The Boots at the Center of the Universe

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Chapter 5 Feargus Smells Trouble

Feargus paused on the narrow path through the forest and sniffed at the air. He smelled the sultry aroma of incense sizzling at midnight. The smoke trees were blooming, but also—what was that? Ripe strawberries and warm cream—the unmistakable scent of infant’s crown blossoming in the early morning hours.

How could that be? The two never bloomed at the same time, and neither were currently in season. Feargus knew this because Famous Lucia sourced all of her botanicals from the sisters, and he handled all of the orders himself.

He sniffed again, attempting to make sense of the story his nose was telling. The sisters had been baking recently. He smelled golden butter crust and caramelized fruit. There was a faint whiff of pear brandy and—something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A secret ingredient. It was a magical treat they’d baked. A man trap pie. He recognized the aroma because he’d been ensnared more than once by Sweet Betsey two valleys over.

But for whom? And to what end? The crones had abandoned carnal pursuits a millennia or more ago.

His stomach growled. Baba Yaga’s French onion soup had been delicious as always, but he could use something more substantial after his morning with the strange witchling from outer space. He assumed Temple must be from outer space because, as Famous Lucia’s fleet-footed courier, he’d had the opportunity to see all of Euterpe. He’d witnessed many strange customs during his travels, but he’d never encountered a village where problems were solved with compulsory sexless orgies.

Unthinkable.

Why?

He shuddered at the thought, and then—

Zing!

A razor sharp point pierced his traveling pants and jabbed into his fanny. Feargus howled in pain. He twisted like a corkscrew in an attempt to see the offending poker, but it was a vain effort. It was hidden in his blind spot. He cautiously probed the tender tear with his fingers, his teeth clenched. An arrow’s shaft protruded from his posterior.

Feargus drew his hand back, feeling lightheaded. He’d never been able to stand the sight of blood, and his fingers were covered in it. A raucous guffaw pealed from a nearby tree. In the crook of two gray-green branches, a fat baby with inadequate wings and a grotesquely outsized quiver was laughing and pointing.

“I’m sorry, Furry. Really,” the virile infant said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I couldn’t resist. You know, when I took those archery lessons as a kid, my mother said it was a waste. I would never use them. I guess she’ll have to change her tune now.”

“Bruce?” Feargus said, wincing in pain but also transfixed by the sight of his old friend Backwoods Bruce in the form of a well-hung cherubim.

“Yeah, buddy. It’s me. Some of me. Some of me’s over there,” he said and waved vaguely over his shoulder towards a group of flying babies playing a gassy game of leap frog. “You should not go over there. They are not my best selves, I can tell you.”

“And this is?” Feargus said, doubtful.

The winged Bruceling nodded demurely and then farted so aggressively that he was lifted off the branch.

Feargus was more than a little furious with fat baby Bruce. Shooting a friend in the ass merited greater moral condemnation, and he didn’t remember Bruce being so flatulent. Why had he ever held a torch for this guy?

“Look, Furry,” the Bruceling said, his voice tinged with something approaching remorse. “You should probably scurry on over to the witch’s cottage because I’m not real sure what these arrows do. I mean, maybe nothing, y’know? Maybe it’s just a little pain in your ass, but—” the cherub completed the sentence with an awkward shrug.

Feargus growled at the baby Bruce. There was only a short distance separating him from the crone’s cottage, but he could see several more Brucelings cavorting clumsily on self-precipitating clouds. Feargus didn’t want to know the composition of the cumulus formations that the tiny thugs had made their playground. He also didn’t want another mystery arrow making its way into his person.

“Hey, buddy!” the baby Bruce said, reading his thoughts. “Just to show there’s no hard feelings, how about I lure those lesser Brucelings away from here? You can skedaddle over to the crone’s cottage, and they’ll fix you right up.”

Feargus nodded. He didn’t entirely trust the little runt, but he didn’t have much choice.

The cherubim remained perched on his limb, however, not moving.

“Well?” Feargus said, nodding towards the clearing where the cherubim were now comparing their packages.

“Well, before I go, wouldn’t you like to ask how I came to this strange fate?”

Feargus glowered, but the baby Bruce was oblivious.

“It all started with an orgy as the best stories do,” Bruce said. It was clear he was prepared to tell the whole story right there while Feargus bled out.

“Bruce,” Feargus fumed. “I’m not interested in an orgy story right now. How about after Gentle Ginger pulls this arrow from my ass? Could it wait that long?”

The cheeky cherub sulked and farted and then flapped his puny wings and waddled through the air towards the clearing with a sullen glance over his shoulder. Feargus almost felt bad for the abomination, but he was dizzy and in agonizing pain. He needed a witch doctor not a fishwives’ tale from a flying freak.

The moment Greater Bruce had the Lesser Brucelings distracted, Feargus made a mad dash for the crone’s front door, using the slippery ultrasupple moss on the flagstones to propel himself past the hideous litter. He knocked urgently, and in a moment, the door swung open.

A young witch stood on the other side. Feargus had never seen her before, which was strange as he’d seen every witch on Euterpe during his travels. Her hair was black as a storm cloud, and her dark eyes flashed. Her naked body curved like a shoreline.

“Oh. It’s you,” she said, assessing the bulge in his traveling pants before calling out. “Famous Lucia sent her lapdog!”

Through clenched teeth, Feargus whimpered, “I need to see the crones of the cottage. I’ve been wounded.”

“Where were you an hour ago?” the dark-haired enchantress demanded. “We could’ve used three extra roosters. Might have offset some of the fallout of the pornographic pyramid. In retrospect, that was my mistake. You see, Furry, I’d only calibrated my contraption for two thousand year orgasms and one woodsman’s orgasm, the latter being a puny amount of energy barely worth noting. However, the pornographic pyramid increased the output of orgasmic energy exponentially. I haven’t had time to determine the actual amount yet. My hair was a mess after. I’m sure you can imagine having so much hair yourself. Brushing out all of the tangles took a while, and then—”

Feargus was struggling to maintain his temper. He was in pain, and the Lesser Brucelings were getting bored with the Greater Bruceling’s orgy story already. Both Feargus and the indifferent she-devil were in danger.

“Look, honey, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got cooing infant’s crown and smoldering smoke trees out here. Rough Annie’s goat is now a unicorn, and there’s a band of armed baby Bruces patrolling the perimeter of this place. This is a situation beyond the ken of a witchling. No offense. I need to see Ginger or Annie, one of the crones of the cottage—now.”

Instead of complying with his request, the witch leaned lazily against the doorframe and spit, hitting a spot next to the toe of Feargus’ boot. A single red rose grew where it landed. The stem swelled to bud and bud to bloom, and then the flower shed its petals and shrank back into the ground. She winked at him.

“Annie?” he said, examining the young sorceress more closely. She’d been old for as long as he’d known her. In fact, Feargus realized, on some level, he’d imagined she’d always been old, despite the tantalizing tales of her tumultuous youth.

He had numbered among those who fantasized about bringing Rough Annie to her first orgasm in a millennia, but he didn’t need a degree in Orgasmic Engineering to know that someone else had earned that privilege. He had to assume it was Backwoods Bruce, and based on the outcome, Feargus thanked St. Bernard for sparing him from the same lucky break.

“Please, Annie,” Feargus said, appealing to Rough Annie’s better nature, hoping she had one. “I’m in terrible pain.”

“Let me see that furry backside of yours, then, Feargus,” she said, stepping outside and circling him.

Several of the irreverent cherubim had taken an interest in the exchange. They gathered to watch Annie prowl around the wolf man. Even they could see she was using the pretense of medical enquiry to take stock of his very beddable body. The winged baby-men—or man-babies—as he was no cryptozoologist, Feargus wasn’t sure of the exact scientific designation—were giggling and whispering among themselves.

One called out, “I banged you both!”

The tiny peanut galley erupted into snickers.

Rough Annie turned her attention momentarily to the Brucelings. She smiled tenderly at the spawn of her long awaited orgasm, inhaled deeply, and blew a balmy breeze that scattered them through the forest in every direction. Then, she quickly yanked the arrow from Feargus’ rump. He howled in pain, but Rough Annie’s hand stroked the wound, and it healed instantly. When he reached behind him, he discovered that even his traveling pants had been mended by the ornery witch’s practical magic.

She pressed herself against him so he felt the quick pulse of her heartbeat through his clothes. She wrapped her arms around him and teased his nipples to pink points, and then, she slid her hand down the front of his slacks to explore the three legendary prongs of Feargus’ meaty pitchfork. He moaned as she pet him and whispered enticements in his ear, licking his earlobe and tickling his neck with her breath.

“But, Annie,” he said. “What about the flying baby Bruces? Shouldn’t we do something about them?”

“There’s plenty of time for witch’s work later,” she said.

Annie clasped a cock in her warm hand and gently squeezed the shaft, which responded with a throb. She rubbed against him like a cat and pulled his shirt over his head. Her nipples traced two parallel lines on either side of his spine, and he shivered to feel them against his skin. She unfastened his pants and bit his restored rump playfully as she slipped the slacks down to gain greater access to his three-headed beast.

Feargus stood exposed on the stoop of the crones’ cottage. The intoxicating perfume of infant’s crown and smoke trees and pomegranate tart aroused him, and his cocks were all at attention as Rough Annie circled back around to get a better look at him.

She pulled him into an amorous embrace and drew him into a long kiss. He quivered when she teased his lips, and his three-headed beast convulsed when she invaded his mouth, sucking at his tongue and biting his bottom lip. The sensitive skin of his shafts scorched against her burning belly, and little pearls of moonshine were already gathering at the tips of each fleshy still.

Annie climbed the wolf man like a poisoned heart vine, wrapping her strong legs around his waist. Her wishing well dripped onto his pulsing prong, and Feargus was becoming frenzied with desire for her. He sank to his knees and lowered Annie onto the flagstones. He pinned her arms over her head with one hand and cupped a breast in the other. The yielding flesh enflamed him, and he took it in his mouth, spiraling her flushed areola with his tongue, kneading her nipple with his lips.

She cried out and bucked her hips, crashing against him. Her slick inlet engulfed his beast, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He plunged his prong into her tidal pool, pushing deep inside the electric passage. The slick walls quivered against his aching cock, and every thrust against her inner sanctum brought him nearer to climax. He was dissolving into her wet, velvety delta.

“Fuck me, Furry,” she moaned and bucked again.

He was a wild animal now, pummeling her warm cunt instinctively. Blood hummed in his ears and drummed through his slippery shaft, causing it to thump and shudder. She cried out and arched, thrusting her breasts upward. He ravaged the soft mounds, gorging himself on the salty scent of her skin.

Her body trembled, and she cried out his name and dug her nails into his back like spiked anchors. Her seawalls shivered and shook with a deluge of orgasmic energy. Feargus spasmed and shuddered in sympathy, and his moonshine filled her to overflowing and joined her creamy seafoam as it dripped onto the flagstones. A carpet of small blue flowers burst into bloom where the alchemical brew amassed.

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