Hexenkessel Erotica: A Dalliance in Shadow, Part One

A fair evening to you, readers mine, whether evening lies a long ways off or hangs about your shoulders as you read this. It’s been a while since I wrote some erotica, and an equal while since we visited the world of Hexenkessel. I’m here to mend both voids at a stroke. Our pairing for this particular interlude–a dalliance, even–is F/M, but we’ll just see how much it reminds you of the girl-boy meetups you’re familiar with by the time we’re through.

This was going to be the whole post, but the setup ran long enough that I’ve decided to make this part one! Sorry, readers, I just really need all of my descriptions and character-building before I can feel immersed enough to be horny. I doubt most of you require these things from your word-porn, but it’s my writing and I deserve to enjoy it too. I categorically refuse to write erotica if I’m not feeling horny–that just sounds miserable.

Anyway, the second coming of this post–puns intended–will be just the erotica. That’s where I’ll get into all the really fun bits: gentle femdom, advanced pleasure sharing, eldritch genital manipulation–you know, slutty mystic things. For now, I promise that the payoff in this first part is fully worth the journey to get there.

Cw: possible mind-altering, power imbalance

***

I am stirred by concern that the memory I recount to you does harm against my mystique. Such was the rift I wove myself around before it all began. It seems a petty quibble when I consider its counterweight. Still, as a witch and as a woman I treasure my vagaries like I treasure every desire that I desire for and of myself. Keep this pact with me: I shall withhold my little secrets from you where I will. Obscurance by shearing–memories broken, truths gone unspoken.

You may augur what you wish. But understand, I will not tell you whether you guess rightly or otherwise.

Bereft of time’s current, recall this scene: a gibbous moon as coquettish behind night-flying clouds as clean bones beneath a slow-withering shroud. Silver light streaming down from the nocturne heavens paints itself pale blue by the underbelly of the darkened sky. Gleams trace branches. Gleams dapple leaves into fae fretwork. Gleams fall upon the broad arching canvas atop a humble wagon with a single shaggy horse before it and a hunched figure on its seat.

Answering peaks carve themselves from the shadow ahead. A tall roof topped by spindles. Stone buttresses fit for a cathedral etched out of black rock alien to this domain. Yet a longer, lower roof nearby does promise a stables, and a horseless wagon abides already behind the sheltering sweep of walls where three centuries stand hooded and cloaked.

So the wagon-driver turns his horse, though the shaggy old fellow needs little urging. Into the yard. Towards the inn.

A footman with an uneven gate approaches, guides the wagon out of the way to one side, and at last sets to work freeing the stolid carthorse from his harness. Friendly. Eager.
And quite confused by the driver.

“A little far from home, are you not, sir?” he asks.
“Am I?” the driver asks, equally confused. Dirty-blond hair shines under the light. “I thought I took the same turn as always after Bad Feldisch.”
“Oh. Well, you probably did, you probably did,” the footman says. Only the moon’s glow makes his cheeks seem so gaunt and his skin so ashen grey. Of course, only the moon. “We can be a little hard to find, think you not so, secret and silent here in the between-woods?” He waves his hand. “But I must be about my duties, sir.”

“Naturally,” the driver says. He watches the friendly footman amble off. Then, with a cleansing shrug and an aching groan, he stands. The inn’s door beckons, open to the mild night air and the shadows clinging around its light’s edges. So he crosses the threshold, drawn by scents of herb-roast meat, ale, and odd sweet aromas some might call incense.

Here the tableau greets him. Here I greet him.

Candles stand to their sconces, casting twilight shades on cream-painted walls and dark-lacquered wood. Plush dark red couches form hip-high palisades around long tables strewn with food, papers, personal effects. And then, of course, there are the three unrepentant witches knuckling their chins and poking the goat-carcass on their table.

“I’m reading… misplaced bit of tendon, traces of oil… a stranger from realms of flesh, too light for the domain they breach upon?” one mutters, red curls bouncing against pale cheeks. “But where? When?”
The middle sister, Mira, slumps backward. Silver hair cascades along lightly-wrinkled brown skin. “The door, Sigrid.”
The third, spritely and flaxen-haired with vines woven beneath her tan skin, waves to the wagon-driver. She names herself Friedl, and the driver’s stricken expression impedes her not. “Hallo, sir!”

Various figures hooded, hunched, horned and more turn slowly towards the morsel standing silhouetted against the doorway into night. Wisely, but too late, he turns to leave.

The four-horned demon behind the counter twitches her finger. The door slams to.
“Karlotta,” Brunhild says, pivoting her head towards me with a glacial sideways shift, “you had to know he was coming. Why did you not prevent him?”

The multitudinous smaller eyes blinking all along her cheeks, jaw, neck and tail where many demons would wear scales, the four divided between cilia-sprouting brows within her sockets, and the single larger slit within her blue brow all fix on me. Her words draw the whole room’s attention. Brunhild, somehow, believes I will find this punitive.

I am fairly certain I am a narcissist. I do not say this in jest, nor to slander any other narcissist.

The inn’s regulars know me well. They assume this makes them immune to my charms. Oh, but the sensations they bleed out along quirked brows and pensive breaths! Their thoughts ring clear as a clarion on this space we share. And why should they not? I am a sight well worth beholding, with my form draped back across a stool before the counter where Brunhild stands. I make for a languorous guard and a poor supporting beam, but an aesthetic one.

A human form, true, lacking the supernatural flair shown by Brunhild. Creamy skin and snow-white hair, azure eyes and a full diamond face for lips just as full. By contrast, black the silken gown that drapes my ample breasts and hips, black the rose tucked into my bangs above my right temple, black the paint upon my lips and drawing thorns from the shadows it marks around my eyes.

I should also remind you that if a woman desires to objectify herself, she has that right.

“Prevent?” I ask, pursing my lips around the word. “Do you say I have that authority here, Brunhild? Does your inn lie under my thumb like a blood speckle, smeared?”
She licks her fangs. “Yes. I suppose I’m saying that it does. Metaphorically.
“Well then,” and here I unfold upwards with one leg crossing a long arc before the other to expose, briefly, calf and thigh through a ruffled slit-hem before my boot finds the floor, “if judgment is mine, then I say that mortals cannot be barred from this place. Or would you question why I do not forbid the song of my sisters as well?” I gesture towards the three witches and the goat’s carcass.

“You might say she’d have to bury our light,” Mira says. Rather, she drawls with exhaustion. She knows.
“That has no sense,” Sigrid says. “Witches are assuredly women of shadow.” She glances between us. “… aren’t we?”
“Yet we do you a disservice,” I say, approaching the wagon-driver. It needs no elder insight nor unspoken talent to know his terror. He writes it into every taut line on his youthful face. Though I am a tall woman, he stands taller than I by a good ten centimeters, with a burly build and just a bit of belly.

Yes. Yes, I like what I see.

A low bow lets me swoop closer, and as I rise I take one sweat-pallid hand. “You drift far from home and hearth. Tell me, young voyager, what terrifies you about us?”

“Wasting your time, sister,” Mira says. “It’s not your responsibility to save them from themselves.”
“Leave the lie called salvation with gods and the heirs to the Enemy,” I answer, before returning my gaze to the wagon-driver. “I desire only to know whether it’s a lie you believe you need. Your name, sir?”
“Er…” his terror loosens. His eyes flick about the room less, and linger longer on me. More importantly, they linger on the emptiness past my shoulder. “W-would knowing it give you power over me?”

“Only if you misunderstand it,” I say, with a light laugh. “And such dire misunderstanding that would betoken! Surely you must know what it means to claim your own name. No,” I shake my head, causing certain other features to shake as well, “if you know my name, that gives me power over you. If I know yours, the reverse.” I smile wryly. “And you already know mine. So slants our balance until you tell me yours.”

“Oh,” he says, swallowing nerves. “T-then, it’s, er… Hinrich. Hinrich Fahrlaufer.”
“And a family name, too?” I giggle. “How unfair! For you see, I hold no family name with meaning for this realm. So I cannot give one to you in trade, and so you apply greater power of names against me. Would you walk with me, Hinrich? I believe the air might do you good.”
“I’d take that offer, young man,” Brunhild says. “Karlotta seems to like you. But you’ve looked at a lot of us in ways I don’t particularly like, so,” she shrugs, “it would be well if you cleared your head.”

Pointedly, the door opens.
“I am sorry for the surprise,” I say, bobbing down towards Brunhild. “I–“
She waves a hand lightly. “I trust you to take care of matters if any real trouble arises. And the inn is suppose to be placed where outsiders can find it. How else are we to find the ones who most need to be inside?”
“It was very discourteous of you not to warn us, though,” Sigrid says. “We could’ve done something much more impressive.”
“Summoned a demon, even,” Friedl says.
“But… there’s already a demon in the room,” Hinrich says, looking towards Brunhild. “Er… no disrespect intended, your ladyship, I–“
“There can always be more demons in a room,” Sigrid says.
“Ladyship?” Brunhild asks, raising two eyebrows. “Hm. You’re on parole, young one. Go with Karlotta and behave yourself.”

Hinrich, who looks like a man already convinced he’s having a fever dream, allows me to draw him out by the hand. We pass through the courtyard and out from the archway.
“You must apologize later,” I say, stirring Hinrich from his confusion.
“I… er…” he says.
“I wish you to imagine something for me, Hinrich.” A night breeze stirs my locks into a glowing stream like tundral snow-drifts. “You live your life as best you can every day, yes? You work hard planning what cargo to take to which towns, load it by yourself, drive long nights to arrive where you must and when. Now suppose that for some reason, some vicious cabal of swine has decided to paint you as the root of all evil. They spend all their time sowing a thousand vicious lies with just enough truth about you–how you look, the strength you have–so the people who believe the lies will recognize them.”

Hinrich gulps nervously. A good sign. “This is not actually about me or my cart.”
“No,” I agree. “Now, the other piece. You know that old scoundrel you grew up around who always accused everyone else of doing what he was secretly, himself, doing? Remember how he only grew more bitter with the years as people laughed at him? Imagine that he found fifty friends just like him. Imagine one or two have true wealth and power. And they agree to turn this wealth and power to hurting everyone they couldn’t hurt before.”

The stolid wagon-driver now looks quite miserable. Again, a good sign. “Herr Zeller did like to call my mother a witch…” he says, swallowing. “I-I’ve never met a demon before today…”
“So whatever sadness and hardship you’ve known in your life was the work of other men, wasn’t it?” I ask. He nods. “So yes, you must apologize later. But here’s a secret about women, Hinrich.” I draw to a halt and face him squarely. “We don’t like filling ourselves with hatred. If you do not attempt to justify yourself, just admit your fault and say you are sorry, we will forgive you.” I quirk my lips. “Eventually.”

“How long is, um, eventually?” he asks.
“In my case? About five minutes, or the length of a kiss,” I say. “Brunhild holds small grudges better than I do, so for her it may be a week–or the next three times you see her, whichever comes first.” I fold my arms, deliberately tight against my breasts. “You will find no mold upon the heavens where all women flow together and grow solid, a uniform whole. We all seek our own ways through the world. By those ways redress the wrongs it does us.
“Brunhild’s way sounds much like my sister’s,” he says, with a rueful chuckle. His eyes stray downward, then quickly away. “Um. So, that is small grudges. What about big ones?”

“Oh,” I say softly, “Brunhild has no energy for big grudges. I?” I smile a very different smile, and tilt my head sideways. “Why, there’s no one across the next thousand universes who holds a big grudge better than I.”
That nervous gulp again. No god remains with the right to forgive me for how much I like it.

“I do like my games, Hinrich,” I say, “so I shall tell you this. I shall not, perhaps cannot, tell you my true nature with a few simple words. But I do possess great power. The true kind. Not a proxy like money, fame, or status.” I gesture, and metallic spires grow out from the encroaching trees. They rasp, rattle, and clash until they form a sudden sanctuary with an altar filling an alcove at the far end. “I want to offer you something. But you should know it will need me to open my presence to you. My presence carries my desires. Your mind may not fully be your own.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, brow furrowing in the filtered moonlight. He stares, still awed, at my construct. “Why have you told me this?”
“Because I need your consent,” I answer, “and I am uncertain whether a man like you can truly consent to be with a woman such as me. Will you risk it? My power? My essence? The influence it,” and I am not above letting my lip curl up into my teeth with the next word, “breeds? Will you chance these things to become closer, if only for a moment?”

Hinrich muses on this quietly and with true care. It’s endearing how his brow knits, how he raises one big, work-calloused hand up to his lips. “There’s only one Karlotta I know of. You are my liege-lady, aren’t you? Countess-Palatinate to the Scharnach Valley?” He drops his hand. Clears his throat. “I am already in your power, your ladyship.”

He nods. Slowly at first, then again. Firm. Final. “I would risk it. You are… you are pleasant to be with. I would like more.”

“Then, as your liege-lady,” I say, “I am telling you to put yourself outside that power. I don’t want power over you as nobility.” This confuses him until, stepping closer, I breathe, “I want power over you as a woman.”

Again, that adorable tic. Blinking, looking away, swallowed nerves. “I think you already have that, ladyship… I mean… Karlotta.”

I can feel the gleam that enters my eyes. I unfold at last. Sense spills out from me and returns: the low wind through the construct-hollow, forest scents and pollen-strains mingled with faint cinnamon and thyme. Hinrich smells of the road: faint wood and oil-traces laced by sweat and a certain something I’ll name manhood. He’s warm, and close.
“Then,” I press against him, “I want you to look. And I want you to see.”

I simply, deeply, want him.

My breath shivers through open lips and parted teeth, shuddering with urgency. Pressing fingers smooth a worn linen shirt over the soft belly, up to his broad chest, around shoulders to at last brush through his hair. A pointed press directs his eyes down towards pale, silky skin in a hollow framed by black ruffles atop black netting, and a silver pendant with a blue topaz whose sparkles shift with each rise and fall of my breasts.

He looks, grey-green eyes gone wide with wonder, while amber veins open along the construct’s walls and spill hearth-light out on us. “May I…”
“If you made me go through all that without touching,” I interrupt, “you would need to make another apology.”
He hesitates long enough that he almost needs one anyway. Then, big hands trembling, he reaches up. Tentative presses send the heat of his palms and finger-tips into my ready flesh. I heat in turn. My breath catches, the first little pant of pleasure. Of hunger.

“That’s right,” I sigh, “that’s good. I want you to play with them.” How long since I fed my lust? Too long, that’s all I know. I push tighter and pull Hinrich’s big, kind-eyed face down to meet mine. His startled breath tickles my lips. His tongue proves a quick learner, and the swirls of delight it draws along my own keep me sated while he fumbles for the ties at my gown’s back. The simple draw-tie on his breeches gives me no trouble whatsoever.
Silk falls free from one shoulder. Now the other. My heart beats thunder, beats a cannonade in my ears.

My lover guesses, or senses, that I’ll only be annoyed if he asks the obvious. So as the first big, cheery-flushed nipple pops free, he leans down and suckles on it. I come alive with that first sensual tickle. I am goosebumps and heady tingles, numb no longer. He teases the tip with his tongue, wettening it. It comes away shiny with a smacking from his lips and a salivatory string linking our flesh. Those strong, gentle hands of his knead my bosoms together as soon as the fabric slips away from the other. I’m aching deep within.
Hinrich has only enough time to kick his breeches and underclothes away while I march him back towards the construct-hollow’s altar–now blooming into a bed perfumed and soft as sin.

“What do you want to–” he brings.
“Your cock, my pussy, now,” I order, pushing him down. Seven flicks with hands beyond hands open seven ties holding my gown’s front-slit closed to tight to see through. It opens, revealing nothing beneath save the dripping folds of one very eager womanhood. Hinrich’s shaft stands up to meet me even as I push him to sit and straddle him. I drag my opening along with him a luxuriant quiver and slow-shifting hips, coating his length and his reddened head.

Down, slowly, letting myself feel every hair-thin stop and start as my channel catches on his girth and spreads wider to claim it. Such fullness. Such blissful warmth! His member’s skin rubs against my clitoral bud. The ecstasy of it draws out my first moan of the night, and my azure eyes give melting look deep into his grey-greens. I hold his gaze, cooing with pleasure and petting his hair all the way down the lovely length of him until I ground my lower lips against his base. My relishing hip-twists and light back-and-forth shifts draw a gasp from Hinrich in turn.

“Am I forgiven–” he starts to ask. I silence him with an eager kiss. Tight, insistent. With the same yearning I begin to rock up and down, using his cock to stroke myself within. Building need and spikes of lust become muffled moans and squeals passed from my lips to his while I hold the kiss with one tender smack after another.
I break away long enough to say, “You were forgiven before we started,” and the words break down into needful groans. “We’re here because I want sex. Now thrust for me, Hinrich. I want you to enjoy me. I want you to cum like it’s all you live for.”

And he does, settling his hands firmly on my rear and driving up into me. Slow at first. He fears to hurt me–oh, irony! But such a sweet sentiment, and the sweetness of it puts an ache in my chest just as beautiful as the one between my legs. Trust and his own need teach him better soon enough. Tentative pushes become powerful jabs. My pussy clutches at the rigid rod. I cry out with each outward breath and clutch his head tight to my breasts.

Now come the waves, one erogenous crest after another pushing higher while we come to a mad gallop. The sounds of our meeting bodies echo through the construct, the bed creaks beneath us, and my inner folds tighten against Hinrich. Between kisses he suckles at my breasts. He stops only to vent his own moans. As my pleasure crests higher I quake with the raw force of contracting muscles from belly to spine to neck, arching my back and calling out upwards.

“Karlotta…” he begins. I pull him tight against me.
“I know, loveling, I know you are,” I say, and I mean it. I can feel it it like the force from a hammer-stroke traveling back up my arm at the impact, like ripples from a stone I cast upon my ankles, like an echo of my voice from another throat. “Don’t hold it for me. I don’t need you to hold it, I need you to–” He does as I tell him, and doesn’t hold it.

As I promise, as I warned, I echo him in turn when he climaxes, and we rebound within each other. He crushes me against him, instinctive, crying out into my skin and spurting steamy seed straight into my womb. I am nothing now but erotic waves crashing back and forth until they stream out from me as clear answering spurts and a keening cry to the night. We rock together with that sweet tightening and loosening over and over. This could be a conception if I could conceive of anything but orgasm.

I kiss him repeatedly on his dirty blond hair. I am filled twice over–first by affection, and second by so much thick, hot cum. “Good,” I murmur, then moan, “good boy.” I twitch from hips to shoulder with endless pleasure. Then, always a little too soon, it ebbs.

Hinrich, once more to his credit, does not fall asleep immediately, though he shows the exhaustion of a man whose body is accustomed to the slow drain of lifting great weights rather than the cardiac rush of sex, or a sword-duel. He leans back, careful to let me move with him until I arrive curled up on his chest.
“That… that was spectacular, do I… what do I…” he trails off.

“You rest,” I say, with a giggle and a peck on one cheek. “For at least a minute or two.” I place a gentle hand on his chest and push myself upright. Watching me, his eyes inevitably trace down my glistening body, past the ruffled black fabric pooled upon my hips, and find the place where his slow-softening cock remains seated inside me. Viscous drips ooze slowly out from me and down its length.
“Hell,” he says, eyes widening. “I… that was me?”
“Mhm,” I agree, with a wickedly smug smile. “I helped.”
“But I can’t… I’d know if I could…” he gestures, now breathing more easily, “if I could make that much.”

“Oh, I would know more about what a mortal man can be helped to make than you,” I say, pressing two fingers into one cheek beneath eyes gone sly. “I have experience.” Again I lean forward and rest my head, tracing slow circles on his shaggy chest. “Now, as I said, you rest.”

“I suppose we do have to return to the inn soon, do we not, so I can make my,” he grimaces, “apologies?”
“What? That’s for the morrow before you continue your journey, silly,” I say, rubbing his head. “No, handsome, you must rest because I want more. You did well, though! A very good beginning.”
Hinrich blinks. Works his clever lips. Clears his throat. “Come again?”
“There, you see,” I say, placing both hands on his chest and looming over him, “now you understand.”

(End of Part One — Part Two Forthcumming)

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