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The Boots at the Center of the Universe, No. 3

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In which, Self-immolating Eamarru explains herself, Enchanted Broomstick Bruce learns the consequences of conjuring two thousand-year orgasms, Feargus the furry courier is puzzled by a rooster riddle, and Temple is intrigued by a tale of transdimensional boots and a Trial by Desire.

Erotica / Fantasy
Age Rating:

Chapter 1 Eamarru Explains Herself

Dedicated to Eris, Mother Mayhem, Transcendent Trickster, Queen of Chaos

Unlike your friend the sphinx, I’m going to get to the dirty part quickly. I know you’re here for the smut, and I respect that. Besides, the furry courier Feargus is about to yield to that plum little witchling’s come-hither-look, and I’ve got a front row seat.

After the orgy at Baba Yaga’s, I stripped down to my bare essence to get a better look at the off-worlder named Temple. I’ve already learned something, too. She’s hornier than Affordable Annona’s Discount Cornucopia Outlet—and persuasive.

Poor Feargus. He has a sack full of invitations to the Festive Fur Ball to deliver, and his mistress will be livid when he’s late. And he will be late. I don’t need a scrying glass to see he’s going to cave to that little sorceress like a hexed Herkimer mine. Who can blame him? She’s an enchanting diversion.

I promise to give you the blow-by-blow when he finally relents if you’ll hear me out while we wait. During this brief entr’acte, I’d like to set the Akashic record straight.

I feel you may have gotten the wrong idea about me. I sense anti-Eamarru sentiment brewing, and it’s no wonder. You’ve only heard my story as told by my ex. But did you consider that the version you got was Bruce-centric? Or had he already worked his spell on you. That’s not a typo. No question mark needed as it was a purely rhetorical question.

I know Bruce, and I know exactly what happened. That “aw shucks, ma’am” shtick of his works like a charm. Trust me. I’ve been there. You’re only human, after all. If I fell for it, how could you possibly resist? Even Feargus has a touch of the Bruce bug.

Sure, Bruce has an enchanted broomstick. Yes, he’s mastered every trick in the lovecrafting grimoire—and invented a few of his own. Everyone knows that. How could they not? It’s practically all he talks about. In fact, I think it’s a little weird that I’m the one who got the reputation for being obsessive when he’s the one still talking about me after twenty years. But what do I know? I’m just the crazy ex—“Self-immolating Eamarru.”

The story writes itself.

And, look, don’t get me wrong. He’s not a bad guy. I’m not saying that. I’m not out to get him or anything, no matter what you hear through the whispervine. But he did make the absolute worst day of my life the linchpin to his legend. My over-the-top self-immolation sealed his reputation, and when he sauntered off into the woods to “save the world from his dangerous lovecrafting,” he sealed my reputation as a wicked witch.

Did you ever consider that maybe I have an uncanny genius for self-immolation?

No. Because his legendary broomstick got top billing in the first story you heard.

You know what else was legendary? My self-immolation. Easily in the top three in Euterpian history. But, by all means, let’s make it about Bruce.

I bet you didn’t know that self-immolation is totally normal on Euterpe. You literally cannot teleport until you’ve self-immolated at least once. Every witchling who wants to get from here to yonder faster than the crow flies self-immolates.

Once you’ve been consumed by your own desire, teleportation is a cake walk. You just free all of your particles and re-form them elsewhere in roughly the same shape.

But you can’t do that unless your particles get knocked loose in the first place. Otherwise, they stick together, and you’re stuck walking everywhere like some lame, loping woodsman.

It’s just most witchlings take a controlled burn approach to the Phoenix Rite. They self-immolate a little bit—in manageable doses—and in private. As a general rule, they’re mostly in one piece the whole time, just a little steamy and temperamental. Throw on a little glamour when you go out, and no one can even tell.

What can I say? I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. I’m an artiste. Misunderstood and completely maligned by rumor and innuendo and a minor conflagration that may have gotten a little out of hand. Mother Mayhem, Rough Annie drowned an entire fishing village for less—babies, kittens, and all, and satyrs fantasize about her to this day.

What I’m saying is: it’s really not a big deal.

Except Bruce made it one by taking the hammy hermit approach. One histrionic vow of celibacy, and now, all the witches think I’m the asshole because Enchanted Broomstick Bruce doesn’t show up for orgies anymore.

Do you know how many wandering woodsmen there are in Tanglewood alone? They’re second only to drifting limericists in terms of the demographic distribution of the forest. And they’ve all got an enchanted broomstick or a bewitched battering ram—well, you get the point. The only thing that makes any of those guys different from Bruce is Yours Truly and a totally cringeworthy thing that happened to me when I was a stupid kid who didn’t know any better.

Anyway, enough about Bruce already. That’s not what you’re here for. You’re here for this hairy hunk of man who’s currently snuffling at the off-world witchling’s cunt with his soft muzzle. In case you didn’t know, lycanthropes have sensitive noses. I’m sure he can smell Bruce on her. I could taste him. Everywhere.

What a happy coincidence.

Didn’t I tell you he’d cave? Didn’t I promise I’d share my front row seat? I’m a witch of my word, and fortunately for you, I’m perfectly positioned to give you the full Monty for free. All I ask in return is that you consider who’s telling the stories moving forward.

Here we go. You’re going to enjoy this.

Right now, the witchling is weaving her fingers through Feargus’ thick, dark hair. Her lips are parted in a moan. Her eyes are closed with pleasure. Her back is arched. Her nipples are rose quartz pebbles. She begs him to fill her up again, and his three, dark scepters are straining and throbbing, poised to prick.

Some men don’t know what to do with one rooster, but Feargus masters three. Maybe his abundance of cock makes him more generous in his lovecrafting. Now that he’s chosen to be late, he’s in no rush. He’s slow and deliberate as he laps up her love potion and teases her little red berry with his tongue.

He seems to sense instinctively what I knew intuitively: the witchling has never self-immolated. She’s all in one piece, and as such, she’s volatile. And irresistible. It’s no wonder Bruce came out of hibernation. It’s no wonder Feargus is deserting his urgent deliveries.

She’s inspired—though I don’t think she knows it. She’s possessed by desire, ridden by it as surely as a shaman. I’ve been there myself. I recognize the symptoms.

Her eyes are wild. Her breathing is hard. Her aura is afire, and she’s dragging Feargus into the bed. There’s panic in his eyes, in the Euterpian sense of the word. The witchling’s desire has rendered him defenseless, a delicious feeling to a creature with pointed canines and piercing claws. He’s a wolf caught in a she-bear’s embrace. He’s the hare he once hunted. He’s a scruffy mortal about to be fucked by a goddess.

She straddles him, ensnaring his three heaving half-masts between their bodies, and Feargus moans. The witchling grinds, arching her back so that her breasts are two small, distant moons, and Feargus howls. He cups them in his large, hairy hands and pulls her to him to graze her nipples with his lips. He kneads and teases them until she cries out with pleasure.

She’s up on her knees now, taking one of the throbbing beasts in her hand. She sinks it into the pool of love potion gathering between her thighs, massaging the secret elixir into his sensitive shaft. Slowly, she buries his slippery bone in her backyard. He moans, and she shudders and tenses. She rests for a moment, relishing the sensation of his pulsing erection inside of her. His rough fingers grip her waist. She rises again, slowly, and sinks, taking another of his throbbing cocks deep in her honeyed cunt. Feargus bucks and writhes; he’s losing whatever shred of control he had. How he’s lasted this long, I can’t say.

She grasps his third shaft like the horn of a saddle and rides the werewolf, massaging her clit against his rigid rod. She’s feverish. She’s panting, quaking and quivering as she brings herself to orgasm on the wolf man’s fleshy pitchfork.

Feargus convulses and howls in ecstasy. A stream of creamy moonshine spills over the witchling’s breasts, casting a sleeping spell. She slumps on top of him, and after a moment of repose, Feargus lifts her gently to disentangle himself from her languid limbs. She sighs, her sleep momentarily disturbed. He tucks her in, grabs his satchel sans one lost envelope, and slips through the door.

And now it’s just the three of us. You, me, and the highly flammable off-worlder who brought Bruce’s broomstick out of retirement. I may stay a while. I have business with this sleeping witchling, but you have somewhere else to be. Give Bruce my regards.

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