The Edentide Garden Ch. 01

Lavvi had... had she said he'd been defeated more than once? That couldn't be right, could it? She was just being an airhead again. Or maybe it had been a dream. He couldn't remember what had happened next, after all.

So hard to think.

He closed his eyes to concentrate. His head was lolling pleasantly in a sort of half-slumber. He felt a mess in his sap-covered clothes and armor, but when he lay still like this, he could almost ignore the unpleasant feeling. At least he was warm.

So hard.

His cock pressed eagerly against its confines. What an inconvenient morning wood. Here he was, on a quest straight from the villagers of ... somewhere ... to look into a demonic presence, and he couldn't get the stubborn thing down. Not even being immersed in the strange honey seemed to get it down.

He blamed Lavvi. He couldn't get that fairy out of his head. His dreamlike thoughts kept drifting back to her round, perfect breasts. Oh, how those breasts bounced when she flew about, when she jiggled them between her hands, the nipples so clearly tenting the thin silk of her delicate undergarment... such perfect, soft, flawless breasts...

... such big, dazzling eyes to get lost in...

... so many colors when she'd hovered in front of him... so many shades of pink to flood his dizzy mind...

Demons in the Keep. As the phrase penetrated, his eyes shot open.

Herne tried to leap to his feet, but found that those soft, gentle lamb's ear leaves had moved to cover him.

The knight's heart suddenly pounded as he recognized the danger. This was no safe to rest. Mustering his strength and will, he grabbed at stems, struggling to rip apart the surprisingly strong plants that bound him to the plant.

He let out a snarled prayer to the dead goddess of frustrated destruction as he tried to draw the knife at his belt only to find it was too firmly stuck in the sap to remove from its scabbard.

The plants were moving, now. He was covered in the fuzzy leaves—some lying innocently still, others fully alive and wrapping around his arms and legs, pinning him in the bed of plush comfort.

Just relax, cooed a voice in his ear. I'm soooooo soft...

With one final surge of strength, he wrenched himself out of the plant's gentle embrace and fell on his hands and knees. Determined not to make the same mistake twice—a determination that itself filled him once again with that strange sense of deja vu—he immediately got to his feet and centered himself on the path.

This garden was demonic, like everything in the Keep. He remembered now. He had to get to the Tall Spire. That was where the... where, um...

His memory failed him there. But he knew he wasn't safe here, at least. He was never safe, except when he was in the pink place with Lavvi. He was always safe with Lavvi.

He reached down and, with difficulty, drew out his scimitar from the sheathe. It was old and reliable steel—carefully kept and polished over the years. He rushed forward, skirting delicately around the pond and hurrying for the door, leaping over a rosebush's trailing thorny vine.

The vine moved. He saw it clearly; it wasn't his imagination. It moved. One moment, the rosebush was a meter away from him. The next, there was a thorny bramble tangled around his foot.

He hit the ground with a grunt. He could feel the thorns sticking in his flesh—they had caught the area just between his boot and his armor. The pain was distant, though. It was a faint stinging, and then... then only a faint tingling. Almost a tickle more than anything.

Once again, Herne felt the compulsion to just lie still a moment to catch his breath—remembering the air quality, he took in a deep breath—but then he was spinning and hacking at the vine. It took three swings to cut himself free, and another two to sever the second vine that had begun to tangle around his other foot from another bush.

Suddenly, a memory hit him like a speeding carriage.

He saw himself lying on his back, legs spread wide by the prickly plants. He saw himself staring up at a pair of rosy-skinned beauties as his armor and trousers were slowly stripped away from him, his own eyes swirling with crimson spirals as they cooed down at him.

But just as quickly, the image faded, and he climbed to his feet and just... ran.

He almost slammed into the door in his hurry. He could hear feminine laughter behind him, and fumbled for one terrifying second with the door. Would it be locked? He heard a footstep behind him, but didn't dare turn. At last, he got the door open. He ran into the darkness beyond and, without even thinking, slammed the door shut behind him.

Only then did he realize just how dark it was. There was almost no light, save tiny cracks from under the door.

Herne squinted. He vaguely remembered owning a torch... but his backpack was long gone now. Perhaps it was back with Lavvi? I think I remember the torches being ruined by the goo, he thought.

It was a strange sort of memory. The kind of memory that he might have half-invented. A rationalization. But he didn't linger on it.

Perhaps he could open the door, he reasoned. That would let light in. This thought felt so reasonable, it was only when his hand was on the doorknob that he caught up to what he was doing and stopped himself. He still felt clouded, and even though he was no longer breathing the pollen-filled air, his head was still light and fuzzy. At least he had the comforting sweet smell of the sap to calm his nerves.

He took a deep breath, then, almost absentmindedly, reached up and started licking his fingers clean. He was a bit thirsty, and something in his head told him that it was important to keep his strength up. Lavvi wouldn't like it if he forgot to...

He was snapped out of these thoughts by the sounds of echoing, padding footsteps from further down what sounded like a hallway. He looked up reflexively, but, of course, could see nothing.

"Ooh." The voice was girlish and faint, almost a whisper. Herne could have mistaken it for the wind, if they'd been outside. He raised his scimitar. "It's Herne the Absent."

Purely by reflex, Herne winced. But then he registered what this truly meant, and his eyes widened. How did they know about that title? How much did they know about him? Who had told them?

"It's been a while..." The voice was closer now. Herne took a step back and felt his heel scrape the metal door. "I wasn't sure you'd ever make it this far again."

Through cracks in the door, Herne's eyes finally started to adjust in the dim light to the point that he could make out the silhouette. She was about ten feet away from him, and moving very slowly. One thing that was certain was that she was most definitely a she. Large, round breasts bounced as the creature slowly advanced. Her hips were wide, creating a perfect hourglass figure which she accentuated with slow, sensuous sways. Long hair glinted red in the faint light, and eyes glinted gold with a light all their own.

Herne caught himself staring at those bouncing breasts, those swinging hips. He shook himself. Control. Resist. Remember what Lavvi said.

But every time he thought of Lavvi, he only thought of how beautiful she was, remembered how good the sap tasted...

He snapped back to attention again. The figure had already halved the distance, and she was now almost within reach of his sword. He swung it threateningly, now desperate just to make her back off, to give himself breathing room. "Stay back! This is Khallun steel!"

The creature stopped. She placed a hand on her hips and stared at him, giving a slow laugh. Her golden eyes became amused crescent moons. "Silly boy," she hissed. "You still believe this to be a fight?"

For some reason, that unnerved him. A flashing memory came to him. He remembered that sybilant voice. Laughter. Remembered lying on the ground, the stone cold and almost painful against his shoulderblades. Drinking of one woman's bounty as something heavenly—or anything but heavenly—rose up and down on his cock.

His cock was rock-hard, he realized with dread. It was sticky and warm in his clothes, making it far too easy to forget the danger. He squirmed uncomfortably. If only he wasn't stuck in these tacky old clothes!

"Why not... remove some garmentsss?" the creature asked, putting one finger to her lips in a questioning pout. This created a slight lisp to the hiss, and the hiss went on, and on, and on, like a desert snake's rattle. He felt his eyelids drooping.

When he faded back in, he realized that his hands were fixed on the buckles holding his armor in place. He stared at the sticky hands, trying to recognize that this was wrong.

"What is this?" he whispered.

"Your destiny," the demon purred. He looked up—

—and locked eyes with the demon.

They were not truly just simple gold, as he had thought. Gold was solid. It shimmered, but it stayed still. It could hold a shape. Lynth's eyes were honey. Those eyes seemed to pool and flow in patterns he barely understood, like honey dribbled from a fork. But there was also fire in there—hot, brilliant flames that he somehow knew would not burn him. Not in a way that mattered, anyways.

"Good boy," she said softly. Her fingers were toying with her breasts, an erotic backdrop to the oceans of amber that held him spellbound. "You need no sword to face me. I would never hurt you."

He shook himself again, but this was offering diminishing returns. He tried to get himself to look away, but the eyes held him, drowned him.

His mouth was dry. He needed... needed to be able to concentrate. Barely conscious he was doing it, Herne brought his hand up and started licking it again.

This seemed to amuse her.

She was so beautiful. It was almost painful. Even in the darkness, those breathtaking shimmering honey eyes, those soft, squishy, jiggling breasts, those rhythmically swaying hips... Such a picture of softness to thrust into...

No, mustn't think like that, he told himself desperately.

But the eyes told him it was alright to think like that. The eyes told him he wanted to think like that. The eyes told him he needed to think like that. "Isn't this better?" she asked sweetly. "No swordsss..." Again, she drew out the hiss.

The sword begged to leap from his grasp. He begged his hand to let it. His hand remained firmly affixed. He bit his lip and, rallying as much strength as he could muster when he felt so hot, so sticky and horny and desperate, glared at the creature, staring her straight in the eye. "In the name of the Noble House of Yoric," he growled, "I command you t-to t-turn..." She was toying with just one nipple, now, in small, subtle spirals. She smiled at him. "... to... turn..." Around and around and around...

"Turn?" She laughed. It was a twinkling, cutting sort of laugh, like broken glass. Something about it was offputting, but by this point, everything about the woman oozed seduction to Herne—even those fluttering things on her back, just now becoming visible in the gloom...

He vainly fought the daze, even as he finished licking his right hand perfectly clean of the delicious syrup. He felt refreshed now. Nice and calm. His left hand was still sticky, but it was still holding that sword thing, and he needed to keep holding onto that for some reason.

Were those... wings? Not bird wings. Not bat wings.

Moth wings.

"Perhaps I could turn..." the creature whispered. "Perhaps you could turn me onto the path of sweetness and gentleness, knight." Her voice dropped to a mocking coo. "I could be good. Soooo good. Soooo good to you... treating good boys so generously." Her finger flicked and spiraled around the nipple, encouraging him to stare as she bounced slightly in place. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

It did sound nice, he thought fuzzily. He hadn't thought of it until she mentioned it, but it sounded... so nice. Especially the way she described it. It sounded...

He caught himself raising his left hand to lick the sap. Surely it wasn't wise to be occupied licking the honey from his sword hand, no matter how sweet and good and delicious it tasted. No matter how almost addictive it could be. No matter how... how...

"So good," he vaguely heard the creature whispering. Her voice was so faint, though, so sibilant, it was almost white noise. He could tune it out if he tried. And wasn't that important? To not think about whatever lies she was spouting? "So sweet."

Herne was nodding along drowsily when he tasted sweetness on his tongue.

It took him a moment to register he'd started licking up the honey.

And suddenly, it was almost impossible to do anything else.

Herne felt neediness flooding him, so sweet and thick and sticky, and he licked and slurped messily at his hand, sucking his fingers, lapping at his wrist, at the flat of the sword itself, devouring all of the delectable ambrosia he could reach. He almost moaned.

All the while, he kept the creature in his sights as she watched this, a smug smile on her face.

"Tastes good?" she hissed.

"mmmm!" he replied. He was pretty sure that had been a rebuke, though it was hard to tell with his mouth so full of the honey and his lips sucking on his finger.

Her hands slipped down between her legs. He heard wet, lewd sounds.

"I taste good, too," she said smugly.

As he slurped, Herne thought on this. The eyes compelled him to. Her wonderful voice sank into his mind like the sweetest of syrups. Could she really taste as wonderful? She was so beautiful. Her curves... her heaving breasts...

It was then that he registered that his cock was still straining against his codpiece.

He blinked down at it dumbly.

"Take it off," the demoness commanded.

Herne stared straight into those wondrous eyes. His hands started to reach for the buckles once again.

A faint memory flitted to his head of his armor clanging against stone. Then, an en even fainter memory asserted itself—Herne, just a squire, struggling to deliver his knight's armor in time for one of their foolish duels.

His head spun with sudden panic.

No! With a titanic effort that left him mentally and, it felt, physically exhausted, Herne wrenched his hands away from the buckles.

It felt like they were moving through clay, and the moment it was done, he found himself... struggling to remember why. What was so important about this? It was so easy to let them drift back to the buckles and fiddle with the straps a little bit. His mind sank deeper and deeper in the gooey, dripping trance.

Herne was so occupied struggling against the compulsion, he only noticed that the creature was moving forward again when she was mere inches from him. Her plump ruby-red lips parted in a seductive smile. "Truly," she teased, "thissss boy must have been the pride of his knighthood."

Herne opened his mouth to argue.

She raised her index finger to eye level, and Herne found his eyes instantly drawn by it. The finger possessed the same brilliant amber hue as her eyes.

That was because, he realized, it was covered in something wet and sticky.

Not Lavvi's ambrosia. But still, it tempted him. He could smell it—a delicious, syrupy scent. Staring at it, Hernia practically drooled.

He caught himself leaning closer to smell deeper, and as he did so, the creature struck.

With one swift, merciless motion, she stabbed forward... and plopped her dripping finger inside his mouth.

Instantly Herne's nerves went alight. He moaned, involuntarily sucking and licking the finger with an uncontrollable need. His lips smacked as his eyes half-closed, as thick, sugary bliss melted through his already heavy head and seemed to weigh it down further...

She thrust the finger in and out teasingly. He bobbed his head with her motions, suckling obediently, pliantly, docilely. It tasted like maple syrup, and hazelnuts, and ground cloves...

He knew the creature was laughing at him. Knew he was losing. It tasted so good, though. He almost didn't mind how much he was humiliating himself.

He almost liked it.

He liked amusing her.

Just as this was beginning to sink in, the demoness pulled the finger out of his mouth with a little pop, and smiled dazzlingly at him. He found himself smiling back, his expression dreamy, his mind fuzzy and sparkling with sugar crystals.

"You don't need that little sssword, do you?" she asked sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

He felt his hand go limp, and heard the sword clatter against the floor. The sharp sound momentarily jarred him from his stupor, but... "Gooood boy," the demoness cooed. "Such a good boy! So good and obedient~"

Her words filled his mind, whispers he barely understood and yet heard perfectly, and the concern started to fade into the background again. She was so close, and he could smell her sweet scent thicker than ever.

It intoxicated him.

"You want," she cooed, "to undresss."

He swallowed. "N-No."

She traced her finger—still wet with his saliva—along his cheek. He found himself leaning into the subtle touch. "It will feel so good. Obey."

Obey. The word sent tremors through his entire body. He bit his lip almost hard enough to bleed. "N-No," he whispered. "I-in the name... the name of..."

"Oh, it's so hard to concentrate on namesss," hissed the creature. "Wouldn't it be easier to only have two? Only two to remember. More space in your foggy little brain to think about sssubmitting." His cock pulsated at the achingly seductive way she enunciated the word.

He could feel himself trembling, even though it wasn't at all cold. In fact, it was getting very hot. He was starting to sweat.

Maybe he could just take the breastplate off, he reasoned. That wasn't too risky. It wasn't like she was attacking him. And the second the thought had made it into his sluggish mind, his hands were a flurry of unbucklings.

Again, the clang startled him, and he momentarily wondered just what the hell he was doing. But then the creature leaned close. "My name's Savinta," she husked. "Isn't that so, so easy to remember?"

Savinta. He heard himself repeat it aloud, but distantly, as though a stranger had said it.

"Mm. Isn't it a nice name?" Savinta asked with a smirk. "Savinta. So... sensuousss." Her fingers started to dance along his now unarmored chest, eagerly undoing buttons. Something about that seemed wrong to Herne. Or did it?

"Savinta," she repeated smugly. "Isn't it a sexy name?"

He gave no answer. Despite that, the word was really starting to get to him. Every time he looked at Savinta, he thought about Savinta's lovely name. Savinta was so beautiful. The name 'Savinta' really did just ooze lust and sexuality, just like Savinta did. His knees were shaking. He needed to stop thinking about Savinta's name. Needed to—

"What's my name, boy?" Savinta purred in his ear.

"I—" Herne swallowed. His mouth was tacky and dry again, with a faintly sour aftertaste. He was so thirsty. "You're—"

"Sa," Savinta said slowly, cooing as though to a child.

"Savinta," he finished reflexively. And it felt so good to say the word, he realized. His nipples were tingling as warm, slender fingers rubbed across his chest, rubbing in something warm and wet and slick as oil. His whole chest was starting to tingle. "Savinta," he said again, without even meaning to.

"Good boy!" Savinta said, seeming delighted. The moth-like wings seemed to flutter a moment, and they distracted him for just a few seconds before her golden eyes sucked him back. "That'sone name. Can you guess the other? Can you guess your name?"