Honey Wild, and Manna Dew

By the time we reached her station, in the Northern Suburbs of the City, we both already knew I would break my journey and accompany her.

I don't know what kind of personal transport I'd expected Cobweb to utilise. Visions of a stagecoach drawn by prancing white horses had drifted across my mind. What she in fact drove was that most prosaic of vehicles, a late model Mitsubishi. I suppose it made sense, I told myself. She had made it clear that a Fairy living in the Human world needed to keep a low profile, and what could be more anonymous than a silver-grey Japanese family sedan?

During the short trip, I found myself shifting in my seat in a desperate effort to hide my swelling. Sitting beside her gave me an even better view of her legs, and though she was still making an effort to keep her skirt down, the actions of driving were causing it to ride up quicker than she could control it. Or, perhaps, the thought struck me, she was aware of my appreciation, and trying less hard to manage it than if the obvious spark between us had not existed.

Just around the corner from the park'n'ride she pulled over onto the hard shoulder and opened the glove compartment.

"I do apologise, Mr James Jones," she said, softly. "But being what I am, I prefer people not to know where I dwell." She pulled out a white strip of fabric. "I know, of course, you would never do me harm, but over the centuries I have developed an unbreakable rule of caution. Please rest your hands on your legs and turn your head away from me. I regret the need for this, but had you suffered what I have suffered, you would understand," she added as she skilfully tied the blindfold behind my neck. "There. Is that comfortable? Good. It won't be for long, I promise."

Some twenty minutes later, having guided me from the car into her house, she removed the strip of fabric. While blindfolded I had already caught the scent of violets, roses and jasmine as we'd passed through what I presume was her front garden, and a strong hint of incense once we got inside. Now my eyes were delighted by the internal decor of her dwelling.

She did not, I saw, live in a hollowed-out toadstool, a grotto or tree-lined bower. Like her car, the house was normal enough, a simple two-storey brick dwelling, though the decoration hinted at her claimed origins, with lots of soft ambient lighting, muslin-shaded lamps, delicate ornaments and fresh flowers in elegant vases.

"You'll take wine, of course," she said, pouring a dark liquid from an earthenware decanter into two obviously expensive crystal goblets. "Don't worry," she giggled. "It isn't made from dandelions or nettles. It's a rather nicely aged merlot, actually." She vanished for a few moments into the kitchen, and emerged with a tray containing fruit, cheeses, cold chicken and ham and wholemeal bread. "And before you ask, no, we Folk aren't vegans. You've heard of the Wild Hunt I presume?"

It was, indeed, a most enjoyable meal. The incense was heady, yet not overpowering, the music that came from the concealed speakers was of the ambient kind favoured by conservationists and art students, the couch on which she sat beside me soft and inviting.

Her skirt was still riding up, and her efforts to control it seemed to be becoming more and more perfunctory. She had kicked off her shoes and taken off her jacket, and since her top was also still hiking up on her, I was treated to a delicious sight of her midriff. The flesh here was lighter than that of her hands, the colour of very milky coffee.

It was not long before her head was on my shoulder, and her body pressed against mine. She made no effort to check my discreetly roving hands, as it snaked up under her top, caressing her satin-like skin, though she was careful to shift subtly in her seat to avoid me being able to touch her upper back.

"My wings," she said, apologetically. "I'm always a bit self-conscious about them,

when I'm with a Mortal."

"I don't mind about your wings," I said.

"I'm glad." She smiled, and winked. "Perhaps I will let you see them soon.

If you have ever been to someone's house after a date, or had them back to yours, you know how things progress. The laughter from both parties becomes more spontaneous, yet gains a touch of nervousness. Slightly risque innuendos begin to creep into the conversation. I had removed my jacket with the blindfold, and shortly after we'd sat down and begun the meal she had taken off my tie and tossed it onto the thick shag-pile rug set before the couch.

After about half an hour, Cobweb stretched languorously, brushed back her fringe, stood and smoothed her skirt.

"These Mortal clothes are really so uncomfortable," she said. "You won't mind if I change, I trust?" Seeing my expression she favoured me with another of her tinkly giggles. "No, not into a six inch high Tinkerbell look-alike, or a green-skinned girl with pointy ears. My actual physical form changes very little when I drop my disguise enchantment." She yanked down the hem of her top again. "But I would prefer to be wearing something less troublesome. Pour yourself another glass of wine. I'll be right back."

She blew me a kiss and vanished. My heart - and my loins - somersaulted.

I sat for a while, listening to the music - I say "music" but it consisted mostly of sounds from nature, like water babbling over rocks, bird calls and breezes rustling through leaves, with only an occasional burst from pan pipes or flutes to give it structure - and sipping my wine. The wine was, indeed, of an extremely high quality, and nicely aged as she'd said.

I confess I was as horny as I'd been for many years. I've said that when one follows a hedonistic lifestyle like mine one eventually becomes jaded, and right now I felt like i had when I was first starting out on the sexual journey back in my mid teens. The smell of the incense, the remnants of the scent her herbal perfume that blended with it, the music, the excellent wine, my full belly, all combined to give me a sense of relaxation and well-being, sharpened by a sense of excited anticipation.

It was not long before I heard her soft tread outside, and swung my gaze towards the door leading to the back of the house as she entered.

And what I saw took my breath away.

Cobweb stood, her arms by her side and her hands extended parallel to the floor, as if she were about to take flight. She had retained the jewelled bandanna from the train, and I saw it matched the dress she now wore, which was made of a combination of the same material and a kind of soft, clinging gauze, the whole in a deep emerald green.

I could no longer be in any doubt as to the loveliness of her thighs. The hem of the dress was cut in a jagged, zig-zagged pattern, as fairies are often seen wearing in cartoon illustrations, and so short it barely covered her honey-pot. Her well-muscled legs, now bare, the feet clad in sandals with patterned straps, were so gorgeous I longer to have them wrapped around me. She had replenished her perfume, which now seemed much stronger, and re-done her make up, in a striking fashion, darker and much more dramatic than it had been previously.

And yes, the wings were there, as advertised. Soft, as if they were made of chiffon or some other similar material, standing out and curving down slightly at the top, shimmering in all shades of gold, silver, green and purple. Too small, indeed, I guessed, to lift even her slight body, yet a wonderful adornment nonetheless.

"Well, James Jones," she smiled, "I hope you like what you see."

I did, and hastened to assure her so as I stood.

"There is no need to kneel," she giggled, and with a shock I realised I had been on the verge of doing just that, so awe-inspiring was her beauty. "I am not technically royalty. Come here, and taste the kiss of a Nixie of the true Fae blood.

I almost broke into a run as I approached her. Immediately I was in her arms, and our mouths were locked together. Her breath was sweet, her scent now so overpowering I almost fainted. As if in a dream I felt her hands go to the waist of my pants, unfastening them, as my own hands groped for the neckline of her dress. Underneath, she was naked, her small, tight breasts delicious to the touch. She gave a small, sweet moan of desire, her hands now sliding into my underpants, freeing my erection.

"Oh, delicious," she said, "Absolutely delicious."

She caressed my penis, so skilfully that had I been in doubt before that she was what she claimed, this would have given the lie to my suspicion. I have had my dick touched by the most skilful of whores, and never had it felt like this. It was only by a supreme effort of will power I didn't shoot my load there and then, and she must have sensed my difficulty for she left off, and used her hands to guide mine up under her tiny, shining dress.

As with her top half, she wore nothing underneath here, too. I gained an impression of the satiny skin of her outer thighs, then her inner thighs, and then her delicious, lovely wetness. She gasped in ecstasy as my finger probed, and our mouths rejoined in another long, sweet kiss.

"Take me, James Jones," she sighed, her voice quavering. "Take me, here, on the soft floor. I wanted you the moment I saw you. And I know you wanted me. Take me, strong, handsome Mortal, help me forget, for a brief time, the cares of existing in this gross, cruel world."

She squatted, then allowed herself to fall backwards. I knelt beside her, taking her hands. Skilfully, she turned my prone body, so that I was lying on my back, and climbed astride me. The birds and winds continued from the concealed speakers, making a backdrop for our mutual lust. The incense exploded in my nostrils.

She was wet, soaking wet. Tight as she was, I slid easily into her, letting out a huge sigh of pleasure that she echoed.

She sat upright, arching her back, then gripped the hem of the dress and pulled upwards, peeling it up past her midriff, over her tiny, rock-hard breasts with the ramrod nipples, then over her head, pausing only to resettle her bandanna as she discarded it.

Now, clad only in the bandanna and sandals, her true beauty was revealed. Her soft, flawless skin, her firm body, those wonderful breasts, strong legs. Her bright red lips parted as she worked herself on me, arching her back, slowly at first then increasing in speed.

She had said she wanted me as much as I wanted her, and this much was obvious. She rocked back and forth, her body a blur. Desperately attempting to hold myself back, I clutched at the rug beneath me. It felt softer than I expected (I've been on a lot of shag-pile rugs in my time) but I had no time to ponder this mystery as at that moment she exploded, lifting back her head, emitting a loud screech, tears springing to her gorgeous blue-grey eyes.

"Oh yes, yes, Wonderful. Exquisite. So powerful, so strong."

Her body shook, and, I swear, her breath stopped, just for a few seconds. Her eyes glazed. And then she was rocking again, even harder, the soft skin of her inner thighs rubbing hard against mine, her feet clamped behind my back. Her body dripped with sweat, adding a kind of musk that the strong perfume merely emphasised.

She was soft inside, too, soft and wondrously tight. Her internal muscles, I registered, were as firm as her thighs. She worked those muscles around my penis, making me cry out in pleasure, and with my cry still echoing in the room she let go again, her scream even louder. "Yes, yes, yes," so loud as to even drown out the music, "Oh yes, yes, sweet, lovely James Jones, so hard, so strong, so wonderful."

And as she came down, I could hold back no longer. My whole body seemed to explode, a tingle coming from the base of my spine, a jolt flowing through the area between my anus and scrotum. My penis throbbed, and I shot, shot my load, letting out a satisfied groan as I emptied myself into her, her screams of delight even louder as I flooded her.

And, finally, exhausted, I lie back on the rug, and she fell forward, her whole body touching mine, drips of sweat and tears falling upon me.

We lie there, perhaps, a few minutes before, with another of her sweet smiles, she used her hands to push her body upwards, though careful to ensure I stayed in her. Reaching upwards to the small table on which she had earlier spread the wine and food, she recovered the crystal goblets we'd used earlier, and took from beside the couch another bottle, a small vial.

"This is an even primer vintage than what we drank before," she said, smiling. "It is Mortal made, yet has hints of the wine we drink in my own lands, that sweetened by the moon on the mountain slopes of Faerie. It is a draught that invigorates as it relaxes, drives those who consume it to still greater excess even as their cares fall away. Drink, sweet, wonderful James Jones, drink, as you have drunk of me, and will do again."

She held the crystal goblet to my lips, and I drunk greedily. It was sweet, like a liqueur, maybe Tokay or something similar, with hints of plum, citrus and something else I could not quite place. It at once quenched my thirst and hit like a shovel around the head, sweet yet sharp to the taste.

She looked down at me, her eyes soft. And then smiled. She held up her own goblet, that was as full as when she had poured it. She had, I realised, merely held it to her lips, and pretended to drink. But before I could ponder this further, the room spun around me, and I felt a wave of langour spread over me and, though I did everything I could to resist, I felt my eyes closing, and my head falling sideways. The scent of the rug in my nostrils was the last thing I remembered before everything went dark.

*****

They found me lying by the central stanchion of the bridge, curled into a ball. One of the derelicts who live there on a more or less permanent basis had been considerate enough to drape a filthy, threadbare coat over my prone body.

This same solicitous tramp had, I later found out, become concerned that I had been lying there for nearly two days, from late Thursday afternoon to the early hours of Saturday morning. When the usual "Friday Night Sweep" by the Police had come along, rather than hide until they left as was the usual practice of those who regularly sheltered there, he had risked his freedom enough to alert the officers allocated that duty before suddenly vanishing.

The Police officer had, after a brief examination of me, called the paramedics who had arrived swiftly on the scene. I spent, I later learned, a few hours in a hospital bed, during which time I awoke naturally, though in a state of confusion, but this soon passed and I was lucid again long before my routine interview with the social worker, after which I was allowed to go on my way. I have said already my personal possessions were intact, the unfortunates that live under the Storrington Bridge being renowned for their honesty.

In the months that followed, I haunted the entire train network. Two or three times I spotted a woman that looked just like Cobweb, but each time, as soon as I got to examine them closely I saw it was not her.

Was I, perhaps, in that state of infatuation where everyone looks like the person with whom you are obsessed? Probably. Had I been a one-off? Was Cobweb as bored as I was, and had sensed a kindred spirit and taken the opportunity for an enticing adventure? Or does she spend all her free time riding the rail system - or, perhaps, the bus network, or haunting bars and cafes - looking for another lonely male to enchant?

Or did I dream the entire thing?

There are some things you can never know. And perhaps I don't want to. All I can say is, the memory of Cobweb's face, her touch, even her smell, will remain with me until the day I die.

And I think that's how she wanted it.

I even suspected for a time that I had somehow fallen asleep under the bridge after a drunken debauch and dreamed the whole thing. For a man as highly sexed as I am, such dreams are not uncommon, though this seemed more detailed than most.

Yet, one thing remains. One factor that adds to the ambiguity of my experience rather than clarifies it. Ywet, regardless, it tells me this was no dream.

You will recall that at one point during our activities, I clutched at the rug beneath me, finding it softer to the touch than I had expected. Well, that enigma I can resolve at least. For, as the memories of my amazing experience clarified in my mind there was one thing I remembered without doubt. That Cobweb's wings had not been visible while we made love. I had thought at the time that, being ashamed of them, she had simply furled them behind her back.

And yet an alternate explanation suggests itself. That, in fact, she took them off with her dress. For, when they found me, I am told, there was something clutched in my hand. Something I refused, in my delirium, to relinquish, though what happened afterwards I have no idea, for I saw no sign of it when they let me go.

A cynic might suggest this thing was proof of Cobweb was merely playing a role. Others, more idealistic, might suggest that a part of a fairy's body might transform, when detached, into something gross and worldly.

Myself, I can't decide. I wish I had it now, for it might aid me in making up my mind, one way or another. But I never learned what happened to that small scrap of clear crepe paper, festooned with glued, brightly-dyed feathers, the whole highlighted by sparkles of purple, green, silver and gold.

(Inspired, for readers who have not guessed, by "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" by Mr John Keats.)