The Lion, the Witch, and the Woodsman, No. 2

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Chapter 8 A World Without Orgies

With his sensitive nose, Feargus could read the witch’s entire sexual history, and he was overcome with compassion for her. He felt an unfamiliar desire to protect her. Euterpian witches rarely need protection. They have strong magic developed over millennia of lovecrafting, cultivated by their covens and nourished by the planet herself. This witch had only the faintest inkling of her power, and so she was essentially powerless.

Still, he could smell her potential, and it was bewitching. Who knew how her energy might manifest when she mastered it?

Also—what was this? He sniffed again. She had no coven. She never had. He shook his head in disbelief. How had she survived?

But there had been someone. Recently. He snuffled and huffed against her inner thigh, sending a spray of goosebumps over her body. It was a familiar scent. He inhaled deeply and sank his teeth teasingly into her flesh. His sense of smell was heightened by his gustatory senses, and he recognized the savor on the witch’s skin immediately. Backwoods Bruce.

Feargus licked his chops remembering the time he’d spent here in this very bed with Backwoods Bruce and the contortionist Glory Capricorn. That was decades earlier, back before Bruce became Backwoods Bruce. That was back when he was just plain old Enchanted Broomstick Bruce.

Beneath the notable musk of Backwoods Bruce, there were Euterpian scents: poisoned heart vine sap and fringe tree pollen. There was—what was that? Feargus’ neck hairs bristled. A transdimensional lion. No, thanks.

And beneath those fresh Euterpian aromas, there were stale scents lingering from another place, a place unknown to Feargus. A place he’d never been and couldn’t imagine. A noisy, crowded place. And strangers—a world crowded with strangers. Lone wolves with no packs. Witches with no covens. Wherever she’d come from, Feargus was glad she’d landed here at the crossroads.

He licked at the warm, soft crease where her thigh dipped into her sacred grove and inhaled deeply, huffing at her fuzzy muff. She moaned and lifted her hips to him. Her little thistle peeked out of dark tendrils, pink and fragile. He pulled her legs over his shoulders and buried his muzzle in her mound, stroking the thistle with his silken whiskers.

The witch was on fire, pulsing heat and emitting a potent aphrodisiac. Feargus growled. He was overcome by her sweet, fleshy aromas. He plunged his beast into her enchanted forest, and she welcomed his savage assault, urging him on with moans and pleas for more.

He fell on her breasts, sucking at the pointed peaks while he battered at her inner sanctum with a steady, impassioned rhythm. She’d ensnared his other two shafts in the soft crook of her knees, and each pump of his centermost cock brought the other two closer to orgasm.

He felt her insides begin to quiver and quake, and his lightning rod sparked in response, igniting her flesh, creating an arc of energy between their bodies. He stiffened and howled wildly, filling her with his warm, white moonshine.

Feargus fell on top of the witch, nuzzling against her neck and luxuriating in the sensation of his spent shafts pressed against her warm skin. She stroked his thick hair and wrapped her leg around him. He fell into a dreamless sleep again. When he woke, the witch was smiling at him. A table was set in front of the fireplace with two bowls of soup and two flagons of ale.

“Barbra thought we might be hungry,” the witch said, but she didn’t stir. Instead, she kissed him and pulled him closer. “I’m having a hard time motivating myself to eat though—with you here like that.”

She ran her fingers down the length of his body. His beasts were already stirring again.

“Oh, witch,” he said, pressing himself to her so he could feel the throb of his shafts against her belly. “You’ll kill me at this rate. I can’t fuel your magical practice single-handedly, though I’d die trying, Cerebrus, help me, I would—”

She kissed his bottom lip and whimpered, pressing her mound into his thigh.

“No,” he said, disentangling himself from her beguiling embrace. “Here.”

He gave her one of the soup bowls and said, “Eat. We both need energy, and I’m afraid I can’t stay here and satisfy you indefinitely, no matter how much I’d enjoy trying. I have important deliveries to make. Time sensitive deliveries.”

Feargus slurped down his own bowl of beefy broth, and the love fog began to clear from his mind.

“Almighty Anubis! I’ve got to get on my way, er—sorry, I don’t believe I’ve caught your name. Mine’s Feargus.”

The witch blushed, a charming if unexpected affectation. “Temple. Temple Muse. It’s—it was nice to—”

Feargus’ eyes widened. “Was this your first orgy?”

“Well,” she said defensively. Her face was crimson. “Where I’m from, it’s just not common practice. It’s kind of frowned upon in a lot of circles.”

Feargus scratched an itch behind his ear and thought, abstractly, about where Temple was from. “How do you celebrate the holidays?”

“Um,” she rolled her eyes around, thinking. “Egg shells and dead trees.”

Feargus’ nose wrinkled. “But—how do you solve problems without orgies?”

“I guess, meetings. They’re like orgies, just without the sex. Well, and everyone is wearing clothes and waiting for it to be over. So not much like orgies, I guess.”

“That sounds awful,” Feargus whispered.

“Y’know, it actually is,” Temple replied, as if it was a revelation. “This is actually much better.”

Every word out of her mouth confirmed his initial instincts. He could only imagine how the poor witch had suffered on her home world and thanked St. Bernard for delivering her to Euterpe, by whatever miracle it had been accomplished.

And for that matter, maybe Hekate had planted Temple right here at the crossroads for Feargus to find. The lost witch finished her soup and sat on the edge of the bed with her feet dangling and the empty wooden bowl balanced on her lap. Her dark hair was tangled, and her skin was still flushed from her most recent orgasm. A burp escaped her lips, and Feargus caught a faint whiff of violets and rosemary.

When he took her bowl, his hand grazed her thigh. It was sticky with his most recent orgasm. He lay the bowl down on the table, stacking it neatly on top of his own. He could feel his beasts waking up again. Temple smiled at him like a cat with a canary.

“I have important deliveries to make,” he repeated. “Time sensitive deliveries.”

She spread her legs and lay back on the bed, and the tantalizing perfume of her cunt overcame him. Later, he would explain to a furious Famous Lucia that there was no helping it. Hekate had put Temple there in his path, legs spread, hornier than a unicorn at a vintage car show. Who was he, a humble werewolf, to turn down a gift from the goddess? No Euterpian in her right mind could argue with the logic.

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