Never look back; that's your mantra. It helped loosen the knots binding me to parental beliefs.
But, now; fuck you, it's never, ‘just sex.’
So it’s a spiteful last longing look over my shoulder, before vanishing into the woods. Lot’s wife glanced back and paid the pillar of salt price. That won’t happen to me; Mistress’s Halloween trick, turning our home into Sodom and Gomorrah, has already encased my heart in stone.
On the balcony, hand having imperiously dismissed the treat-choosing sophomore sluts, Mistress is reduced to optimistically repeating, in her professorial tone, “It’s only sex, Alice.” As if that could be something grander than a fig leaf for debauchery.
God, impaling their cunts with a cream Feeldoe. Not just any toy, oh no; misusing my surprise, given as we adored testing how far I could smear red lipstick down a deliciously lewd girl-cock.
“Fae aren't real, you silly girl.” The light of my life’s last roll of the dice, gaslighting me.
With a one-fingered reply, I step into the woods muttering, “We’ll see. Halloween is liminal, you silly bitch.”
Mistress gets a little spooked when the sun’s last rays are extinguished. Something about not knowing, or more likely not controlling, whatever’s going to go bump in the night’s shadows.
So she’ll hardly follow me into the ancient forest; a magical and mystical feast for the senses.
The leaves crush underfoot, the nocturnal animals squeak and hoot on wakening, the aroma of damp moss hangs in the air and the featherlight silky ferns brush against my legs; I’ve taken this path a hundred times, heading for an altar beside which I tend hawthorn bushes.
I'm stopped in my tracks by a silver glow emanating from the glade. Excited, creeping closer, so ecstatic after peering around an ancient oak, I can’t help myself. “So much for not being real.”
A solitary fairy, beautiful and blond, is dancing around the hawthorn. With each whirling dervish twirl, her blue dress swirls up giving me glimpses of the prettiest pussy.
With a leap, her hummingbird wings hold her aloft before a featherlight touchdown beside my fae altar. She smiles at the gifts, acorns, clear quartz, foxgloves, wind chimes and Manuka honey cake.
Tasting the cake, she smacks her lips appreciatively and reads the altar’s dedication out loud, “Fay folk, come unto me. I, Alice, wish to share happiness and love.”
She looks over to where I think I’m hidden, her malachite green eyes glowing from within. Licking her ruby lips, she crooks her finger.
“Me! See, someone wants me, Mistress.”
Fairy wings flutter; her diaphanous dress vanishes. “Of course, I want the one who’s willingly shared her name.”
Her sultry giggle magically sheds me of clothes. I’ve always dreamed and prayed I’d meet a fairy. Skipping over, her magnetism has my aromatic arousal scenting the glade.
She sits on my altar spreading her legs. “May I, Miss?” I know better than to ask what she's called. Only the Faerie Queene may use a Fae’s name uninvited.
Her angelic smile encourages me onto my knees, her glorious pussy lips glistening in the rising moonlight, her honey intoxicating.
