They had been on the road for four days when the fairy appeared to Bran. At just before dusk, he had taken it upon himself to lead his horse, as well as his companion’s, off the road to a nice little copse of trees on the side of the road, which would serve as their shelter for the night. In the last half hour there had been a light drizzle, though thankfully it looked like it had stopped for the night. Still both of them were soaking wet and shivering.

“I’ll find some wood for the fire,” he told the Lady Morana Landrich, as he helped her down from her horse. She stumbled a little as she found her feet again, wincing at the pain of many days of hard riding. Bran could sympathize; the ache between his legs was plenty painful, himself an experienced rider. For a delicate noblewoman like herself, accustomed to the luxury of carriages, it must have been crippling. 

 But if it was, Lady Morana gave no sign of it. She mustered up a smile as her small, soft hand slipped out of his, and dusted her skirts off. 

“Thank you, Bran,” she said. Her voice was nearly as sweet as the honeyed blonde of her hair, the rosy hue of her plump lips. Her perfect, upturned nose crinkled slightly as she said, sounding pained, “But really, you can call me Mora. Just because I’m getting married to the Duke, doesn’t mean I’m any different than the girl you grew up with.”

“Yes, m’lady,” he muttered, looking away from those beseeching brown eyes. 

She could say that all she wanted, but the truth was that she was different. Oh, he’d always known she was a lord’s daughter, he wasn’t stupid. But it had been easy to forget when she was gawky and dirt-smeared, with wind-blown hair and a funny overbite. When they’d had their adventures, running around her father’s estate, it had felt like they were the same. That she was not highborn, and he was not the son of a guardsman.

But in the months he’d been away training to take his father’s place guarding the Landrich estate, Mora had metamorphosed in ways he never would have expected. How, in only a year, did that awkward, tomboyish teenager become such a lovely, svelte little nymph? When had her ratty braids become silky sheets of golden-blonde hair that poured over narrow shoulders? When had her once rather buggish brown eyes become so liquid, so doe-like? Had her face always been flushed so prettily, had her frame always been so…

So…

It had felt like a betrayal, the first time Bran had felt his manhood twitch looking at his old friend. First, a betrayal of their friendship, then a betrayal of his station. Lowborn grunts did not lust over ladies like Mora. 

But he had been walking the grounds with the steward on his first day back from training, learning the patrol routes he would soon undertake, and then he’d seen her across the way, now twenty years old and such a beauty.

He had not recognized her at first. The sight of her shocked, like cold water to the system. Her breasts practically bloomed from her frame, great, plump globes of perfect pink skin, barely suppressed by the front of her fine gown. 

He’d been hypnotized by every step she took, which sent her wonderful tits bouncing and shivering so temptingly. He’d looked at them and dreamed of burying his face in their generous bounty, of unlacing her constricting stays so they could fall free. Then he might take one in each hand, letting his mouth suckle one perfect pink nipple into his mouth, hearing her voice keen a desperate moan and feeling her porcelain body trembling beneath his.

No. He had to stop thinking that way. She would never be his, and it was wrong to fantasize about her so. 

Nonetheless, he could not help but watch Mora’s tits bounce now, as she picked her way across the forest floor to the center of their little clearing. 

“Be safe,” she called to him, perching upon a little stump. “I’ll wait here with the horses.”

“Aye.” 

Starting off in no particular direction, his handaxe slung over his shoulder, Bran tried to think of anything except the Lady Morana. It was true that it had been a long four days riding with her. Longer still, since he’d had any release. Any trainee at the camp who was caught with a woman in the barracks would have been immediately expelled and sent home, and Bran had wanted the job more than anything. He had kept his vows. Self-pleasure had been out of the question as well, impossible when sharing a room with twenty other young men. 

But now that he was a free man once more, Bran had found his discipline waning. It was just his luck that Mora’s father had seen fit to assign him to protect Mora on her journey to the estate of her future husband on the very same day he’d returned from training. 

“I’m sorry, but you’re the only man I trust with her, Bran,” Lord Landrich had said, his eyes twinkling seriously as he clapped a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “I know men, and I know what they see when they look at her. But she must arrive to Duke Redmont unsullied. Can you do it, boy?” 

“I won’t let you down, my lord,” he’d answered, saluting. It was an honor, really. 

“Good man,” Lord Landrich said approvingly. Then, with his voice lowered, “And when you return, I shall buy you all the whores you wish for, hm? I know how you lot get when you’re fresh out of training. A year is a long time.”

It was a year and four days, now. There had been only one holiday in all that time, Saintsnight. If he’d been clever like the other recruits, he would have taken advantage of the day off to bed a tavern wench. Instead, he’d visited his family like an idiot. 

“Stop thinking about it,” he muttered out loud to himself. But he was a red-blooded young man, and perilously mortal. 

To his relief, it was then that he spotted a slender young tree which had been shaded by the boughs of its neighbor during the light rainfall. From the looks of it, the wood was still dry and would burn nicely. 

Taking his handax, he chopped off several slim branches for kindling, and then prepared to chop the trunk for logs. He had just raised his ax to do the deed, when the wood began to bulge and warp right before his eyes, allowing for a green-skinned figure to come bursting out of the wood. 

“STOP!” screamed the little figure, holding her arms out. 

“Fucking hell!” Bran yelped in surprise, jumping back. “What the devil?” 

The young woman who’d emerged from the tree—for he saw now that it was a woman—was green all over, with slitted cat’s eyes and a waterfall of black hair intertwined with creeping vines of honeysuckle. As he watched in awe, she pulled herself from the trunk and drew herself to her full height, pearly teeth bared in anger at him. 

“How dare you, human!” she shouted, throwing her arms out as if guarding the tree with her body. “You dare come into the Godswood and chop down the tree of a dryad? Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to cross the fairies?” 

“I have no mother,” Bran said, which was the first thing he’d thought of. The second was that the dryad was very beautiful, her stature short and curvy, with beautiful heavy breasts and full hips barely adorned with a careful arrangement of foliage. Curse his muddled head—could he not stop thinking of sex for even one moment? 

“Even so,” the dryad said, but the heat had gone from her voice. “You can’t chop down this tree. You’ll anger the forest.”

“I’m very sorry,” Bran said. “I did not know it was a dryad’s tree.” 

“Hmph,” said she, crossing her arms over her full chest. Now her feline gaze was looking him up and down curiously, dwelling not so briefly on the breath of his strong shoulders, his arms, and his narrow waist. “Tell me your name, man thing. What do they call you?”

“I am Bran.” He bowed at the waist. “Son of Merrick.” 

She smiled. “Bran, son of Merrick. And how should I punish you for stripping this tree of its branches?”

“I do not know, miss,” he said. “Perhaps you could excuse a foolish human’s error?”

The dryad laughed and shook her head. “No, that’s no fun. Hmm…how about a little trick?” 

Bran’s heart went cold at the thought. He had heard tales of fairy’s sense of humor, and they were not nearly as humorous to their victims as to themselves. “Please, my lady. Have mercy. I truly regret my deed. Just please don’t hurt me.”

“Relax, Bran,” she said, smirking, raising a glowing hand to him. “I think you’re going to have just as much fun as I am with this one. Ready for the words? 

“The forest must tithe this son of man, 
For wounds inflicted on holy boughs,
When someone dear calls the name Bran,
This geas compels you: break your vows.”

Bran stared uncomprehendingly, as a wave of tingling magic washed over him. “What? What have you done to me? What does that mean?” 

“Have fun,” said the dryad gleefully, stepping back toward the tree. She appeared to be melting into it, but before she’d disappeared completely, she pulled back the curtain of greenery over her tits, giving him one tantalizing eyeful of her full, fat breasts. She winked, “I’ll be watching you, Bran.”

And then she was gone, leaving Bran standing dumbfounded in the middle of the forest with an armful of wood, his pants straining painfully over a cock at half-mast. 

…

“There you are!” Mora looked very relieved when Bran stepped back into the clearing, feeling dazed. “You were gone a long time. I was worrying.” 

She had taken it upon herself to set up their little tent and was poking her head out of the opening flaps. 

“Sorry for worrying you, my lady,” he said. He knelt and began building the fire, his head low. 

“Not at all.” She disappeared back into the tent, but he could still hear her voice loud and clear through the canvas as he began striking the flint and steel. “I took the liberty of getting out of my wet clothes to dry off. Once that fire is going, I’ll be warm in no time.” 

“Yes, my lady,” he said. His mind was too occupied with the events with the dryad to dwell on the idea of Mora in some state of undress mere feet away from him. 

Under his ministrations, the tinder and kindling had caught, and now he moved automatically to add a few logs in place. Before long, it was a roaring little blaze. 

“So, how was training?” Mora called from the tent. “You haven’t spoken about it at all. Did you like it?” 

“Well enough,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “The other lads weren’t too bad.”

Mora chuckled. “Is that so? I’ve heard tales of those kinds of camps. They say all men are given a nickname there, as a symbol of camaraderie. Did you get one, then?” 

Bran felt his face color and looked away. “Erm, yes.”

“Really? What was it?” 

He cleared his throat. “It’s, er, not the kind of thing that should be said in the company of a lady, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, come on.” Mora stuck her head out of the tent again, probably solely for the reason of ensuring Bran could see her eyes roll. “I’m not a lady, I’m just Mora. Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

"Bran."

"My lady," he protested.

“As your lady, I command it.” Mora crossed her arms. ”Is that what will make you listen, you thick-headed pig?” 

Bran sighed and put his face in his hands as a scarlet flush overtook his whole face. “They called me Bran the Big.”

“They called you—” her incredulous tone abruptly disappeared as she halted, comprehending the implication. “Oh. Oh! I see, erm. My goodness. And that’s because—oh my. I see. Bran the Big.”

Bran’s head snapped up at the sound of his own name, and if it was possible it felt like he was flushing even harder. But this time, it wasn’t just in his face, it was in his whole body, spreading down and down. Mora was still stammering awkwardly, but he could hardly hear her as his body felt as if it were catching fire. 

“And, of course, men are men, I know that,” she laughed nervously, avoiding his eyes. “But as a matter of fact, I didn’t expect—”

“Excuse me,” Bran blurted out, shooting to his feet as the heat began to localize in a certain place. “I need to go.”

“What? Bran, but—”

There it was again. A fresh wave of heat raced through his veins, down, down between his legs, where his cock was as hard and stiff as an iron post. He tried to walk toward the treeline, away from Mora, but his legs buckled underneath him, as though all the blood in his body had been relocated to his throbbing member. 

“Oh god! Are you alright?”

“Stay back,” he said through gritted teeth, bending over double to conceal the bulge, but it was too late, and she had burst out of the tent to approach him, surrounding him with her sweet perfume as she braced her hands on his shoulders. 

“What’s wrong, what is it?” she demanded, holding firmly to him. Everywhere she touched him was setting him alight, and when he looked at her, he found his old friend to be only in her undergarments, a little silk shift that barely concealed that her nipples were forming two perfect peaks in the cool evening air.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the ache between his legs growing even more painful. If he didn’t figure out how to get Mora away now, he was going to do something terrible. What could he do? What could he say? Damn it all! How was he supposed to think with no blood left in his brain?

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Mora pleaded, her big, brown eyes bright with worry. And then she spoke the words that would seal both their fates: “Please, Bran.”

He did not even realize he’d moved when he did, lunged to pin her soft, luscious body down into the dirt beneath him, whimpering as he ground his hard-on against the heat between her parted legs. The smell of her was so heady and addicting, purely animal, mixed with her floral fragrance. He buried his face in her neck, licking the hot skin there, desperate to immerse himself in it. 

“What are you doing?” she yelped, as he fumbled with the strings of his breeches. “What? What is this?” 

“I’m sorry,” he moaned, and finally his cock was free from its prison, springing forward onto the fine silk of her dress like a hungry beast. His normally gentle pink cock was nearly purple with all the blood in it, its veins bulging angrily, its helmet head swollen huge. His plum-sized balls, too, were heavy with many months of unspent seed and rested lewdly on her stomach.

“Oh,” Mora gasped in horror. “Bran! What are you doing? Please, you—”

“I can’t,” he gasped, taking himself in his own fist and beginning to stroke the length. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I can’t stop.”

Normally on his best days, he was about eight inches. Now, he was pushing nine, and fat as a hog. And god, he needed release like he’d never needed anything before. He was gasping for air as he jerked himself off over her lithe little body, while her eyes fixed on him with pure fear. 

“Not enough, not enough,” he slurred nonsensically. His own touch would not satisfy the urge. It had to be her. It had to be Mora. He groped blindly for her hand and forced it to hold his searing-hot length. “Stroke, Mora, please, please, it hurts so much. Fuck, it hurts, it hurts. Touch me, Please, touch me.”

“Bran,” she said, her face completely white, her bottom lip quivering, but she stroked it, her tiny hand dwarfed by his monstrous size. 

He groaned as he passed through her tight grip, over and over, his foreskin sliding beautifully over his sensitive head, and sending pure pleasure arcing through him in rapturous waves. But it still wasn’t enough. The dryad’s spell hadn’t demanded a handjob. It had demanded Bran break his vows, which meant only one thing. 

But he was still a man with honor, and he wouldn’t go that far if there was any way to satisfy the geas with a lesser evil. He had to try, anyway.

“Your mouth,” he gasped, clambering to position his knees on either side of her face. The head of his cock hovered above her sweet pink lips. “Suck me, Mora, use your mouth to make me come. Please. Please.”

“Wait,” she whispered, and her eyes welled with tears. “You’re so big. I can’t, I’ve never even… I don’t know how, Bran.”

Another wave of magic, and whatever doubt he’d felt by the look of terror in her eyes was dashed away by his name on her tongue. 

“Ohhhh, Mora,” he moaned, as he dropped his powerful hips and forced the first three inches of his cock into the hot, wet, sanctuary of her mouth. 

The ecstasy was powerful and immediate, the writhing velvet of her tongue at his frenulum, the soft suction of the inside of her cheeks, and the tantalizing resistance of her throat closing around his tip. It was everything. It was too much. It wasn’t enough. The animal part of his brain was winning out as he began to piston himself in and out of her lips, his eyes squeezed shut. He could not think of anything, except the pure nirvana of her lips tight around his fat, raging cock,...