick, arcing onto the table, my thigh, my top, his abdomen, pearlescent strands pooling in the recesses of his muscles. I didn’t remember opening his shirt, but I must have—he’d been too distracted.

His body shuddered, hand milking every last drop, the scent musky, like damp earth—intoxicating. I waited until I saw the sudden burst of sweat on his cheeks and forehead, a secondary release that I’d seen before, signalling an end—or another type of invitation. I kissed him softly on the cheek first, just above his coppery beard, then on the lips, then on the bridge of his nose. This last drew a warm, weak chuckle.

Then I went down. When I captured his cock in my mouth it twitched and shot another wan squirt of cum, he hadn’t been expecting this. “Fuck me sideways, Riven!” Finbar gasped, threading fingers through my hair. He shuddered, then gasped again, “Y’don’t hav’ta—” I did. I took him deep, throat relaxing around his girth. He hardened again; the fae resilience a marvel. I bobbed my head, lips sealed tight, sucking with voracious hunger. My tongue cradled the thick ridge that ran along his underside, my lips pressing the vein that pulsed anew.

He thrust shallowly into my mouth, hands guiding but not forcing. My saliva coated his shaft and pooled on his balls, mingling with his earlier spend. I hollowed my cheeks, humming vibrations along his length, right hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently while my left remained on his cheek. Finbar’s moans built, ragged and desperate, his body arching as the shadows deepened around us.

“MERCY-Fuck … just like that,” he panted, hips snapping forward. I deepthroated him fully, nose brushing his pubic hair, gagging softly, snorting loudly, but holding. Again, snort, gag, my eyes watered, but I wanted this so much! He tightened his grip in my hair and my own second peak loomed. I bottomed out again, worming my tongue out between his cock and my lips to lick lightly at his scrotum and then we were both lost.

His cock throbbed, erupted. Hot cum, honeyed and floral and bitter and perfect, flooded my mouth, pulse after pulse, thick and creamy. I swallowed greedily, slurping without shame, milking him with my maw until he finally softened. My throat already ached, raw and angry at how I’d abused it, but I was fulfilled in a way no trifling physical discomfort could taint.

We parted slowly, breath mingling in the afterglow. Finbar tucked himself away, a soft smile breaking through his weariness. “You wicked, bright thing. Stay, willya?”

My wistful smile was all the answer he needed. He raised his mug in quiet salute. “Safe travels, then, may the road find you kindly, and may no thorn keep you.”

I straightened, wiping my lips, the storm easing outside. “And you, Finbar. I’d be pleased to meet again in these haunted lands.”

Outside, dawn had come, the early morning sky promising a perfectly clear day. Stepping out into the crisp morning air, the world felt renewed.

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