Page 27 of Mischief Maker
Apparently, having the world’s most incredible sex does wonders for his reserve of magic. He is always keen to use it, ready to show off how wielding his cock like a weapon of bliss has made him stronger.
Kireth likes to torture me. After plundering me with his tongue and fingering me until I come all over him, his favorite thing is to lay me face down on the bed, fully supine, and then hold himself up on top of me so his cock is nudging between the cheeks of my rear. I widen my legs just enough that he can taste me, and instantly all that delicious heat is surging downward, readying me for him.
That’s the worst part—how eager my body will be while he simply continues to tease, the head of his cock rubbing urgently against my clit and just barely dipping inside me. He likes to repeat this until I’m begging, my pussy weeping with need, and then he slides himself in where he belongs.
My immortal is creative, I will give him that. When we are bathing in the river, he brings me into his lap like the first time we kissed and guides his cock easily inside me. He lifts my hips and lowers them again, showing me how I can decide our speed and depth.
Now it is my turn to torture him.
I relish this new power, and when I focus hard on the places our bodies connect, I can pinpoint what makes both of us moan.
“Use me,” Kireth growls as I sink deep and then rise quickly, and the next time, I only take in half of him. “I want you to come over and over on my cock. I want you to drench me.”
And oh, how my body listens when he talks to me that way. When I find just what it wants, just what it needs, I seek out my gratification single-mindedly. Kireth groans in my arms, his claws squeezing my ass because he knows I like it when he handles me roughly.
“Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “Find it, sweet girl. I want to hear your pretty voice.”
At his request, I chase after that blistering wonder, that powerful shock of sensation that comes whenever I take him halfway deep and his cockhead rubs against the inside of me. I soon learn where it feels best, and then I ride him, the contortions of his face mimicking my own as we both run headlong for our finishes. When I come around him, I’m crying out his name, and he buries himself deep as he shoots his hot seed inside me. It is the most exquisite feeling I’ve ever experienced to be so completely sated, collapsing against Kireth while the river flows around us.
There is one terrible side to all of this: knowing that he will, eventually, leave me.
Yet we easily fall into a pattern. He cares for the plants and I care for the livestock, and in the evening—before we retire for our nightly activities—we repair what’s fallen apart and broken over the years. I’ve sold off the wool for a new window and a big pile of good wood for replacing fences, with enough left over to buy us fruit and bread and even some treats. People in the village are surprised to see me selling cheese at the little stall Kireth built for me, which Rye pulls into town each week.
I’m the girl with the cursed farm, and at first, they are reluctant to buy from me. Perhaps my cheese is cursed, too, they whisper. But Kireth has imbued it with some of his delicious magic, and soon they are buying me out of stock whenever I come to the village to sell.
It seems that perhaps my luck has turned around.
Chapter Eleven
Kireth
Nothing has ever felt so right or so good as this life. Every day I work in the field, and while once upon a time I found such a thing dangerously tedious, doing it for Faela puts a spring in my step and guides my hands as I care for the crops. Every evening, I enjoy her body, making her moan and whimper, cry and scream. She holds on to my horns while she rides my cock and crumples to the bed while I take her from behind. She’s so tight and wet that every stroke makes an indecent noise. The flawless, tight grip of her cunt sends me flying over the cliff so hard and so fast that I worry I might plummet to my death.
Nothing has ever felt so right or so good as loving my farm girl.
I’ve stopped counting the tasks, and I don’t know if Faela has noticed yet. She is absorbed, understandably so, in the recovery of her beloved farm. The grass grows thicker and greener than ever, and now her cows and sheep are fattening up, giving us more milk. Meat will be plentiful this fall.
If I do not count them, then our time together can never run out. Now that I have her, there is no possible way I could leave.
The crops are coming back to life and thriving thanks to the potion, my magic, and the mighty power of the sun. It somewhat assuages my guilt for my part in all of this to see the farm coming back to life. We spend a few days digging new irrigation to make sure the plants get plenty of water, and soon we will begin harvesting the leafy greens.
Every day that we use the potion, the curse retreats farther. We are pushing it away from the house and toward the riverbank, and that’s where we plan to capture it. Faela has an old jewelry box where her mother kept a single silver chain, and it will work perfectly for our purposes. When the curse is finally small and weak enough to be caught, we will trap it inside, lock it, and throw away the key.
Well, metaphorically speaking. I have advised her we should keep it in the event she makes a terrible enemy one day and wants to wreak havoc upon them.
“That’s an awful thing to do,” she says, but she’s laughing merrily as she says it. “You are such a troublemaker.”
Then the day comes that the curse has been whittled down to a small black globule, occupying a square foot of land just to the northeast of the house. I call for Faela to bring the box, and we both crouch on either side of the shivering patch of darkened earth. I torment one edge with a droplet of the potion, and the curse skirts away—heading right toward the box.
“Open it!” I call out. Faela lifts the lid as I drop more potion, driving the curse toward her. At that moment, I wonder if this was a mistake, and it ought to be me holding the box in case the curse tries to attack. Then, at least, it would land on me, and I might have a chance of fighting it off. I don’t know what it would do if it latched onto Faela.
One more drop, and the blob leaps off the ground, ready to run for it. Faela jumps to attention and tilts the open box down... scooping up the curse inside.
She slams the lid, pushes down the latch, and twists the key in the lock. The box clicks with a rather satisfactory sound.
Now the pox on her farm has been removed, and it thrashes and wails from inside its wooden prison. The deed is done.
When we take the box inside and set it on the mantel over the fire, I congratulate Faela on such a marvelous job trapping that wretched thing. She acted quickly and decisively, and I am proud of her.
