lottiesmonsters

[lottiesmonsters]

Come My Pretty, full maidens scene >.>

Faelyn forced her lips to part beneath the pressure of the hand, welcoming one of its digits closer, and it allowed it. Though it glittered as dark and gold-flecked as the stone, it tasted as soft and salted as any skin and Faelyn drew it deeper. It bent and curled to oblige, eager for her tongue along its surface, and the hands that held so tight began to twitch.

You will be mine, Faelyn warned the witch, twirling her tongue as the finger pressed itself further into her mouth, if I have to tame every abominable creature in this spire.

But the hands did not fall, they did not loosen. They tightened, rougher on her skin and kept her still as the stone they had burst from as they pulled her back. The finger she suckled shoved deeper; gagging her as those hands yanked and dragged her towards the figure of the witch–split as wide as any doors. Up the stones she wriggled, silenced by greater fingers thrust into her mouth. The fingers held too tight, too thoroughly along her flesh as they stole her into the wall, where fresh flesh waited, throbbing and wet.

As the walls closed before her eyes, stealing much of Faelyn’s light–and freedom–the fingers stuffed near to her throat pulled away. They curled and pinched at the corners of her mouth and forced it wider. Hard and round came the gag, ramming from the fleshy interior of those stone doors to greet her gaped mouth. It forced itself between her teeth, forcing the fingers flat as they squeezed from its path.

Trapped, Faelyn fretted, eyes wet and jittering for what light remained–low though it was through the curtain of carved hair beyond her cage. Does she intend me to rot in the walls? The witch of Hellebore Spire was not known to take the lives of the Princesses she stole, but Faelyn shivered as realization dawned, the others were not taken into the dungeons…

She could not know her fate amidst the beasts and traps laid for Knights, for intruders, designed to titillate and entertain the witch’s many pets.

But the hands yet gripping her arms, her ankles, her waist, were not concerned with Faelyn’s plight, or the worry that wracked her. They yearned to touch, to taste, and to tease until they had rent from their caught morsel all that she possessed.

Faelyn whimpered as the fingers loosened, but did not fall. Then through her gag she breathed harder, faster, as the walls closed tighter against her naked skin. Hot were those walls, hot and throbbing with a pulse that beat near as hard as hers as it hugged closer and closer still. Slick and suckling the wall drew her forward, lifting her shivering breasts into its eager flesh as easily as lips would and her gasps sang as moans as it all but devoured them. Behind her the wall pressed hotter, tighter, massaging with thick fingers along her back, gripping and kneading into her shoulders. Her sides were held firm, preventing her from wriggling, from jerking away from further fingers, seeking fingers, which slithered from the too-close sides to slink between her open thighs.

Again she moaned, muffled through the ball rammed too thick between her teeth, as those fingers slid between the lips they found. There they rubbed, urging deeper moans and greater shivers through already prickling skin, but they sought more than moaning delight. Ecstasy was not for the hands to deliver, they were meant to prepare, to prime the prey. And Faelyn all but wailed around the hard flesh set so rough against her tongue as those fingers pressed into her; too fast, too numerous. They curled inside her as they thrust, and her moans sputtered through her gag. Harder and harder they pumped into her, the slick palms of their fleshy hands slapping against her skin.

The wall pulled tighter into her, closer, all but yanking her breasts from her chest and then it coiled. It coiled and pinched, narrowing too thin around them, suckling and nibbling with what felt as teeth to her flesh.

She screamed. Into the gag, into the wall, as the fingers pumped harder and the suckling wall pulled tighter…but the trap was not finished with its prey. Faelyn moaned, drenched and aching, yet she breathed too easy for the trap to be sated.

The fingers within her curled again, pulling free enough to grip, to pinch and others snapped from the wall to join them. They stuffed too many slender digits into her and held her open, stretching her wider and wider until she screamed again. And there they stopped, there they held, keeping her open–shivering, waiting.

At her back the thick fingers of the wall slimmed into delicate digits and sought the rounder, fuller flesh that bounced beneath her hips. Those fingers groped and rubbed and pushed until they tired of her gasps, and then they gripped, hard and tight, spreading the cheeks of her backside near as wide as her thighs.

What followed were not fingers, but slender tongues, hot and wet those tongues lapped the sweat that dripped down the crease of her back but sweat was not what they hungered for. What they desired lay lower, deeper, and Faelyn’s moans overwhelmed the gag when they found it. As hard fingers held her open, stretched too wide for a reason she would not consider, tongues readied her elsewhere, tasting too deep. They soaked her in whatever foul drool coated them and then they, too, gripped and pried and stretched.

Thick, hard flesh swelled then, beneath Faelyn, unseen but felt as it lurched to fill what was offered. The fingers held fast, pulling her taut as the first shaft rammed between her thighs. Bouncing with the force of it, she howled again into the gag as the wall gripped her breasts tighter, pulled harder. It was then, and only then, that the fingers slipped out of her, but not away, gripping instead to her thighs they held her steady as the flesh beneath her thrust again.

It twisted inside her, pressing deeper, sliding out too fast to thrust into her again and again. Faelyn jerked with each thrust but she did not move–the hands clasped too tight on her ankles, her thighs, her arms. Aching and drenched and numbing she cried, not in a moan, not in a gasp, but in tears.

No more, she begged the witch, uncertain if she could hear, that she even watched, I give…I give.

But the trap that held her heard no pleas; it had no interest in forfeit, or the game she played with its mistress. It would not stop until she lay empty, spent and broken.

The shaft of flesh throbbing too hard and hot within her thrust again, but another joined it, thicker, harder it rammed against the waiting tongues. And it rammed, and it rammed hard into a passage too tight to welcome it. Faelyn wept, gasps all but barking from her throat with each attempt. It only burned hotter, wetter with the next and then it squeezed inside and her scream rang ragged as it stuffed itself deeper.

The two shafts worked in shifts then, each waiting for the other to slide away before they thrust, bouncing her in a steady rhythm as the fingers keeping her steady loosened. But the wall at her chest did not; it held and twisted tighter, joining the rhythm of the flesh that pounded into her. Harder and harder that flesh pounded, and the hands then barely holding her began to caress her numbing skin.

So soft those hands, comforting and warm–unlike what slid too rough and deep within her–and Faelyn moaned with their touch as feeling returned...and was stolen away. Their heady touch, welcoming as it was, kept her awake and feeling. She moaned again, deep and loud and echoing through gag and corridor as her body jerked once more.

Faelyn shivered, for a final time beneath the onslaught of the trap. Her muscles tightened and stretched taut and she burst onto the flesh thrusting between her thighs. And the hands held her through it, tight and close they held her until every drop had spilt.

Then the shafts slid away, shrinking into the base of the trap and the suckling wall released her breasts–slick and flush as it had made them–before it creaked and crackled open. The gag wriggled itself free of her teeth and those fingers that had gripped and groped and petted stretched to deposit her, gently, onto the stone floor.

There Faelyn lay, in a puddle, glistening in the golden light of the torches above her, but she did not move. The wall creaked closed, yet dripping with what it stole from her, but she kept to the stones. Pale lights fluttered above her, twinkling in a yellow all too sweet but her muscles were far too loose to push her to her feet, to flee. So she curled into herself as her lips fought to shape words.

Words that sputtered, uneven, into the chilling air, “I give, witch…you win.”

And someone answered, their voice carried on a honeyed breeze, “Oh, flower, no. It is I who has won…”

Full novella available here

[lottiesmonsters]

How dare you put romance in my smut

I’d have him, and him alone, again and again in that cage...which was never locked. I had free reign of his home while he slept in the loam. And a feast of him every night, or morning, whenever he woke. Eventually, I’d have him in more of the rooms. Against walls, on the many outcrops, outside in the grass, wet and filthy in the loam.

Delicious thing even stopped sleeping with the others, curling up with me instead.

“To have you closer, should you hunger,” he explained.

A lie, I’m sure. Would have made Nori so jealous to see how we snuggled, chaste and sweet. How I watched him sleep, petting leaves and bark with careful fingers not to disturb him.

Even his snoring was musical...

I don’t sleep, much. In case you’re curious. I don’t need it, as far as I can tell, but it is nice on occasion to shut off for a bit. To dream of meals and enjoy their aftertaste with my own hands on my own skin, remembering their sweat and lust. But he left me so sated I had no need for leftovers...

So I explored the tree house when he had to sleep. Untangling from all those arms didn’t always go as planned, but the wake up was rarely an issue. More a tasty treat. One leaving him evermore tired and me evermore awake.

I found spiraling stairs leading to more cages in those early nights, after sending him back to sleep. Even a few corpses growing flowers, in what smelled as fresh soil soaked in the sparking sour tang of magic. Room after room proved largely empty otherwise, barren. Not much in the way of entertainment, or furniture. Mine was the only bed to be found, the room we shared the only which appeared in use at all. There were pictures, in a sense. Images carved in the walls of things like him, dyed with what I imagine homemade paint, of tree-beings on two legs or tethered by thick roots.

Smiles and closeness between all, of a sort I’d not seen with him and the others in the loam.

Leaving me with questions, of course. Questions I didn’t ask, as the answers were clear enough; there had been many once, filled with joy and laughter, and now there were few. With one certainly filled with joy and laughter, yet only so long as I was near.

Seemed a sad existence...so I resolved to stay, with Furyn. At least until I grew tired of him, of course. I wasn’t much for ‘settling down’, but I did do so before, with Nori. Who promised to come for me, if I didn’t return. So why not stay there, with the delicious tree-being until she did...

In a lovely dress of soft petals he fashioned for me, when I complained of a chill. It was never chill, the trunk was perfectly warm or sweltering hot and never anything between. I just like clothes. Being naked is fun, but not all the time. Couldn’t get him to wear anything though.

That is not a complaint.

With how much sweeter he was after our first day, there weren’t anymore splinters either, making his nudity far too great a temptation. One I’d fall to over and again. For as long as he wanted me, as long as he kept me fed and entertained. To give him company, I’d insist to myself but I’m sure you can tell by now there was more to it.

I worried, despite the heady lure of him, that I was slated to be another of those corpses.

But his desires did not sing of murder, even if he did wish to plant seeds in me and turn me into something like him. A fact he shared on my third night—week? It’s difficult to gauge.

While I rode that delicious vine, enjoying rough hands on my breasts, his others in mine to keep my bounce high and hard.

“You’ll,” he gasped through the words, legs curling to aid my bounce, slam ever deeper and rougher into me, “you’ll make the most beautiful floran…”

Right, floran, that’s what they called themselves. Or he did, I’m still not sure the others there were aware. The few times they woke, beyond that first day, was to tend to the foliage outside or discard the corpses refusing to grow plants. Never, not once, did they speak.

It’s possible he’s the only floran left.

I waited until we’d finished, as his sap pooled thick and flowery beneath us, to speak. Which I did into his chest, toying with the delectably twisted tendrils of darker green growing from it, “I can’t make anything, delicious.”

The sap was proof, of course, it didn’t stay in me. Nothing did. Most see me and assume storied lust demon, hungry for semen. It’s...half true? I eat the desire, everything else is temporary. Something which irritated many of my meals, those so intent on ‘making me theirs’.

Even from here I feel those filthy wheels spinning, and yes it stays if I swallow it. Entirely useless as nourishment, but often a tasty treat—and enjoyed by the other party, which is nourishing.

Furyn wasn’t like my other meals, he didn’t even mind after I’d explained how I wasn’t a ‘born’ creature but a ‘summoned’ creature and thus could not create life myself.

“Then you will make a beautiful bond,” he amended, speaking through soft tastes of my lips, “I’ll want for no others with you in my arms.”

Then he did something that never grew less awkward to witness. All that sap, you see, it had to go somewhere and if it wouldn’t stay in me, well…he had to take it back. Licked it all up, and I am not ashamed to say I helped. Feeding some back to him after through drowning kisses. A fact he delighted in whenever I did it, grabbing me tight around the waist and pulling me to his lap.

For an innocent hug, and less innocent kisses, “a perfect bond.”

I’m sure he meant something like marriage, which is not a ‘me’ thing, but it’s possible he meant more what I have with Nori. A friendship with room to play. Something that was a ‘me’ thing. Something I was terribly interested in already.

Something we had for a time.

Chasing one another through that tree, taking walks through the woods—learning of all the plant life, and how very long days are outside the barrier. He introduced me to a hot spring as well, and I liked it perhaps too much. But he joined me every trip there until I was treated to the sight of soggy bark and floppy leaves. Adorable, really, especially when he tried to hide from my teasing...

It was a season’s worth—give or take a few months, for how time flows out here—before everything went sideways. A new thing arrived at the tree. A forest thing. A Wyld thing, and it wasn’t there for any florans...

[lottiesmonsters]

Why yes we do need an entire chapter of her being adorable with the tree thing before all the horrible happens and then have her mention him periodically throughout the rest of the book. Don't you know this is a romance now? No, I don't care what she's doing with those mermaids. She's thinking of the tree.

(help me)

[lottiesmonsters]

Remember those splinters...

I woke up n a cage, I shouldn’t have been surprised of course, by all rights I should have expected it. My cage did not hang beside the decay of others though, my cage was a massive and intricately decorated affair in a brand new section of the tree. Surrounded by vivid colors, flowers I would have delighted in for their beauty, their size, their wonder.

If I weren’t too busy being fucking pissed.

You’re assuming I’m mad about the cage, and I should have been, but no. I was mad about the loss of armor, of clothing, of my Guild charm, and my void-damned satchel! But most of all.

Most. Of. All.

I was pissed about the splinters.

Smooth as those fingers felt...well, they clearly weren’t. You know what hurts? Splinters of wood buried in your skin. You know what hurts worse? When that skin is deep inside you where you can’t fucking reach it. They came out on their own, as my body does not abide foreign objects outstaying their welcome, but it took far too long and was terribly uncomfortable. Pinched the whole way. I do not enjoy being pinched on the inside of my body.

My cage had a bed, one of silken petals and coiled roots, bigger than I could ever hope to be. It was on that bed I lost those splinters. Monstrous things too, big as my finger and I had genuine trouble gathering and tossing them outside the cage. How I didn’t feel them going in is a shocker.

Back to the predicament of being trapped. This is not where I write from, by the way. I committed many foolish actions with many terrible consequences, this one was merely the first.

Or, one could say, leaving the barrier was...yes, let’s say that. Much as I enjoyed parts of my time outside of it, and would enjoy much of my time inside that trunk, it was a mistake to come out here. Sex be damned, phenomenal as it was—and would be again, he did take good care of me—in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have left the city. At the very least I should have read the pamphlet the Guild sent me with, maybe kept better track of my satchel.

Naked as the day I was summoned, I could only sit on that incredible bed and stare out my beautiful prison...regretting.

All the trunk held musty loam as its flooring and all of those tree-beings burrowed in it when they slept. Which they did in the room they kept me in. Making the floor a garden. Which, yes, means they were the flowers I mentioned a moment ago. One might wonder if all the tree-beings had heads of flowers, and some did. It seemed, however, to be just those with blossoms instead of vines. Who had no breasts to match the feminine shape they took, which was a shame really, I do so enjoy teasing a hard little nipple…

My host, whose unspeakable name might be close to Furyn if we try real hard and hope he’s not reading this, was alone in a particular feature. Beside being the largest, that is. He had branches growing like antlers from the forest of leaves on and around his head. I assumed those features made him the leader. I would be corrected later.

“She wakes,” he swooned at the sight of me as he rose from the loam. “Does she wake hungry, I wonder.”

He’d not referred to me as ‘she’ or himself in the singular before then, nor would he whenever the others were awake, and it amused me. In a way it shouldn’t have. As ‘amused’ is the wrong word for what it did do. Something made terribly obvious as I crossed my legs and tried to scoot back on the bed. Not ashamed, mind, but not willing to give him the upper hand there either.

My lack of answer did it for me, and he wrapped fingers around the braided vines separating us and cooed, “she does.”

“I’m quite full from before, thank you,” I lied.

I am never full.

He smiled, pulling the vines apart to join me, where I noticed the bed was fit for him more than for me. It was when he stepped inside I noticed the legs and bundle of hoof-like roots where feet might have been on anything else.

“You,” it was the beginning of a question, but he stopped me with a finger on my lips.

Which brought new discoveries...he could change his size. As he did then, shrinking enough to be just a foot taller than me instead of the four or five he was prior. I gaped and he smiled wider, moving to sit beside me.

“You,” he repeated, “are nothing I know…”

“Nor are you,” I said it quietly, worrying of the finger, while counting to assure he had as many arms as he did before. If he were the same thing as before. He did, he was, but also not. “And something about you is different.”

Chuckling, soft and low, he set a much smaller hand on my thigh, watching my skin prickle as he caressed it, “what I was before is what I must be, for them,” a nod outside the cage, “but this is what I am. What my age in these woods, my play with the men who get lost in it, has granted me.”

“The lost ones in the cages?” I swooned those words, not for the words themselves but the tease of the fingers between my thighs and the other hand moving to cup my cheek. Why no, I did not consider more splinters. I was too enamored by what swelled in his touch. Far more intimate his desires in those moments and, well, it’s difficult to claim a favorite flavor of something without one...but intimacy is my favorite.

He leaned, to taste the words I spoke, teasing fingers not begging more or pressing in. Feeling me, enjoying a quiet moment with me, and the soft sounds I made for it.

“Yes,” he answered, pulling from my eager tongue, “they couldn’t...hm, handle all of me. Flavorless things,” he added, running a softer thumb along my lip, “not like you, flower. Myriad flavors you hold...and I would taste them all.”

No breaks on this ride, whoever is reading this. I thought I’d throw that out there in case you were wondering if there was more in store for me so soon. The answer is yes.

Mm, but it was sweeter. Gentler.

I imagine you still want it too, don’t you? To know the lurid details of my time inside that trunk. How it inevitably went sour, or else I’d still be there, feasting daily on the thickest desire I’ve ever tasted…

“Aren’t you worried they’ll wake,” I asked that thumb before licking it, savoring his bitten lip and grinning when he took the hint and fed it to me.

Furyn shook his head, “they wake when I demand it, not before,” leaning to nibble my ear as those teasing fingers slid into me, he cooed, “you can feast if you desire.”

Yes, he’d figured me out. Not difficult to do.

Meant I could lean into it too, moving to straddle, enjoying too much the small shock as I did. As I took his lap, losing those delectable fingers but gaining what I knew he ached to give. Not near as impossible as before, it glided perfectly into me, with my guiding hand.

“What of you,” I breathed in his ear, grabbing his shoulders as he did my waist, bouncing slow and gentle as I wrapped my tail around him, holding him closer, “is this...how you…feed?”

I’d not noticed how sweltering the room was, how much sweat coated me, until he licked it from my neck and answered, “not exactly, but close.”

“But you enjoy it,” obvious my statement, and followed with an obvious question as I coiled closer to force him deeper and rub all of me so rough along the supple bark of his chest, “so, so slow?”

While his quiet moaning was delicious, his desires sang for more, as did my own...and he answered all by turning and laying me on the bed. Keeping tight and close, he thrust hard, holding, waiting for me to catch my breath before speaking, “yes...but I want you here.”

I didn’t answer, didn’t speak, I simply held on with everything I could and begged that tongue on mine. Earning it as he remained close, unwilling to lose the heat of me as he thrust again and again, harder and harder, lust sharp and sweet along my tongue.

Releasing my lips, he took an ear in his teeth.

As I moaned for the rougher rhythm chasing it, “yes, there...don’t, don’t stop.”

“Not until you’re sated, my flower,” he promised, slipping hands between us to tease breasts, while his others took mine and pinned me to the petals. Which is when I tried what his other form prevented, finding what I hoped with a seeking tail—one as sweat-soaked as the rest of me—I slid into him and enjoyed a shocked and amused gasp.

“Too sweet you are,” so tender his words, dripping desire and more as he thrust deeper and held, wriggling to get another gasp from me. Not the command his words had previously. Not the possession I expected.

It was something close, however, a want beyond my skin.

One I reflected, “as are you.” Angling to taste his lips again, to tease his tongue and feel the moans my tail drew, I met softer eyes and understood the desire. One I couldn’t meet, but could feed, could tease, “so give me more.” Confusion put grooves in his smooth brow, glistening as it was for how sweetly we filled each other. I tried again, “take me...harder. Until we can’t, can’t move.”

Flicking those brows up, he smiled and thrust hard and deep, holding again, speaking only after my short cry for it faded, “my flower enjoys the roughness?”

“She, she does.”

“Then she shall feast,” he promised through a bite of my ear, breaking through to what amounted to my blood—lavender as all else. That he swooned for, licking and tracing to my neck, “as shall I.”

Harder and harder he filled me, taking more of my tail as he bit into my neck, earning a scream for the delectable pain of it. Branching those fangs, digging into all of me as fast and rough as his vine thrust and I leaned into it. Jerking hips and wrapping legs to chase, to keep him close and tight. Moaning louder and louder as his vine spun and split in two, easing one out to fill more of me, to force more desire from my veins and cries from my throat.

Yet he remained, somehow, intimate. Twigged fingers coiled in my fleshy ones, others moving to rub up and down my sides as fangs so warm and sweet dug in my veins.

All of him was heady bliss.

Filling. More so than the veritable cornucopia he’d gifted me earlier. The intimate delight of him alone was grander than most I’d devoured...and I wouldn’t. Devour him, that is. When my hunger grows too large, desire fed too long and deep, it tends to take lives.

But he felt endless.

As endless as I.

[lottiesmonsters]

Do you think she's worried about splinters? I think she should be...

Let’s say he enjoyed my arguably terrible response to the situation.

Let’s say he enjoyed it far more than I planned.

Let’s also say that whenever I am able to return to the ones responsible for my armor I inform them how incredibly easy it is to remove. How it pops right off at the slightest provocation, almost as if it were made to. Interesting feature, if planned…

Interesting as well how my host employed his many hands to tear off all I wore in the seconds it took me to figure out which strange bits on the sides of his head I should nibble on.

The leaves, it turned out, if the delightful trilling sound he made was any indication.

He made sure to earn more from me with where those hands teased.

After gagging me with twiggy fingers, he slid another hand beneath me, grasping tight to my thighs with what I’ll guess a thumb and pinky while pressing more gnarled fingers slow and deep inside me. I couldn’t say how many, only that they hardly fit and were exactly what I ached for.

Here I admit how very eager I was for that particular touch—or the danger of it, or the sheer heat of his desire against me, whichever pleases you most.

Something he delighted in, eyes flaring bright for how hot and wet I was for him. While my moaned response drove fangs into his bottom lip, which glistened with golden sap before he suckled it.

Watching me was too delectable a sight. Desire poured from him, slick on his bark and choking through his scent, and I devoured every drop, shifting to welcome another of those fingers as he offered it. To beg greater still, directing another of his hands to my breasts, and shivering for how easily it held them both.

Through a whisper, soft and sweet against my ear, while he tasted my horns with a tongue too hot, he teased further, “does my flower ache for more?”

Tongue otherwise occupied, studying the wriggling gags he shoved against it, I had no option to answer with words. So I pulled them deeper, held them tighter, promising more with every taste.

“Mm, good,” he moaned for it, “let’s see how much more.”

Names weren't shared. You know, it's honestly surprising how seldom they are. Unless it’s a client, but even then they tend to give fake ones. What's funny, to me if not all I feed on, is a name flows through desires. It may not be the one they were given, or even the one they frequently use, but it's always one they ache to hear moaned.

My host’s name was an autumn breeze through dry, crackling leaves, so it's difficult to repeat in words that makes sense.

I moaned it for him anyway.

The moment he released my tongue to feed those fingers where they weren’t expected, but certainly enjoyed, I moaned it. With shockingly tender twigs teasing still so deep, curling and thrusting everywhere they could, in ways no thin bit of wood should I, I couldn't help it if I’d tried.

Puckering my lips and twisting my tongue, I held his shoulder, bounced rougher on them and sang his name for him. Learning, in his tight breath and hungry kiss, no one had before.

Syrup his tongue, dripping it even, and I wondered what else he'd drip for me. What he'd spill as sweet as the breezy moan he fed my throat. Ravenous for more of his desire, all of the lust I could wring from such supple bark...I begged it with a rougher draw.

"Lower," I commanded, tearing away despite all of me demanding I latch. He only stared at me, delicious fingers yet working. So I tried a firmer tone through deeper moans, "either let me down and kneel or hold me lower."

His breath fell short for my wriggling, pouting as I pulled free of his hands, but he managed to ask, "What does my flower seek?"

Quick to grab waist and a leg to keep me from falling, he held me while I reached what I wanted, answering his question. Straddling him, upside down, I teased that great pink vine dangling between a distinct lack of thighs. A touch, a test, of a hand earned me a swoon.

"Eager thing, aren't you," he spoke through another, allowing more of my teasing.

Aided by a firmer grip I aimed to taste as wave after wave of his desire crashed too beautifully into me, bubbling out of me in a salacious tone, “to feed.”

Was he ever a meal…

Too much to take, much to my disappointment, but I curled fingers around what refused to fit down my throat. Wringing every delicious drop of aching desire his bark sang of, while he moaned in his impossible way as he kept me filled, flush with wriggling fingers and a terribly long tongue. Deeper and deeper he thrust into me, mirroring the rhythm I took, my two hands working decidedly harder than his four. Oh, but he kept his busier, certain to touch all of me that begged it.

Even as I couldn’t, he knew where to tease, how hard to thrust, to pinch. To grope and taste. He kept me screaming along his vine longer than I could gauge. While he continued to sing, his moans an aria of bliss no matter how occupied his tongue.

When he spilled so sweetly into me it was syrup, as expected, honey on my tongue…but he wasn’t finished. Nor was I. I hungered still, starving for what swooned from his lips, desire swelling thicker for what coated his tongue as he pulled free of me.

Heady, his syrup, more so than I was prepared for and I couldn’t, couldn’t think straight. Hadn’t since I saw him, truly, but then it was...different. Worse. A dream I’d been thrust into and I never wanted to wake.

“More,” I gasped, angling for neck, kissing hungry and rough to his lips as soon as he flipped me around, “I want all you have.”

A crime that smile, how it worsened what filled me, made it squirm and burn. “All I have...is my flower certain it can handle me?” How rich his voice made it torture, coaxing my hands beneath me in defiance, to grip and yank that vine toward hips refusing to stop wiggling for it. He laughed, losing all the tease for a commanding tone, “then take me.”

There are depths one assumes they know, assumes they have fully plumbed, sounded all they could sound. As I assumed I had...I was mistaken.

I screamed for that vine, stiffer than it had been in my throat, thicker somehow it demanded I scream. Demanded I wail for how rough and deep it buried in me, teaching me there was more to learn of my insides for how he shoved me harder against him to force more of it, to bounce me off his bark.

“Yes,” he breathed, as I screamed again and again, his hands tight along every inch they could hold to slide me up and down over and over and over. “Take all of me and be mine...”

Gripping arms, hands, whatever I could grab to keep my limbs from flailing, I held fast but could do nothing else. Nothing but sup deep and sweet of his desires, his heady, overwhelming lust, one far outweighing my own. Words. I wanted words, to beg a gentler rhythm, or a harder one I couldn’t know, but it seemed important I say something.

He stopped me when I tried, so many hands he seemed to have, and he held me with all of them. Grasping the back of my head to feed me his tongue, while another kept vigil on my breasts, picking and pulling and every now and then flicking with the force of a swat.

Ecstasy.

So seldom I am able to use that word for its true meaning but it was, I was in ecstasy. There was no want he did not meet, no ache he did not tend...that slick, delicious vine splitting and twisting and slipping from its tight little home to torture further. To fill evermore of me.

His face became a dreamy blur, smiling around a busy tongue, eyes brighter and brighter the more I moaned along it. The more I tangled mine with it, fighting to give something back, anything back as I faded.

All faded.

Until it snapped into focus with new sensation.

Extra heat along my neck, wet and thick and strange. More on my arms, my back, a swat to my backside between slams to his bark forced me to look—much as I could for how he held me.

We weren’t alone in our mess of moist limbs and ecstasy and I woke from the onslaught of his lust to question it. Unable for the tongue, but he slid it free.

To explain, “Mm, sweet flower, what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is ours...and we are so eager for something fresh to play with,” moaning for my absent nibble of the leaves on his neck, he spoke to the others, “and this one promises to be an endless treat...and such fertile soil.”

It was those last words I should have paid more attention to.

But gods did they ruin any attention I had in the moment.

My host did not allow me to escape that vine, leaning me back he kept feeding it into me, but slower, deeper. Deliciously so. How I shivered for it, soaking it again and again as it jerked as well for me, filling me with what I knew to be sap. Thick and viscous it dripped, leaving me in time to make room for more and more.

While I was gifted more to suckle and tease, from other tree-beings eager to fill me, ones I took readily. One after another, a fresh flavor of honeyed sap on my tongue, a new sticky sweetness between breasts my host held tight together for it. A fourth offered more tender delights, a moist blossom with a sensitive center to press curious fingers in.

A blossom I wanted to shift for, thrust into, sound its shivering depths...but I’d not get the chance for how they busy they kept me. They were delectable treats, generous lovers, and through my moaning ecstasy I faded again into heady bliss to the incredible song of theirs.

Oh, if their scent weren’t so heady, their supple bark so fun to touch and taste and rub against until I lost sensation...mm. Right. Passing out. I did do that.

[lottiesmonsters]

Embodying the title, this one

A feast which would come, of course, for all that soaked his bark it was a promise. However, before my hopefully delectable meal came, I was treated to a surprise. After rushing me too quick through copse after copse, he hesitated in a clearing ringed by thorns and vibrant gold blossoms.

“Here, my home…” He breathed, holding me tighter as an added, and yours, was left unspoken.

But heavily felt in my own breath, gasped and confused. I’m rarely shocked, it should be noted. Yet I was then, and while I’ve experienced other surprises since, none have matched that first.

None so great as to silence me.

Another tree, rivaling what I knew as mountains, waited at the end of his tether. Connected to him, as all the woods seemed to be in that sight. Faceless though the fresh foliage, its vines were thick as my host—thicker. While its gnarled roots appeared as grand fingers of deepest gray digging far and wide in all directions. Its trunk stood splayed, insides hollow, warm and welcoming.

No more hesitation in him then, too pleased with my shock he hurried inside.

Where the bark knitted behind him and all the sweet cool of open air sweltered to a humid fog of glittering pollen and cloying decay. He said nothing more as he carried me, too quick for something without feet, to the center of the gigantic interior.

Everything inside was carved deep, gnarled but intricate, and bleeding with golden sap—I guess, anyhow, for its shine and how slow it dripped. That was not the end of my surprises. No, he had more to show me. Or, to allow me to show myself as I tried to take everything in.

And I found it, of course, with his twitching to guide me it was impossible not to.

Hung on those walls, from bits of pulp and wood shaped into delicate hands, were cages. Vines and thorns all, with no obvious latch or gate...and bodies within.

None moved, none writhed or breathed, but not all were whole either. Decay ate at each and my host watched me, eager eyes burning violet, for response. A gauge, a test, right? To see if I’d be joining the captives. So I did what I always did in such situations, when I had no clear way out.

I flirted.

“Does someone enjoy playing rough with his toys,” I asked, wriggling from his grasp to climb to an ear, kissing each strip of bark available on the path to a softly cooed whisper, “don’t worry, delicious...I won’t break.”

[lottiesmonsters]

Nature-lover doesn't quite cover it...

I'd been warned of random encounters, monsters waiting to pounce from anywhere at any time, but not trees. There were dryads in the city, leafy humans mostly, lithe and small and spilling giggles. Summoned things, like myself, unnatural and strange but still human-ish.

This was no dryad. It hardly looked human, more a horrible horticultural spell gone wrong. Some mage that either transformed themselves into a monstrous abomination...or made one for fun. Yet it was beautiful, enchanting in a way.

The thing that grabbed me, I mean. Towering as high as any tree, he appeared one himself at first, but there was a face in the leaves. Fangs in the smile and the trunk was a chest, a torso with branches for arms, articulated twigs for fingers, all carved so sweetly of soft greens. Tangled in his vines, soft and dry as they were, there was no question of the impending danger. But I couldn't seem to care. That greenery tightened and tightened on my ankles, more snapped to snatch wrists and lift me higher and higher and still I stared. Smiling, I stared.

I'd not smelled flowers so sweet and the closer those vines pulled me toward a mouth near the size of my head the more I shivered for its promise. For the slick pink tongue hanging from lips too full, the bright purples of his eyes.

His, yes. At least equipped as one, a thing as slick and pink as his tongue hanging low and thick from where hips would be on a man...but who could know with plants.

Cool the tongue, stretching out to lick and taste my neck and cheek. As a too long finger teased my horns, another my hair, and yet another my tail.

He smiled and…

Mm, long as my hands those fangs. It had been ages since I felt fangs in my skin.

"What a peculiar flower you are," his voice sang, a breeze through leaves it sang.

While mine cooed, as it tends to do when I'm taken by something so pretty and new, "your flower...if you want me."

Shock flashed in deliciously deep grooves through his massive face and he pulled me closer. Enough to smell the syrup of his breath, "mine?"

"Mm-hmm," I was generally better at words, at flirting even, no matter the what I'd been faced with.

But there was more at play there. Something tickling deep and wet without touching. I tasted blood before realizing it mine, that I'd bit clean through my lip.

Slow, careful, his tongue as it caught it. And I learned his voice was sweeter when he moaned...

"A treat then, an offering from that grand and burning shell?" He asked, teasing under my armor with more vines. "Waiting to burn me while I play with you."

Soft, impossibly so, each vine coaxed gasped breaths as they dug.

"A treat, but not theirs," I promised, finding familiarity in the scent of him, the want of him. Hunger bubbling with it, I had to have him. Wriggling, I managed to touch the vine in my chestplate and urge its tip out and to my lips with a tease of my own. How sweet his breaths as I tasted it, rough and slow, running my tongue along all I could before meeting those brighter eyes, "yours, beautiful...I'm all yours."

Eyeing the dome behind me, the creature smiled and pulled me to the bark of his chest. Skin. Supple skin it was, grooved and delectably rough but warm and tender to the touch. As was the arm replacing every vine to hold me there while he turned and...well, he didn't walk or slither exactly.

It was more he allowed himself to be pulled into the woods by whatever his torso ended in—dug into the earth as it was.

While I enjoyed the ride, nestled in a scent suggesting a feast in my future...

[lottiesmonsters]

Come My Pretty...Lustful Maidens

Hellebore Spire had a reputation in her kingdom, as did the witch that ruled it; she was a fearsome thing that terrified even Faelyn’s father, having bested many of his Sorcerers. Hetrellia Hellebore kidnapped Princesses often, luring Knights to their doom, but the Princesses were always returned. It would take days, weeks, months–one remained for a full year–but they would be returned…though changed. Faelyn had bribed all she could from those who came back, to know what dangers they had lived, what tortures they had endured. None remembered, although all spoke of dreams that plagued them after.

And those dreams had kept her warm through many a boring evening and many a lackluster night in the bed of some hapless suitor.

Perhaps I should not have fled, Faelyn wondered, glancing toward the hall she had run from and, close to swooning, she asked the witch in the wall, “Were you coming to rescue me, Hetrellia, to admit defeat and ferry me home…or to your bed?”

The carving crackled; the gag beneath her fingers split and Faelyn leapt back. But the fingers that clawed from the crack, gripping its edges till their dark knuckles blanched, were not all that emerged. Greater hands joined them, launching from the opening they spread. Hands attached to wrists and arms far too long to run from.

Faelyn screamed again, in a muffle that may have been a curse, as the slender fingers of one of those hands–too strong for the elegant form they took–clapped tight across her mouth. Other fingers gripped for her wrists and held her high, too high to run, too tight to kick free while still others teased at the straps of her camisole, at its ties. More rushed her, tugging at and pulling off her pantalets. The fingers worked with delicate touch, removing her new garments without tearing a single stitch, until Faelyn hung bare and writhing in their grip.

Those delicate hands then spun her round and pinned her arms to her sides while others sought her ankles, her waist and the sides of her head. Muffled cries warmed the flesh at her mouth, spilling her own words back through her lips as the fingers around her ankles yanked. Her feet were then pinned to her thighs, knees held wide by ever more ready hands and there she panicked; truly panicked.

That tantalizing etching in the stone, she cursed the witch, words yet lost to the hot hand pressed against her lips, not an example of your own desires…but a warning?

Full novella available here

[lottiesmonsters]

Brave new world...

The barrier lied of what was on the other end of it, showing various skylines based on perceived season...or whatever the mages in charge thought best. Rain and snow and thunderstorms came and went on mood alone it seemed. But outside it all, where magic sparked wild and free, the sky was a single color. A beautiful color. My color.

Lavender.

I was shades of that sky. Nori said my hair looked like fluffy candied clouds, my skin a fading sunrise on a stormy morning...my eyes the pinks of dusk. 

A way with words, my Nori.

I've heard all manner of comparisons in my long life. Enough to make me question if everyone sees me differently.

But, other than the big black horns and matching tail, whipping about without my say-so often enough to have cut it off—it grows back—I am all different shades of lavender.

As the sky was outside. Leaves met it, in bright greens, browns, yellows and deep, dark reds. Their trunks varied as much as their color. Yet they waited miles off. Just ahead of me was a rocky wasteland, gray and sunbeaten, stretching as far as I could see to the left and right. I wondered, in all that emptiness, where other adventurers might be. Nori returned from a quest not long ago, which is why her pass was expired. But others, surely, would have been out there. Yet I saw no one...

Bag firm across my chest, gifted armor firm on my skin—shimmering then in all the colors of that lavender night—I set off toward the endless tree line. Toward a wide arch bent into the branches, welcoming me in.

I didn't make it to the trees.

Close, close enough to see the river and a waterfall through the boughs. Not close enough, or aware enough, to evade the vines...

I'd been warned of random encounters, monsters waiting to pounce from anywhere at any time, but not trees. There were dryads in the city, leafy humans mostly, lithe and small and spilling giggles. Summoned things, like myself, unnatural and strange but still human-ish.

This was no dryad. It hardly looked human, more a horrible horticultural spell gone wrong. Some mage that either transformed themselves into a monstrous abomination...or made one for fun. Yet it was beautiful, enchanting in a way.

The thing that grabbed me, I mean. Towering as high as any tree, he appeared one himself at first, but there was a face in the leaves. Fangs in the smile and the trunk was a chest, a torso with branches for arms, articulated twigs for fingers, all carved so sweetly of soft greens. Tangled in his vines, soft and dry as they were, there was no question of the impending danger. But I couldn't seem to care. That greenery tightened and tightened on my ankles, more snapped to snatch wrists and lift me higher and higher and still I stared. Smiling, I stared.

I'd not smelled flowers so sweet and the closer those vines pulled me toward a mouth near the size of my head the more I shivered for its promise. For the slick pink tongue hanging from lips too full, the bright purples of his eyes.

His, yes. At least equipped as one, a thing as slick and pink as his tongue hanging low and thick from where hips would be on a man...but who could know with plants.

Cool the tongue, stretching out to lick and taste my neck and cheek. As a too long finger teased my horns, another my hair, and yet another my tail.

He smiled and…

Mm, long as my hands those fangs. It had been ages since I felt fangs in my skin.

"What a peculiar flower you are," his voice sang, a breeze through leaves it sang.

While mine cooed, as it tends to do when I'm taken by something so pretty and new, "your flower...if you want me."

Shock flashed in deliciously deep grooves through his massive face and he pulled me closer. Enough to smell the syrup of his breath, "mine?"

"Mm-hmm," I was generally better at words, at flirting even, no matter the what I'd been faced with.

But there was more at play there. Something tickling deep and wet without touching. I tasted blood before realizing it mine, that I'd bit clean through my lip.

Slow, careful, his tongue as it caught it. And I learned his voice was sweeter when he moaned...

"A treat then, an offering from that grand and burning shell?" He asked, teasing under my armor with more vines. "Waiting to burn me while I play with you."

Soft, impossibly so, each vine coaxed gasped breaths as they dug.

"A treat, but not theirs," I promised, finding familiarity in the scent of him, the want of him. Hunger bubbling with it, I had to have him. Wriggling, I managed to touch the vine in my chestplate and urge its tip out and to my lips with a tease of my own. How sweet his breaths as I tasted it, rough and slow, running my tongue along all I could before meeting those brighter eyes, "yours, beautiful...I'm all yours."

Eyeing the dome behind me, the creature smiled and pulled me to the bark of his chest. Skin. Supple skin it was, grooved and delectably rough but warm and tender to the touch. As was the arm replacing every vine to hold me there while he turned and...well, he didn't walk or slither exactly.

It was more he allowed himself to be pulled into the woods by whatever his torso ended in—dug into the earth as it was.

While I enjoyed the ride, nestled in a scent suggesting a feast in my future…

[lottiesmonsters]

Come My Pretty...Devour Me

In the silence of the hall, all that answered her unspoken question were the popping torches set into the walls. They burned so brightly violet, staining the stone in grim purples, their sudden flicker to red all that warned of the danger. A flicker Faelyn did not see, her eyes too focused on the figure in the stone, mind yearning to know the feel of its skin, the taste. She did not hear the thump, nor the squelching pop as what lurked behind her neared. Not until its wet tendrils wrapped her wrists did she react, and by then her scream could not be heard–muffled as it was by greater tendrils tightening around her face.

Faelyn jerked in a slimy grip her but her efforts only eased her deeper into the goo of its shapeless body. That goo prickled her skin, burning as it slowly swallowed her and its tendrils wrapped tighter, too solid for the body that bore them. They forced her to turn and the goo dripped ever-hotter, eating away the silks of her robe until she writhed fully bare in its grip.

Her backside chilled, exposed as it turned her further, suckling the tips of her breasts with its hungry slime. Then the snap came, hot and sudden as a paddle against her exposed skin and Faelyn screamed into the goo. That goo dripped as her lips parted, it sunk and wriggled into her mouth to heat her tongue.

And then it slapped again, forcing her further into it, breasts and thighs burning as it held them tighter, and then again. It snapped and snapped, too hard, too hot and Faelyn wailed as the tendrils at her wrists yanked her ever lower–deeper into the goo.

It squirmed around her, pulling closer and slipped as easily between her legs as it had her lips. But it burned hotter there and it did not drip, it coiled and twisted, shaping itself into a thicker tendril than those that trapped her. She moaned again, sucking more of it into her throat and the goo shifted, it bubbled around her face allowing warm air into her nostrils.

It did not want to suffocate, to kill, and Faelyn had that single breath to consider the kindness of it…before the tendril between her legs split and spiked.

Full novella available here

[lottiesmonsters]

A Little Tease for Dinner

We were in our living room, in our apartment which being we were in the ‘Underlore District’ meant cave. Great big cave, mind, carved into an impossible mountain that appeared to be a dragon’s skull from the outside. Our slice of this cake was a hovel, however. Just big enough to accommodate Nori’s bulk. I believe...Ogre is the correct term? She also answers to Oni, but I’ve not known any others to use the term.

Point is she’s big, real big, and I could have her on her knees whenever I—no, we’re focusing on the what and the how not the longing.

I made mention of needing funds and Nori did what Nori always did, she tried to be helpful, “What, whoring not earning enough anymore?” After she was bitchy. Jealous thing, my Nori…

“It isn’t whoring, it’s feeding,” I told her fingers, kissing each as I spoke.

And she smiled for it, before rolling her eye as I suckled a few, “you feed and they pay for the privilege before shoving you on your way.” Taking her hand back, she gripped my waist, needing only the one and pulled me to her chest, “when I’m right here and actually like having you around.”

I couldn’t tell her she was tired all the time because of how often I fed on her. Couldn’t admit I was the reason she wasn’t able to take as many quests as she used to. Or that staying too close, too long with me and allowing me to feed so deep and often...was killing her. But I had to show my appreciation for such kindness and, coiling my tail around her arm I aimed for a soft kiss on her shoulder. Another on her neck as she breathed slow and sweet and kept talking.

“If, if you need money, Lav...you, you could try the guilds,” she met my lips, allowing a taste of tongue—how mine scraped against her tusks, I miss it—but the nibble to the ear stalled our moment. Or maybe it was the hand into the low-cut delight of her shirt, careful to titillate as it aimed for her ti—She stopped me, held me away, “what are you doing…”

“You want me, don’t you?” Cooed, my words, truthful as I related what she’d clearly requested, “lifting me up here,” through more tastes of lips—each one allowed, pulled into—“keeping me close.”

It didn’t matter, she shook her head.

But she did want me, I knew she did. There’s a scent to it and hers was a warm syrup, sweetly cinnamon. She wanted the touch. If not the hands offering. So I slipped into my other shape, easy as a sigh and I was thicker, broader...hairier. A shape she enjoyed more.

With a deeper voice, gruff and ever so slightly rasped, "what about now?"

She bit her lip for the little dance I offered, balancing on my tail to lean away from her arm. I even pulled my shirt up for the fuzzy stomach she so loved to nibble. Once or twice she even bit through it. My meat is not, hm, edible like the men she feasts on, however so she always spits me back out. A delight the sensation. Sharp teeth so hungry, and the ecstasy she spills whenever control is lost enough to bite, to yank...to chew.

Luckily I heal quick.

Aching for that taste, Nori still shook her head and, giggling, refused me, “Not now, delicious.”

Why do they do that, I wonder. Deny what they want. The oddities of living among mortals, I suppose, but society dictated I stop. They didn’t taste too good when forced anyway.

Another sigh and I was back in the less hairy, but hardly less thick, shape I favored.

Buxom, voluptuous, soft mommy, delectable titles all. More so than the ones for the other, they were always rougher with him. Unkind in wording but gentle in touch. Oh, but he was fun to wear. Especially under Nori. So I pouted, there's no shame in it. I was disappointed.

Yanking free and coiling my tail to land gently, I stomped to our couch, flopped into cushions too large for me and pouted, “tell me more of these Quest Boards then, if you’re just going to tease.”

If I’d known it would be my last day with her I’d have pushed instead of pouting. Would have loosed pheromones, shook my hair out, maybe rubbed my horns on hers like she loved.

But I didn’t.

And Nori laughed, hearty and echoing her laugh. It could shake the windows if she let it. Was she laughing at me, I wonder? Laughing because I didn’t try as hard as I tended to. Did she want more of a challenge? Questions best left unanswered, I imagine.

“Most just need couriers,” she explained, “but there's a lot of exploration quests too. Lot of things outside the barrier that people pay big money to know about.” Sitting next to me, she laughed again for how I scooted further, refused to look at her. “You're pretty tough, delicious, hard to hurt. You could explore the Wylds and bring back proof of what's out there...maybe some Wyld monster parts, those sell well.”

That was worth a glance, an eyebrow of consideration, “monsters? Something bigger and scarier than what’s in the city?”

Smiling, biting more laughter, Nori nodded, “much bigger, though I doubt you’d want to eat these.” Sly, her smile, as she leaned to add, “and they won’t pay.”

Close enough to steal a kiss, I leapt and wrapped my tail around her neck as I knew she enjoyed. Again and again I tasted those lips, and she held me close to allow it, fed me that ridiculous tongue of hers until I was choking on it.

If only we could have stayed that way a little longer. But Nori was insistent on not being dinner...and I have never been able to have such fun without feeding.

Hm, now I’m stuck wondering if she did know. Suppose it’s too late to ask now.

Anyway, she pushed me away, offering an apologetic smile to my angry pout and we found more public-appropriate clothing before heading to the city center and the Quest Board.

[lottiesmonsters]

Come My Pretty...a little flirting, as a treat

The mists pulsed and puffed, answering the request of its mistress with images of the invader. Robe wrapped tight, tied and clinging to her moistened skin, the Princess barreled through the corridors of Hetrellia’s dungeon. Empty corridors slid by, void of all but violet torches and bas-reliefs of Hetrellia herself, carved of glittering black stone.

The Princess froze before one of the sculptures, tracing its features with too great an interest and Hetrellia urged her mists closer. That interest shivered through the Princess, the bumps it left on her skin unhidden by the thin silks of her robe. She bit her lip as she stared, as she studied.

Then she spoke, “Is this voluptuous figure yours, witch?”

Hetrellia ducked, knees thumping the rug and hid her face before she remembered.

She cannot see through the glass, you idiot, She scolded herself.

“Cannot hear either,” She scolded aloud. “Did she say voluptuous?”

Hetrellia tilted her eyes toward her petite chest, the folds of her stomach and the thickness of her thighs. She even stood and twisted, angling herself before the mirror for a glance at her wide hips and generous backside.

“Is she blind?” She asked the mirror.

It said nothing, it knew better.

But the Princess spoke again, through the mists in the glass, “I will escape your little dungeon, witch, and if this is you; I insist you meet me at its exit, on your hands and knees to beg my forgiveness.”

Hetrellia swooned at the command in the Princess’ rich voice. But it was a momentary lapse, only a moment, before she glared.

“To beg your what?” She shouted, but as the heat left her cheeks, and her breath had calmed, she smiled slow and sharp. “Oh, we think ourselves the new Mistress of my tower, do we? Well, let us test that hubris, Princess…”

The hall the Princess stood in appeared empty, but Hetrellia knew better. Her halls were never empty; no invading force could count on safety within her walls. Danger waited unseen but always in reach and her smile grew as she spied it.

On the ceiling, too high for the dallying Princess to spy, a puddle of shadow paler than the stone glistened. She sent her mists at it, to disturb the wriggling dark and on their touch the puddle rippled.

Then it fell.

“Tame this, you petulant wench,” Hetrellia spat at the scryer as she crawled back onto her bed, smoothing the wrinkled sheets and nudging the glass ball to a dryer spot…to watch.

Full novella available here

[lottiesmonsters]

"We're going to write a filthy scene with a tree-monster."

Writes two chapters of wordbuilding and character building, creating a romance between the main character and someone she's unlikely to ever see again. Doesn't even let them get naked.

"I don't think we know how to do this..."

[lottiesmonsters]

One should introduce themselves, I suppose.

So hello there, little darlings, I am Lottie and I like monsters more than I ought. If you also like monsters, and perhaps filthy jokes and occasionally cheesy, overly poetic prose...you may enjoy your stay here.

On that note, I've a novella published featuring a tower of monsters and a princess eager to know them--link under the cut.

I am also working on another featuring a wise-cracking succubus exploring a wilderness of big, scary beasties.

I like to share, so expect some snippets of things and I'm not shy so feel free to ask anything or tag me in anything.

Tags on this post will lead to what's posted so far.

Have fun.

Come My Pretty

A filthy little tale of a bored witch and a promiscuous princess she accidentally summons into her dungeon. A princess who takes a decidedly unorthodox approach to "subduing" the monsters that inhabit said dungeon.

[lottiesmonsters]

Life in Lavender

Oh, these are always so difficult to start. How much do I want to give away, should I tease you a bit...hm. I suppose I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I? I mean you are reading my journals...or a collection of them, I don’t know how this works but somehow you’re reading this and you should know who wrote it.

My name is Lavender, so named as it is my dominating feature. Lavender hair, specifically, billowing in great clouds of tangled awful—if you ask me, but none ever do. My skin is tinted ever so the same. Mostly I am paper-white, or ‘ethereal and pearlescent’ as the cultists who summoned me would say. I do miss them, on occasion…

But this isn’t about them. It’s about me. So let’s talk about me. Gross. Okay, I am...well, I’m not sure, entirely. I came fully formed when summoned, learned as I fed, depending on who I fed upon and have yet to meet anything like me. I’m female, I’m told but only when I wish to be. I can me male as well and anything in between. It depends on what my meal desires, really. Whatever will please them most and net me the grandest feast. Sexual energy is my food, in case that’s unclear. To get needlessly specific, it is the ecstasy. Those delectable, sweat-soaked moments when pleasure is at its height.

Which means I change often, for everyone, and myself have no preference. Everyone is delicious. So long as they desire me and what we do together...I am fed.

It is important to share this personal introduction so that you, whoever you are, will understand why I went where I did. Why I did what I did and why it led...where it did.

Hm, I may not be the right fit for this. Writing is an art of words and my artistic skills are strictly of the flesh. Not to say seduction isn’t an art unto itself, just that I rarely need to employ it. I’ve a scent to me, one of suggestion and lust which targets those attracted to whichever shape I’ve taken. Unfortunately I am but the one size, and general structure...so its thick, horned woman or thick, horned man either one possessing of the others features if desired. No taller, no thinner, no other colors.

Yet that’s been plenty. Few have refused me. In fact, I don’t so much seek as I am sought.

Which leads to why I left the city, actually. So many repeat meals, same flavors again and again. I wanted something new. It's possible that it says something about you when even getting naked and sweaty with dragons isn’t enough excitement.

But I'm not sure what.

I also wanted money…

Do you know how expensive shape-changing clothing is? Let alone lingerie? It’s absurd. I don’t need any other food, or water either but I do sleep and I like to be clean, so I need a bed and a shower. A roof is nice. Somewhere to relax a bonus. All of those cost money. Money I wasn’t making enough of, and I was fucking the landlord! Dragon of a woman, in a literal sense. Fun time, every time, but she decided money was more important than a regular lay and I had to start paying rent.

So here we are.

Or, rather, were...as I am not there anymore. Or here? See, this is already confusing.

We’ll start with how I came to my decision, with the help of my roommate—and sometimes lover, I miss you so, Nori—who introduced me to the city’s Quest Board. Something she does once or twice a week, coming home too tired play with me. She’s an adventurer, you see, often decked out in enchanted leather that hugs every delicious curve of her thick, muscled figure. Great big sword on her back, black hair braided down to a perfectly sculpted a—

Right, I was telling you about the Quest Board.

I didn’t start keeping a proper journal until I was mired in the consequences of my actions, so this will simply be a bit of ‘storytime’.

//taglist\\

Yell to be added/removed

@theprissythumbelina

[lottiesmonsters]

Come, My Pretty...Princess Charming

Hetrellia stared into the mists, breath quaking as the Princess dropped the Minotaur to his knees. Eager and firm, the Princess' lips followed hand to arm and arm to chest. She dug through his thick fur to find the skin beneath and kissed and bit her way down. Lower, further down the Minotaur’s trembling stomach she traveled until she found what she had sought, and it twitched with her touch.

“Is this all for me?” The Princess’ voice cooed through the mists of the scryer, the growl of it prickling Hetrellia's bare skin.

The Minotaur snorted, one heavy hand moving to grip between the Princess' thighs. She gasped as the fingers of that hand pressed closer, rubbing too soft for the muscles that flexed beneath them.

“Oh, what a gentleman,” She breathed, gripping what then throbbed; hard and full at her fingertips.

“Wh-what?” Hetrellia asked her scryer, shivering with the sight as much as the touch and then she moaned as the Minotaur’s fingers–so thick, so rough–slipped through the moist heat that dripped from the Princess.

And the Princess moaned with her, returning the Minotaur’s touch with both hands firm along his tender flesh. Then, full lips open and guided by his gentle push, she accepted him. Her tongue touched first, wet and hot and she tasted him, tracing the tip of his bulk and lapping what dripped. The Minotaur’s unoccupied hand gripped her head then, fingers tangling in her curls, and forced her to take more–to devour him. The Princess gagged then moaned as the Minotaur’s fingers pressed deeper into her, pumping harder and faster. In answer, she twirled her hot tongue too sweetly, pulling him ever further into her throat.

Hetrellia gasped at the shared sensation and threw the glass ball off her with a shrieked, "What!"

She stared at the ball as it rolled from mattress to rug, bouncing against the soft fabric. Then she scrunched into herself as deep, feral growls mixed with the lilting rhythm of the Princess' muffled moans.

"What sort of Princess is this?" She asked those sounds, but the heat in her cheeks throbbed through her chest, warming more and more until it burned between her legs. That heat growled from her lips, far too excited to bite down, "What sort of Princess is this?" She asked again and scrambled to reclaim the scryer.

Full novella available here