by Janet Tenaj ©
Times of war were never easy on the conquered. After all, to the victor go the spoils. The warriors, not paid by any other means, were expected to have first go at what scraps may be offered up by the towns and villages that fell to them. Those that bade them to fight did so for power rather than loot. Of course, "what scraps" always included the women. The old and ugly only sometimes escaped such attentions when there were plenty of comely girls to be had.
Edgewood Village burned bright that day. The season had been rife with conflict and it was only a matter of time before the brushfire skirmishes of clan warfare erupted into serious battle and resulted in the sacking of a township. It could have been Westford instead, and things would have gone much better for Duncan and Seamus had it been. But perhaps it was fate which drew them to the pillaging and burning of Edgewood.
Their fate came not as a result of their being fighters. Rather, it had much more to do with the particular bit of loot they chose to take. That is to say, the two women they chose to rape.
The town was already burning and the last few pockets of resistance had been skewered on pikes or greatswords. Chaos dominated; amidst the burning huts and swirling smoke, victorious MacLellans were quickly taking anything of value. As far as enjoying the flesh of the conquered women, it was mostly a matter of priorities. Some soldiers preferred to be the first to sew their seeds, perhaps finding it distasteful to put their pricks into cunts already well-greased by others' efforts. Others either weren't so fastidious or their loins no longer burned so fiercely with the passion of youth. Duncan and Seamus were of the former type.
"In here!" Seamus pointed.
"Are ya crazy, lad? That's the hag's hut," came Duncan's reply. "Cursa ya, she will, and your willie'll shrivel up and fall off!"
"Yeah, an' next ye'll be tellin' me she sacrifices babies on the Winter Moon, and flies around by stickin' a broomstick up 'er arse."
"Nay, Seamus, they sacrifice the babies on the Autumn Moon."
"Well ye go off and do what you will, then," Seamus chuckled. "Me, I'm going to see if the witch has a sweet young daughter."
Duncan shook his head and followed after his friend.
The inside of the hag's hut was dark. As they stepped inside, the sounds of the cheerful victors' plundering faded. A kettle hung over a pile of embers in the center of the room, emitting a foul stench. Behind it, sitting on the floor and grinning wickedly, was Edgewood's spirit-woman.
"Ahh, right on time," she wheezed, as she brushed aside the small collection of bones and twigs arranged before her. "I expect ye've come for my Lilly."
"If ye mean that stinking wad of pus between your legs that used to be your flower," retorted Seamus, "you could only dream. But if ye have a young'n hidden away in here, we'll just make use of her and be on our merry way."
Duncan thwapped Seamus on the shoulder and pointed. "You were right," he interrupted. "Look over there." The place he indicated was a pile of sleeping furs arranged at the far end of the hut, behind the witch. And sitting up, brushing the topmost furs aside, was a maiden who was very fair indeed.
"Hahh!" shouted Seamus, slapping his thigh. "Oh, even dark as it is, it is easy to see that she is a pretty one indeed! Come here, lass."
The witch tossed something onto the embers, and the fire sprang to life. A strange and not unpleasant aroma filled the room. "Be warned," she intoned. "Lay a hand on my daughter and it will be the end of you both."
Her words made Duncan nervous, but Seamus only laughed. Striding quickly, he moved past the hag and grabbed the girl's wrist. "Whatever you say," he sneered.
"So be it," spat the witch. "You have sealed your fate. Now before you begin taking your plunder, let me tell you a little story." Seamus and Duncan both sat heavily on their rumps, the energy gone from their muscles, the words gone from their tongues. They could no longer hear anything outside the witch's hut, but whatever powder or potion she had thrown on the fire left them without even the wherewithal to wonder at it. Softly, she began to speak.
* * * * * * *
My story is about a young man, much like yourself, his sack full of spunk and he was practically bursting at the seams. Like you, he thought women were there only to provide a warm, wet place for him to plant his pole and spew his seed. His name is unimportant. By profession he was either a scalliwag or an adventurer, depending on whom you asked.
One evening he happened to rescue a young lady from peril. She was in the Wood, not so very far, collecting berries and roots and flowers. But a boar chased her up a tree. Our young rogue heard her cries and came to help. A couple well-placed bolts from his crossbow dispatched the menace, and he helped her down from the tree.
Oh, she was grateful, and promised this fellow a handsome reward. Her father was a man of some means. But the reward he had in mind she refused to give. She was to be married, and she was a maiden. Her new husband would be quite put out if she came to his bed already deflowered.
It was already coming nighttime and they were alone. The rogue decided he would take what he wanted and be done with it. His prick was hard as his breeches would allow, and he was determined to put it in her no matter what. They were too far away from town for her cries to be heard, and he got as far as ripping off her skirt before he suddenly paused.
A very faint, but very sweet aroma had found its way to his nose on the evening breeze. It was like nothing he had ever smelled before. Spicy and pungent, it seemed to reach into him through his nose, down through his belly, and grip him by his balls. He looked up into the face of what he thought was the Goddess herself.
She was a thing of beauty. Her eyes and hair, both silver, seemed to shine in the evening glow. Frail and thin; and so very, very pale was she, with doe eyes and a large, pouting mouth. Naked, and comfortable with it like she had never worn clothes in her life. The just-rescued lady was completely forgotten as the rogue's gaze trailed down her neck to dance over her breasts, so firm and gently heaving as she breathed. Her figure was perfect, with just the right curves to completely intoxicate any man. He noticed, in very short order, that there wasn't a hair on her body below her head, and that there was a definite hint of moisture between her thighs.
That was what he scented. He knew it as soon as he saw it. The scent affected him like that of a philly in heat affects a stallion. He wanted to rub his nose between her legs, and take the taste of her on his tongue, and the ache to plant himself deep inside her was so strong he felt as if he would lose his mind if he couldn't have her right then and there.
She giggled, and turned on her heel, and then ever so slowly bent forward and spread her legs, exposing her smooth and bare womanhood to him. He moved forward, drinking in that strange perfume, his shaft desperate to be free of the constraints of his pants. Each heartbeat sent a painful throb through his confined shaft... Just as his nose nearly touched those moistened lips, she darted off. Grabbing for her, he missed and fell on his empty arms. But he was up and after her in a flash.
The nymph, for that was what she was, led him on a merry chase deep into the Wood. Often she would slow to let him have another chance at sniffing her or grabbing at her, but she was far faster than any human could ever be. The poor man never had a chance. After a while they reached her tree, and then she did touch him. Ever so lightly, she brushed his hand with the tip of her finger, and then they were inside her tree.
Her faerie magic had him completely in thrall. Of the experience, he could only later say that he felt like he was completely enmeshed in a fine net of spiderwebs, so thin as to be invisible but so strong that he couldn't move an inch. His clothes had vanished when he was transported into the tree.
Oh, what a fantasy! To be spirited off by a tree nymph, and to make love to her! Most men would think it a great thing. But this rogue would come to rue that day for a long time after.
Her attentions started slowly indeed. He lay on his back in that place, where time and space aren't like they are here. His cock was free but it still ached with every beat of his heart. Every fiber of his being needed to feel her silky cunt squeezing him; he needed to fill her with his juice like he had never needed any woman before! But instead of immediately giving him what he wanted, she decided to torment him first.
To begin, she kneeled with her ever-moist womanflesh stationed mere inches from his lips. Though he struggled, his bonds wouldn't give in the slightest. That perfume pulled at him, but he was helpless to heed its call. The nymph then reached down and gently caressed her nub. Even though no sound ever passed her lips, it was very clear that she was enjoying herself immensely. Wiggling her hips, she rubbed herself, but her finger didn't stray past her button. Her ministrations had an effect, though, as the wetness began to practically flow from her. Soon, a bead formed, grew, and finally dropped from the lips of her cunt to land on the tip of his nose.
He was powerless to make a sound, much less open his mouth to extend his tongue in hopes of licking up that single drop of the nymph's dew. Instead, he had to endure that odor grabbing at his loins and making him ache with a need greater than most men ever experience in their whole lives.
As if she not only knew what he was going through it but enjoyed his discomfiture, she turned around to gaze into his eyes. And then she left him for a time to stew in his own heat. Even after she left, her scent remained on him, and his erection could not subside.
Hours (or was it only minutes?) later she returned. If her first torment was a breeze, her next was a wind that threatened to rip him apart and scatter him across the landscape. This time, she pleasured herself again, without giving him the slightest little rub in return. But instead of using her finger, this time she used his nose and lips. Smiling sweetly, she straddled his immobile head. At first, she simply brushed her warm and wet pussy-lips lightly over his mouth. Of course, he couldn't open up to taste her. None of her musk passed his lips, and never did his tongue touch the folds of her flower. Swaying softly, she slowly moved herself forward, until the tip of her nub touched the tip of his nose. Oh, so close! If he could have made a sound he would have sobbed. For a small eternity she rubbed herself against him until ecstasy washed over her. Then she left him again, her creamy juices smeared over his nose and mouth, and his prick more painfully hard than ever.
The third and final torment was the worst of all, because she gave him what he wanted -- almost. This time she straddled his hips and slowly impaled herself on him. It was everything he had imagined it would be; almost burning hot, silky smooth, and tight like a custom-tailored glove. She took every inch of him, gazing into his eyes the whole time, and when he was fully embedded in her she simply rested there. He throbbed, and her muscles gripped and squeezed him. Like nothing else in the universe, he needed to pull back and thrust into her, or for her to make the motion -- but she woudln't do it! Quicly it became evident to him that just the beating of his heart, felt deep inside herself through his enormous erection, was all the nymph needed to attain her pleasures. Ater a long while she felt ecstacy again, and he could see it in her face.
When she left him after the third tormenting, he was sure he would go insane. But what was to become of him was even worse than that.
The would-be rapist was only punished those three times. After that, the nymph began taking his seed. Every time it was the same. Always silent, always lustful, and always with that sweet smile, she came and straddled him. Gazing into his eyes, she would grip his painfully pulsating cock in her inhuman cunt, squeezing his seed out of him without ever moving her body. Each orgasm ripped a part of him away, and soon he came to live only for those moments.
After the fourth or fifth time, he became dimly aware that his chest was swelling and that his nipples were expanding, and his cock was shrinking. Each time she took his seed, she took a little of his manhood. Several waves of ecstacy later, his balls had migrated deep inside him and his sack had begun to fold up and follow. His manhood, once a proud pole, was now nothing more than a twig, and the mounds on his chest had grown into a young girl's breasts. Eventually, all that was left of his maleness was what amounted to nothing more than a large clitoris presiding over a very moist woman's cleft, and his breasts had reached a matronly fullness. The nymph took the last of his seed, and he was now completely a she.
* * * * * * *
The old witch laughed. "That is a true story," she concluded. "I know so, because that young man was me."
Duncan and Seamus were still held in the thrall of the hag's magic, and their response was limited to the expressions of horror they wore on their faces.
"You see," said the witch, "Nymphs, like other faerie folk, are practically immortal. Because of that, they can't just have babies like we can. They need a little help from us mortals. That nymph didn't take my manhood just to punish me for trying to have my way with that girl. She did it because she needed a surrogate mother for her daughter. When she took the man out of me, she replaced it with a little bit of herself. Just enough for me to become preagnant with her child. And that I did."
The witch's daughter smiled, but she didn't speak. Suddenly, the hut was filled with a very strange, very appealing scent. It was a scent whose sole purpose was to grab a man by the balls and make him helpless, to make him need a warm cunt gripping his cock more than he needs to breathe.
"Being the mother of a tree nymph has its advantages," grinned the witch. "I've picked up some real magic, for one." She turned to Seamus. "My daughter is ready to have a daughter of her own. You wanted her, and now you're going to have her. More than you want." To Duncan, she said: "And you. I'm an old woman, and I'm tired. But more than that, I want my manhood back." She removed a small leather pouch from under the blanket she wore. "This is part of a spell that will make it possible. You and me are going to switch places. I will have your young, healthy body to live out another lifetime in. And you get to become the old hag that you feared so much."
Her laugh would have chilled the blood of a demon.
Duncan swept out of the hag's hut, ignoring the horrified screams he left in his wake. Someone asked if he'd seen Seamus and he brushed off the question. The sacking of Edgewood was still in full swing, and the swirling smoke offered him plenty of concealment. Slowly, exultantly, he walked into the Wood, unnoticed by anyone. Night fell, and still he walked, until he came to a particular tree. Inside, he knew, was his daughter and Seamus. After a week or so, Seamus would be a she. Maybe she would choose the name Shawn; it would be fitting. But whatever happened, Duncan would be there to comfort her, and support her through the crisis she would go through. After experiencing it himself, he was in a position to be truly understanding. Maybe eventually she would give in to his gentle charms and willingly take him to bed.
Fathering the nymph's daughter would be the perfect ending to his tale.
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