Strangers on Knotty Biscotti

Strange Blooms in the Secret Garden

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re making—”

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

“I—I know. I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Enmore was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My turn,” she purred.

Knotty

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

Weathering the Storm

Fri, 28 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

“A Tibanna intermix regulator?” The Scrapper’s expression left Essa wondering if she’d accidentally slipped into her native Koeus language, Or’tena. Her frizzy shock of hair drooped at the thought that she had been rude to the delightful human.

“Yep!” Essa effused. “It’s a nexaride composite chamber about this big—” She was holding her hands shoulder-width apart, ready to slip into a full-on explanation before the Scrapper cut her off.

“I know what it is. I just don’t think anyone’s wanted one since my da’ ran the yard.”

Essa’s hair drooped further. It wasn’t hair in the human sense; the mane of platinum-coloured filaments around her head allowed her species to feel electromagnetic fields, but in her case, it also tended to communicate her inner emotional state. Like a dog’s tail.

“At the drydock on Vandemeer Gate they—”

“I got one. Your captain rob a museum?” The Scrapper cut her off again. Essa decided that this human’s Anglofran variant compelled her to speak immediately after grasping the other person’s intent. She would ask her new best friend, Briar, about it when she got home.

“Gosh, I hope not!” Essa had never considered the possibility. Captain Morgan seemed so nice!

The Scrapper rolled her eyes—Essa knew that expression! She was frustrated! With her?—and motioned for Essa to follow. “C’mon, I need help pulling it.”

Vesna Nováková hadn’t met an alien before. She’d expected if she ever did, she’d be awed by their very presence. Instead, this alien had wandered into her shop looking for fifty-year-old garbage, covered in grease and wearing threadbare bib-overalls so worn Vesna had a very generous view of a blue-grey alien boob.

Vesna didn’t object to boobs, not at all, and she wasn’t trying to get a good look at the alien’s boob, but since it was right there, she had to acknowledge that it was a very pretty boob. A little more than a handful, the bumpy areola somewhere between deep ocean and cetacean blue left Vesna wondering what the aliens might enjoy.

She shook her head in frustration; it’d been too long since her last personal day. She was overdue for a visit to The Velvet Deck. A vague prickle of concern stirred as she wondered whether Téreza would still be there.

“Hey! Shovelbum!” Vesna’s irritation simmered as the alien girl lagged behind. “Ass in motion! Unless you wanna wait a week.” The primary star, AU Microscopii, was notoriously unpredictable, but Vesna had been watching the elevated stellar activity. A storm was coming. Any day now. Any hour. That would bring comms and sensor disruptions. Trying to eyeball a flight, even in Vesna’s scrapyard, was unnecessarily complicated suicide.

Essa knew what shovels were, and she knew what bums were, but how they could go together was a mystery. Another question for Briar when she got back to Fomalhaut. Still, The Scrapper’s signals were loud and clear: they needed to hurry. Weirdly, Essa was already feeling a flutter of anxiety. Nothing about pulling parts from a derelict; something else she couldn’t quite name.

“Sorry!” she followed The Scrapper through the hatch and down a short passage to the airlock. “Oh,” she whispered, trying to smooth her hair surreptitiously. She suddenly felt very self-conscious around The Scrapper. A heat was rising, intense and uncontrollable, and it was distracting.

“Are we going EVA?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound nervous. Essa was uncannily good with machines that moved through space, much less so with moving through space herself.

“Shit, no,” The Scrapper shot her an enigmatic look. “We’re takin’ a tug, but the derelict’s not pressurised.”

Essa heard the reply, but a shiver down below and the uncomfortable tug of her overalls against her nipples made it harder than usual to focus. And focus was never her strong suit. “Yeah, of course!” she said softly, hoping that was the correct response, as she tried to not fidget too much, becoming more and more aware of the way her clothing felt against her skin.

“Damnit,” Vesna studied her suit’s display.

“Mmm?” The Alien had been nearly useless during the whole operation—distracted, clumsy, confused about the simplest things. She nearly broke the intermix regulator getting it free of the housing! But now she sounded drunk.

“C’mon! Panic room!” she grabbed The Alien’s suit and dragged her toward an exceptionally shielded compartment in the derelict. All ships of this age had one, being built before adequate EM and radiation shielding could be applied to the entire hull.

“Mmm?” The Alien said again as Vesna tugged her down a narrow corridor. She should just leave the idiot behind; might have, if The Alien had paid in advance.

Essa allowed The Scrapper to lead her in the strange, stumbling way everyone always moved in mag-boots. She was saying something, but Essa could only make out one word: “Storm.” That was enough; there must have been a high-energy particle event on the red dwarf they were circling. At just over 50 light seconds from the star, they’d have no warning at all.

Oh no, Essa thought, though it was from someplace very dim and very far away. At the front of her consciousness just now was how stiff her nipples were and how shaky her thighs felt. How the growing intensity of the particles passing through the ship—through her own body—was propelling her down a path that had only one destination.

CLONK! Essa reeled as her suit-helmet crashed into the frame of the hatch The Scrapper was pulling her through. “Sorry!” she called, her voice sounding shaky and very high-pitched in her own ears.

“Get in here! The ship doesn’t care if you hit it,” The Scrapper hissed, sealing the hatch behind them.

Essa staggered to a bench at one side of the tiny compartment. She couldn’t sit, not really, but it was very distracting still being on her feet while her entire body trembled with excitement.

The Scrapper was speaking again: “You alright there? The shielding’s gonna hold.”

Essa opened an eye—when had she closed her eyes?—and tried to interpret the human’s expression. She guessed it might be both curiosity and concern. I’ll reassure her, Essa thought but just then a powerful wave passed through her; she could only let out a breathy, trembling moan. The Scrapper’s expression became more … whatever it was, it was more of that.

“Fine!” Essa managed, and she caught herself unconsciously trying to cross her legs, desperate to apply some pressure and maybe speed up some release. The suit was much, much too bulky for that, and all she accomplished was frustrating herself. She moaned again.

“Are … you …” The Scrapper’s words were coming very slowly, but, for Essa, also from very far away. She caught herself rocking her hips, desperately trying to find any way to help herself along, but also utterly mortified that this was happening right in front of the very helpful, very nice human!

“Mmmhmm!” she moaned again, then took a shuddery breath and did her best to ignore the warm, wet heat building between her legs. Her legs—that she couldn’t even rub together, dammit!—clunked together hard in the stupid, stupid, bulky suit. She wasn’t going to last much longer. She hoped the storm wouldn’t either.

“Koeus,” she gasped, “we’re v-aaaah! very liira-seth — ah!” That wasn’t Anglofran; that was definitely an Or’tena word. She tried again. “Sensitive! We’re sensitive! To — oh my stars!” She knew she couldn’t actually touch herself, but it was getting so intense she couldn’t stop herself from trying. Her right hand crashed into the panel on her suit over her breasts, her left hand thudded uselessly against the crotch. “Electromagnetic fields!” She gasped again, whimpering as the leading edge of her climax took her. “Liira-braen!!!!” she howled into the mic, oblivious to everything around her.

Vesna felt so bad for the poor alien girl. She’d had at least three very intense liira-braen—if she was intuiting the meaning of the word correctly—while they were sheltering in the derelict’s panic room. Between the first and the second, Vesna had awkwardly asked if she should do anything, if the alien girl was in any danger or needed any help. During the second one Vesna mentally chided herself for the innuendo of offering “help”.

Since the storm had passed and they returned to the tug, the weird—but also weirdly cute—alien girl had barely said two words. Vesna tried once more to comfort her, let her know everything was alright. “So … I already got a girl. On Vandermeer. But she wouldn’t mind if I bought you dinner.” She glanced over and saw the alien girl look up just a little. “Feels like I should,” Vesna gently teased her. But as the girl looked up a little more, an excited, hopeful look on her features, Vesna understood she really did want to accept the offer. She chuckled. “I hate to say it, but I don’t even know your name.”

The Alien’s eyes opened wide, looking incredibly embarrassed once more. After a moment, she said softly, “Um … it’s Briar?”

Knotty

Leaf Peeping

Fri, 10 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

“My name’s Harper, you can call me Harper.” That joke always got a few chuckles and a few groans, but Harper never gave up on it. I’ll marry the girl who laughs at that one, she’d joke to the other guides, who would invariably roll their eyes and change the subject.

“Today we’re doing the Maple Song Loop. I will be singing later; if I get compliments, I’ll bring you back!” More soft chuckles and she carried on, satisfied. “It’s a green trail, nothing difficult, but it’s about five miles. Expect we’ll be out for about three hours. That means your boots are laced tight–”

Harper kept going, sprinkling in easy jokes and light-hearted banter, but Alex’s attention drifted. It felt so good to be out of the city! Away from her too-large apartment, the noise, the endless bullshit filling her days. This is what I need, she thought. A long walk in the woods, fresh air, and the colors of fall. It renews the soul.

As the guide was wrapping up, Alex struggled to recall what Harper had just said. Harper, what a beautiful name! she thought, then giggled softly at her own silly smile. Maybe she’ll have to rescue me, she mused, a playful thought from her high school fantasies—more than a decade ago now.

“Everyone still okay?” Harper asked the group – eight in total, including herself – as they reached the first lookout. There was a murmur of affirmation and Harper settled into her usual spiel. The view was stunning, but her favourite spot wasn’t on the tour today; too tough for your typical leaf peeper.

Her attention drifted to the woman at the back of the group. She looked outdoorsy in that “fresh off the rack” way; adorable. A city girl really trying to fit in. Only a few years younger than herself, curvy in all the right places, practically giddy with excitement. Harper was pretty sure she’d heard her squeal when the wildlife got so close on this trail.

“Five minutes, then we move on to site two,” Harper finished, as the others spread out, snapping pictures and reading the signage. She approached the woman, who was kneeling and tying her laces. Again. “New at this?” she teased gently, nodding at her untied laces – they’d come undone three times already.

“What? Oh, no! I don’t know what it is about these stupid laces! They won’t stay tied.”

Harper smiled and crouched in front of her, “You’re tying them wrong, City Girl.” Harper’s tone was playful, gentle, friendly teasing. “Mind if I…?”

The woman looked momentarily confused, then blushed prettily and laughed, “Please!”

Harper took the laces, deliberately letting her fingertips brush linger on the back of City Girl’s hand. “You alternate sides, top and bottom,” she explained, showing her how a bow would stay secure or come loose. She looked up into the pretty brunette’s eyes and said, “Let me do the other one.”

“Alex,” the woman blurted.

“Hmm?”

“My name,” she said, surprised at herself. “It’s Alex.”

Now it was Harper’s turn to blush, “Hi, Alex.”

The sun edged toward the horizon as the group reached the trailhead parking lot. They were all rumpled and winded, but each took a moment to thank Harper, most promising to leave positive feedback. Harper smiled warmly, knowing most wouldn’t follow through, but every bit helped.

“This was just what I needed!” Alex exclaimed as the others departed. Harper offered Alex her warmest smile. The last few hours had kept Alex close and Harper had been more than a little charmed by how genuine and enthusiastic this city girl seemed, even when she was clearly struggling with the exertion.

Harper’s gaze sharpened, confident and teasing. “I’m glad,” she said smoothly, wrapping her arms around Alex in a quick, warm hug. She’d guessed Alex wanted more than just a handshake. Alex hesitated for a moment, then returned the hug with vigour.

When they parted, Harper caught the faintest blush and made up her mind. “It’s a shame we don’t get to visit my favourite spot,” she said softly. “You’d love it.”

Alex looked surprised. “Why doesn’t the tour go there?”

Harper’s smile deepened, confident and daring. “It’s not as easy as the Loop. And I wouldn’t take just anyone.”

Alex’s smile became a half-smirk. “Would you take me?”

“Show me your pack,” Harper said playfully but with a hint of seriousness. She inspected the items Alex has packed, nodding at some, frowning at others, then carefully repacked it with a sunny smile. “Alright, you probably won’t die if we get separated.”

A sudden fear washed over Alex; she paled. “Separated?”

Harper laughed and lightly touched Alex’s shoulder. “Relax! We won’t. But y’know… the people who do get lost in the woods are the ones who don’t plan for it.” She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, and deliberately let her chest rise and fall, the crisp morning air making her cleavage look especially inviting. She exhaled slowly, fog curling in the cold air. The day would warm up, but right now, Alex wished Harper had told her to bring a jacket.

They followed the Maple Song Loop a few hundred yards past the first lookout point when Harper pointed into the brush. “That way, that’s our trail.”

Alex peered sceptically at what could possibly be a trail, but could also be a slightly thin part of the trees. She was about to ask Harper for reassurance but the taller woman was already disappearing between the branches.

A short distance into the new trail, Alex caught up. She was relieved to see the path soon became much clearer, marked by a blue diamond trail marker on a tree. “Split Oak Hollow,” Harper called over her shoulder. “My little secret corner of the woods.”

“R-really?” Alex managed, her face already heating from the exertion; this incline was steeper than Maple Song’s gentle slope and the cold morning air made her cheeks burn.

Harper chuckled softly as she glanced back. Alex suddenly felt a pang of self-consciousness, but also a strange thrill—Maybe she really will have to rescue me.

“Don’t worry, city girl, it’s not far.” Harper said, her tone light and teasing.

Alex tried to process her words, but her focus was broken as she realised how much Harper resembled that ponytailed adventurer from those video games.

“What?” Alex gasped, voice breathy and shaky. Are we climbing a mountain? It didn’t look steep!

“About two hundred yards, then it levels out,” Harper said with a playful laugh. She was walking backward—how was she navigating this vertical cliff backwards?!

“Oh–kay,” Alex panted staring at her feet.

“I’m gonna die,” Alex groaned, pressing the heel of her palm hard into her side just below her ribs.

Harper laughed again and moved close – intoxicatingly so – murmuring, “Nobody dies on my hikes. Look.”

Alex looked.

She’d heard a waterfall since they left the Loop, but now they’d arrived. Somewhere above, a river spilled over a cliff, gathered in a pool here, then tumbled over the side and vanished below. Mist rose from the waterfall, catching the morning light; air itself strung with diamonds. Ahead was a sheer drop with a breathtaking view of a wide valley ablaze with red and gold.

Alex felt like she’d stepped into a storybook.

“Worth it?” Harper asked softly, standing very close behind her. When Alex turned to face her guide, no words came, only a nervous mm-hmm.

Harper’s hands rested gently on Alex’s hips, then she leaned in a little closer. Alex was suddenly acutely aware of Harper’s clean, simple scent. Soap, shampoo, beeswax lip balm. Harper smelled … uncomplicated. It was unbearably attractive.

“Okay?” Harper asked softly. Alex didn’t respond with words. Instead, she closed the distance and kissed Harper fiercely, both hands grabbing her behind. Harper’s hands moved slowly from Alex’s hips, slipping under her jacket, up her back until she felt ridges of Alex’s bra through her thin shirt. Alex moaned into Harper’s mouth, pressing her hips hard against Harper’s jeans. Harper didn’t break the kiss, she just paused, lips still against Alex’s, and softly laughed.

“Been holding back, city girl.”

Harper had spread a thick wool blanket over the bare rock, settling herself comfortably with her legs stretched out before her. Alex hesitated for a moment, then knelt down beside her, breath catching.

“Harper…?” she whispered, voice trembling.

Harper chuckled softly, trembling fingers grazing brushing her skin. “Yeah, city girl? Amazing view, huh?”

Alex’s voice was almost a plea. “I want you to see me.” Her heart hammered in her chest, loud and frantic, and she wondered if Harper could hear it. If she hadn’t been so nervous, she might have laughed at the fiery, eager look on her guide’s face.

Harper’s eyes darkened, a slow, knowing smile curling her lips. “I see you,” she purred, low and inviting, before leaning in just enough to ignite the spark.

Goosebumps rose on Alex’s skin as Harper undressed her. Harper was gentle, almost reverent, carefully placing each piece of Alex’s clothing at the edge of the blanket. Her gaze danced over Alex’s body and back to her face, her mouth, her eyes. “Beautiful,” Harper breathed. The cold morning air stung Alex’s skin, but Harper’s touch felt like fire.

Then, somehow, Alex was nude, both hands on Harper’s shoulders. They kissed, messy and clumsy with need, tongues and teeth and loud moans; when Harper squeezed Alex’s buttocks, she shivered all over. Alex somehow maintained the kiss as she shifted on the blanket, straddling Harper’s thigh and pressing herself down on her guide’s denim-covered leg.

Breaking the kiss, Harper gazed into Alex’s eyes as her fingers moved down Alex’s body. She found Alex’s clit, then slid further down along Alex’s folds. Alex gasped and clutched Harper’s flannel shirt as if it were a lifeline, rocking her hips, grinding against Harper’s fingers and her thigh. The contrast made Alex whimper; the icy morning biting her shoulders, Harper’s touch igniting her from within. She rocked harder and was sure she heard Harper oh-oh-ohhh in response.

“Let go,” Harper whispered, steady, confident, fingers deep inside as the morning sun kissed Alex in places it had never before seen. “I’ve got you, Alex.”

She did. Hearing her name on Harper’s lips pushed her over the most wonderful peak. Pleasure ripped through her, sudden and fierce, her body arching, her cry stifled as she buried her face in Harper’s neck. The morning air was sharp in her lungs, her skin flushed and glowing.

When it ebbed, she slumped forward, sweat dampening Harper’s shirt. For the first time, she didn’t care how she looked, didn’t care who she was supposed to be. She was warm, sated, and free.

Knotty