Chapter 8 - The Witch's Challenge

I knew she was there before I even heard the whimpering.

My forest, my rules, most days, that meant a bored round of tag with some nymph who wanted to get chased, or a lazy patrol to keep the herbivores from eating my favorite mosses bald. But the air tonight… It crawled with the bitter-sweetness of something out-of-place, magic that reeked of candle wax, bone dust, and a city dweller’s bad taste. It slicked the back of my tongue and set my hackles up.

I followed the stench past an old sunken shrine and through a run of twisted roots, ears cocked for anything out of the ordinary. That’s when I caught the high, chittering squeal, the unmistakable noise of a pixie getting snatched. Not in the fun way, either.

It pissed me off.

I broke into a lope, feet barely touching the duff as the world slid around me in streaks of silver and shadow. The Silver-Bark Expanse isn’t a place you want to move fast unless you know every root and drop-off, but the woods and I had an understanding. Even so, the scent of city-magic got thicker as I neared the clearing. It was so bad it made my nose wrinkle.

She’d picked a showy spot. Moonlight splashed through the high canopy, hitting a patch of spongy moss and those sickly blue mushrooms the fae love to snort. The trees hunched close around the opening, branches shivering with anticipation. In the center stood the witch, tall and flawless in a way that only comes from too many years of being told how fucking special you are.

She wore black robes stitched with lines of blue-white fire, each stitch glowing, shifting, spelling out sigils that hurt to look at if you cared about the natural order. Her face was cold marble, eyes sharp and empty, like someone who’s been handed every advantage in life and decided that, fuck it, she’ll just take a few more.

She was collecting. Little cages of violet light hovered at shoulder height, each one trembling with the glow of a panicked pixie. The tiny bastards clung to the bars with their four-fingered hands, wings going blur-fast, faces drawn in terror.

The witch made it look easy. A flick of her fingers, another snap of violet, another pixie frozen mid-dart, its light fading to a blue moan as it slammed into the magical prison. She didn’t even look at them. She was already tracing her next sigil, eyes scanning for more.

I stepped out from the shadow, broad and upright, letting the wolf show in my walk. No point in hiding when you want to send a message.

My growl shook leaves off the nearest birch.

The witch’s head snapped up, expression flickering from mild surprise to I-can’t-believe-you-just-interrupted-me. Her lips curled in a slow, poisonous smirk. “A beast playing protector? How quaint.” Her voice was smooth, but you could hear the crackle of power under it, a dangerous fuck-you tone, honed on servants and terrified apprentices.

The pixies, sensing a moment, started shrieking. It was like a chorus of cracked glass and dying laughter. It made the witch’s face go tight for a second, but she recovered, raising her hands as if to bless the whole forest with her contempt.

I flexed my claws. My hackles fluffed to double their usual size. I could feel the static from her robes, the way the magic sucked up all the air around us. But I’d hunted spell-casters before, and I knew better than to give her time to make the first move.

She barely bothered with a gesture, a lazy, backhanded flick that sent a rod of violet crackling toward my chest.

I dodged left, feet digging into the moss, tail snapping the air for balance. The bolt missed, carving a line through a low branch. Where it touched, the bark withered, turned glassy, then crumbled to black dust.

“Not bad,” she said, already setting up for another spell. “But you’re not the only one with good reflexes.”

I grinned, all teeth and threat, and started circling. Every step I took, I made sure to scuff up her neat little circle of runes, just to piss her off. She tracked my movement with the calm of someone used to being the apex predator.

Up close, her scent was wrong, flowers and grave soil, expensive perfumes barely masking the rot underneath. She was a city witch, with just enough fae blood to act like the Expanse was hers to pillage.

I lunged, not at her, but at one of the cages. My claws shredded the spellwork, and the pixie inside shot free with a wild, grateful screech. The cage fizzled to nothing.

The witch’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s the game you want to play.”

She moved fast for a human, too fast, probably juiced on stolen fae power. She spun a circle in the air, and a halo of barbed energy exploded out, lancing toward me. I dropped flat, rolled, felt the sting of one barb tearing through fur and grazing my skin. It hurt, but it wasn’t lethal. The real threat was her next move.

I got to my feet just as she unleashed a net of writhing light, aiming to wrap me up like the world’s angriest Christmas present.

I ducked again, but this time she anticipated, shifting the spell to catch my shoulder as I tried to slip under it. The net sizzled against my fur, reeking of burnt hair and ozone, but I was bigger, stronger, and had no intention of rolling over for a city witch.

I twisted, hauling the spell with me, using my own momentum to whip one of the cages right into her face. It burst in a spray of violet and terrified pixie dust, blinding her for a split second.

I took the opening and charged, every muscle screaming for release.

She screamed, sharp, angry, not scared, and brought both hands up, unleashing a shockwave of force that slammed me back into a birch trunk. The tree shivered, dropping a rain of silver leaves. For a moment, I saw stars. My tongue tasted blood.

She stalked toward me, elegant and deadly, robes fluttering with the force of her magic.

“You’re outclassed, wolf. Go lick your wounds somewhere far, far away.”

I spat blood on the moss, smiled up at her with a mouthful of canines. “That all you got? Try harder.”

Her eyes went black, pure void. She reached for the biggest, meanest spell she could muster. I could feel it gathering in the air, hot, greasy, full of hate. It built and built, a pressure behind my eyes, threatening to split my skull.

But I wasn’t a novice, either. The Expanse had its own magic, and it liked me just fine.

I dug my claws into the ground, called the forest to my side. The roots under the moss coiled, flexed, and then shot up, wrapping the witch’s ankles tight. She hissed, lashing at them with flickers of angry energy, but it was enough to break her focus.

I used that half-second to leap, claws out, going for her throat.

She twisted away, but not before I snagged her robe, shredding it down the side and exposing a run of glowing tattoos on her ribs. Each one pulsed with stolen fae light, beautiful and sickening at the same time.

She staggered, off-balance, and I used my weight to pin her to the ground, teeth bared, one paw crushing her shoulder.

The pixies, what was left of them, went absolutely apeshit, their screeches vibrating the very air. A few darted in, nipping at her ears, yanking her hair. For a second, she looked genuinely scared.

“Get off!” she shrieked, struggling against my grip.

I pressed down harder, snout inches from her face. My breath came hot and rank, but she didn’t flinch. Her eyes were pure murder.

She spat a curse, something in a language older than bones, and her hand darted to the pouch at her belt. I saw the move, swatted it away, and in the same motion, ripped the pouch off and tossed it to the pixies, who immediately started tearing into it like rabid mice.

With the last bit of her focus, she hit me point-blank with a blast of freezing energy. It punched the air from my lungs, made the fur along my spine stiffen with frost. I howled, but didn’t let go.

I leaned in, nose to nose with the witch. “This is my forest,” I growled, “and you just failed the welcome test.”

Her response was a wordless shriek and a last-ditch attempt to gouge my eye with her thumb. It almost worked, but my reflexes were better. I jerked my head away, then snapped my jaws shut just shy of her nose.

We froze there, panting, each waiting for the other to blink first.

I could feel her heartbeat thundering through her chest, wild with fear and rage and something else, some deeper thrill at being matched, maybe even outmatched. Her magic sparked and fizzed, out of her control now.

Around us, the clearing pulsed with life. The pixies swarmed, chanting in their bastardized tongue. The trees leaned in, hungry for the outcome. Even the moss seemed to tense, waiting.

“Let’s make this interesting,” I snarled, voice low, all threat and invitation. “You like power games, don’t you?”

Her lips twitched, caught between a snarl and a smirk. “Try me.”

So I did.

---

The second I let up, she ripped a blast of wind straight into my muzzle, point-blank, knocking me off with more force than you’d credit to a hundred pounds of bitchy aristocrat. I rolled, came up crouched, and watched her scramble upright, dress torn, hair wild, eyes burning with a hate that made me want to howl.

She didn’t waste time with banter this round. Her hands drew a figure eight, and the air solidified with a snapping sound. Binding hex. I’d seen it before, felt it before, once, on a dare from a satyr who said I couldn’t break a noble’s curse. He was wrong, and so was she.

The roots underfoot surged up, wrapping my ankles, knees, thighs. The pain in them wasn’t normal forest stuff, they sizzled with her will, an acid tickle racing up my nerves. I flexed, twisted, tried to break them, but the hex kept them soft enough to bend without snapping. Clever.

I played dumb for half a second, just enough to let her approach, thinking I was helpless. She came in close, lips curled, hands glowing as she worked the next sigil. Probably aiming to petrify or paralyze. That’s what a city mage would do.

She got close enough to smell my sweat, and that’s when I leaned in, jaws open, and bit down on her forearm.

She yelped, ripped it back, but not before I tore free a chunk of the spell, her pain broke the focus, and the roots melted off my legs like rotted meat.

“You fucking animal,” she spat, cradling her arm, blood seeping through her sleeve.

I licked my lips. “You noticed.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, she snapped her fingers, and the world exploded into a screaming wall of fire. It didn’t burn natural, more like it peeled the air off your skin, layer by layer, so every breath tasted like boiling copper. My fur curled at the tips; the inside of my nose went raw.

But the Expanse is my turf. The fire found nothing to eat. The trees bent away from it, leaves slapping together to block the worst of the heat. I hit the ground, rolled, then sprinted low across the burnt zone toward her.

She’d multiplied. Three of her, perfectly in sync, all casting at once. Classic city move. I went for the one that smelled right, barreled into her with shoulder and hip, sending her and the two fakes tumbling in a tangle.

We crashed through a ring of glowing mushrooms, she kicked at me, nails out, but I pinned her wrist to the ground, then raked her side with my claws. Her robe split clean to the waist, showing off more of those tattoos, lines of glowing script that pulsed like a second heartbeat.

The real trick of her spell was that she’d layered a pain curse into her own skin, when I dug in, the agony rebounded, stabbing my hand with a needle of pure white fire. I yelped, let go, and she used the opening to hit me with a backhand of kinetic force. It sent me skipping over the moss like a thrown dog toy.

I crashed into a patch of spongy lichen, ribs howling, and rolled to a stop next to a trio of cages. The pixies inside cowered, but when they saw it was me, they perked up, their glow intensifying.

I looked back at the witch. She was standing again, arms wide, blood on her arm and thigh, hair tangled and wild. She looked fucking glorious, actually.

“You’re nothing but a filthy animal!” she screamed, words echoing like a thunderclap. “Know your place!”

I laughed. “My forest. My rules.”

She hated that. I saw it in the way her jaw flexed, the way her hands trembled with energy barely kept in check.

She slammed her fists together. The cages reacted, pulsing with raw light, and the pixies inside wailed as the magic pressed in tighter. She was using them as power cells now, feeding off their agony to juice her next attack.

That was a new low, even for a city mage.

I went straight at her, no tricks. She shot a dozen barbs of violet force at me, one after the other, each one spiking into my shoulders or chest, but not deep enough to stop the charge.

I reached her, grabbed her by the waist, and slammed her into the nearest tree. She gasped, the wind knocked out of her, and tried to claw my face, but I caught her wrists, pinning them above her head.

Her eyes were full of wild energy. Her scent was insane, like if a flower garden got drunk and decided to set itself on fire.

She tried to spit a spell in my face. I bit her jaw, hard enough to draw a little blood, and she shuddered. It wasn’t all fear.

A flicker at the edge of my vision, one of the pixie cages popped, a cloud of blue sparks flying out and swirling above the carnage. The little bastards were rooting for me now.

I bared my teeth. “Getting tired yet?”

She spat a word that cracked a branch overhead, and the wood turned into writhing snakes, snapping at my ears and shoulders. I shrugged them off, slammed her harder into the tree, felt the thump all the way through my chest.

She glared at me, pupils blown wide, sweat trickling down the side of her perfect nose. “I could kill you.”

I nuzzled her ear, licking the shell with a hot, wet stripe of tongue. “But you haven’t.”

She struggled, but I felt the fight changing, her magic was wild now, spells coming half-finished, her body betraying her with the way she squirmed against me.

I let her wrists go for a second, just to see what she’d do. She threw both arms around my neck and tried to blast me again, but I headbutted her, snout to skull, and her concentration shattered.

The cages flickered, the pixies cheered.

Her next move was desperate. She swept my feet with a telekinetic shove, flipped us both onto the ground, and scrambled on top, knees pinning my chest.

She leaned in, hair falling across my face, eyes wild. “Submit,” she hissed, shoving all her weight onto my sternum.

I laughed, then let her have it, a full-body flex, arms and legs at once, throwing her off-balance so hard she landed sprawled, robe half open, pale skin glowing with those infernal tattoos.

I was on her before she could recover, pressing her face into the moss, tail wagging with savage glee.

She tried to scream another spell, but all that came out was a gasp.

Somewhere above, a tree branch creaked. I looked up, there he was, perched among the silver leaves, the bastard dryad, all legs and cock, already working himself slow and steady as he watched.

“Enjoying the show, Tillioron?” I called, not bothering to hide my teeth.

He grinned, lazy and golden. “You always throw the best parties, Hrodgar.”

The witch twisted under me, hips grinding against my thigh, and I realized she was still fighting, but it was getting messier, less focused. Every spell she tried came out in fragments, wild sparks flying off her skin.

The cages were failing, one by one, as the pixies bashed themselves free. They circled above, raining little sparks on us, turning the air into a storm of color and noise.

It was time to finish this.

The witch felt the change, too. She rolled, tried to get her hands under her, but I pinned her flat, muzzle at her neck. I bit down, not hard enough to break skin, just a warning. My cock pressed hard against her hip, and I could smell the spike of her arousal, sweet and sharp and furious.

She went limp for a second, then started laughing, breathless and savage. “I bet you think this is a win.”

I growled, low and hungry. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”

She snarled, “Not for long,” and called up her biggest spell yet. The ground under us shook, the air around her hands going ultraviolet-bright.

But I knew her move now. She was prepping a binding, one last, all-or-nothing spell. I feinted left, drew her focus, then barreled straight into her with every ounce of wolf I had. We hit the ground so hard the earth quaked. Her concentration shattered, and the spell backfired, popping all the cages in a single shockwave.

The pixies screamed, burst free, and shot upward like fireworks, trailing light. Their magic filled the air, charged every breath, every muscle, every inch of my skin.

The witch lay under me, stunned, breathing hard, her power gone wild but useless without her focus.

I looked up at Tillioron again. He winked, stroking his cock with deliberate slowness, the show clearly hitting every note for him.

The air was thick with sweat, blood, and ozone. My forest. My rules.

And the night was just getting started.

---

She fought me all the way down, elbows, knees, a spike of magic that numbed my tail for half a second, but my weight had her flattened into the moss, arms pinned at her sides, cheek ground into the dirt. The tattoos along her ribs sparked with angry light, her breath came fast and sharp, chest heaving against my fur.

She tried to mutter a spell, lips moving in frantic syllables, but I shut her up with a mouthful of her hair, yanked her head back, and then crashed my mouth down on hers. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a bite, lips and tongue and sharp teeth, bruising and deep. She bit back, hard, drew blood from my lower lip.

Her taste was all copper and ozone, nothing soft about it.

I let her go, just enough for her to gasp, “No—you can’t—” then shoved her down again, grinding my cock against the swell of her ass, slick and already drooling pre.

She tried to get a hand under her to cast, but I caught her wrist, twisted it behind her back, and rode her down until her hips bucked and her curses turned into desperate, breathless little whines.

“Pretty spells,” I growled, voice raw in her ear. “But you’re not talking your way out of this.”

She spat a curse at me, literal, probably, but I just laughed, then raked my claws down her back, slicing her robe open from collar to ass. The fabric split with a ripping noise, exposing smooth, cold skin and the webwork of ink that glowed brighter the rougher I handled her.

The wild magic in the air surged, a snap-crackle of energy that set the hair on my arms standing straight up. I pressed my cock to her cunt, rubbing it in, feeling the heat of her, fuck, she was wet, even though she was still fighting me.

She clenched, trying to keep me out, but I gripped her thighs, forced them wide, and slammed in all the way to the hilt with a single savage thrust.

She screamed. It started as anger, twisted into pain, then caught on the edge of something else, some high, electric note of pleasure she couldn’t hide, not even from herself.

I held there, grinding slow and deep, stretching her around the full length of me, making her feel every inch. Her magic went nuclear, tattoos blazing, the moss beneath us blackening in a halo of raw power. I pulled back until only the swollen head stretched her open, then drove in again, and again, and again, slower with each stroke, dragging the thick ridge of my cock along every clenched, magic-charged inch of her until her arms shook and her cheek ground into the dirt.

“Look at you,” I growled into the back of her neck. “All those pretty little sigils, and your cunt’s the part that learned fastest. Greedy thing. Sucks me right back in every time I try to leave.”

She tried to arch away, but I had her caged, both arms twisted up and my chest pinning her shoulders flat. Her cunt spasmed around me, tight and hot, drawing me in deeper every time I pulled back and slammed forward.

“You like that,” I said, voice low and smug in her ear. “Don’t pretend you don’t. Your magic’s feeding my cock, witch. Every spell you ever stole, every pixie you ever cooked down into that pretty ink, it’s pouring straight out of you and into me. And you’re thanking me for it.”

She shook her head, hair wild, but her hips started moving on their own, meeting my thrusts. Each time I bottomed out, her tattoos stuttered with white-blue light, a ripple that rolled up her spine and into the tips of her fingers. I set a rhythm and held it, hard and deep, the wet slap of my hips against her ass loud enough to startle the birds out of the canopy. Ten strokes, twenty, thirty, I lost count, and she lost her grip on the moss, fingers clawing useless furrows in the dirt.

Above us, the pixies swirled in dizzy loops, buzzing and shrieking, painting the air with arcs of glowing pollen.

And high up in the birch, Tillioron’s voice drifted down, lazy and amused: “Oh yes, give it to her, wolf. Show the fancy witch what real power feels like.”

I doubled my pace, hammering into her, claws digging into her hips, sweat and blood and magic mixing in the air until every sense blurred together. She started to moan, low at first, then climbing, each one a little louder, a little less ashamed.

She broke then, tried to say something, but it came out as a choked-off gasp. Her walls clenched down, milking me, and her whole body shivered like a spell gone sideways.

I let her wrists go, grabbed her hair, and pulled her upright against me, still fucking her hard from behind. Her head lolled back on my shoulder, mouth open, eyes glazed and glowing with an unearthly blue.

She tried to curse me again, but it was just my name, slurred and desperate.

Her tattoos went wild, racing up and down her body, the symbols melting together in an overload of feedback. Every time I thrust, they lit up brighter, sparking off her skin and up into the night.

Her cunt was slick and tight, the sound of it obscene, and every time I slammed in, she let out a sharp, involuntary little “uh!” like she couldn’t help herself.

I bit her shoulder, hard, marking her. The taste of her skin was alive with magic, almost sweet. I rutted her through it, setting a pace that would have broken a normal woman. But she wasn’t normal, and she took it, hips rolling back into me, fingers digging into the moss for leverage.

“Fuck,” she whispered, then bit her lip, like she could hold the word in.

I wanted to hear her say it again.

I reached around, grabbed her chin, forced her to look up at Tillioron in the branches. “He’s watching you, you know,” I said, breath hot in her ear. “He likes to see the highborn get ruined.”

She glared up, but her eyes flicked to the dryad, then away, shame and heat twisting together in her expression.

Tillioron waved, grinning, his cock out and glistening in the moonlight.

“You’re a spectacle,” he called, voice honey-sweet and rotten. “Don’t slow down on my account.”

The witch shuddered, and for the first time, she pushed her ass back into me on purpose.

I obliged, setting a rhythm that was all force and impact, driving her into the ground with every stroke. Her moans got desperate, high-pitched, the kind that carry for miles. The pixies mimicked her, making the clearing ring with sound.

Her tattoos flared so bright it hurt to look at, the feedback turning each thrust into a burst of sensation that made her whole body spasm. I could smell her getting close, could taste it on the air, a perfume of sweat, power, and need.

I reached down, rubbed her clit in tight, brutal circles, and she came apart.

She screamed, raw and full, the magic in her tattoos arcing out in a corona, shorting out the grass and setting little fires in the moss. Her cunt milked my cock, wet and pulsing, and I held her through it, fucking her until the spasms slowed and she slumped, boneless, against my chest.

I didn’t stop.

I slowed, changed angles, dragged it out, fucking her through the aftershocks until her legs were shaking and her voice was gone. She reached up once, tried to claw my cheek, but it was weak, half-hearted. I took her hand, bit her fingers, and felt her melt.

Above, Tillioron was jerking himself with both hands, panting and moaning, leaking sap down the tree.

“You break them so nicely, Hrodgar,” he called. “She’s not even trying to hex you now.”

I didn’t answer. I shifted my grip, pushed her face-down again, and started up a new, harder rhythm. She gasped, her ass arching up to meet me, more eager now, more desperate.

Her cunt gripped me like a fist, velvet and heat and magic. Every thrust pushed her forward, hips slamming into the dirt, hair fanning out around her face. I watched her, just to see the moment she really gave in.

It didn’t take long. The tattoos started to strobe, flickering in time with my movements, and I knew she was close again.

“That’s it, little aristocrat,” I crooned, voice all teeth. “Come on a beast’s cock again. Show the trees what you really are. Show your guildmasters. Show every soft-handed prick who ever called you ‘my lady.’”

I reached down, grabbed her by the throat, and pulled her up, still hammering into her. Her breath hitched, then went wild. Her eyes rolled back, mouth open, tongue lolling as she shook apart in my arms.

She came again, harder, the spasms turning her whole body into a quivering mess. Her cunt milked me with every pulse, desperate, insistent.

I fucked her through it, chasing my own finish, feeling the pressure build low and mean. My balls drew up tight, the knot at the base of my cock starting to swell, hot and heavy and aching for her. One more stroke and I’d be locked. Two, maybe, before I painted her insides.

I yanked out instead.

The sound she made was not a word. It was a wounded, indignant noise, half-shriek and half-sob, and her cunt clenched around nothing as the empty air hit her wet, swollen rim. Her hips chased me, blind and stupid, the way a starving thing chases a smell.

I sat back on my haunches, cock twitching against my belly, the half-grown knot throbbing visibly at the base. A long string of pre-cum hung between us, snapping wet onto the moss.

“Not yet, witch,” I said, voice ragged. “You don’t get the knot for free.”

She tried to look back at me. Her eyes were unfocused, glowing that uncanny blue, and her mouth hung open like she’d forgotten how to close it. The tattoos along her flanks strobed in confused, broken rhythm, the feedback loop hunting for a thrust that wasn’t coming.

“Please,” she rasped. The word slipped out before her pride could catch it.

I dragged my cock between her cheeks, rubbing the slick length of it along her crease without sinking back in. She arched, tried to angle her hips to catch me, and I pulled away again. I slapped the heavy, leaking head of my cock against her swollen lips, once, twice, watched her flinch and whine and push back for more.

“Beg better,” I said.

She bit the moss. Her shoulders shook. I could see her trying to hold the word in, and I could see the moment she gave up.

“Please,” she sobbed. “Please, please, fuck, put it back…”

I rewarded her with two slow, mean inches. Just the head, sinking in, parting her, then pulling out again with a wet pop. She wailed. I did it again. Then again. Her cunt was making obscene little sucking sounds every time I withdrew, and her thighs were shaking so hard I thought she might collapse.

“Look at that,” I murmured, voice almost tender. “All those clever little spells, and you’re begging a beast for the tip.”

I let her come like that, just on the head and my thumb on her clit, her whole body locking up in a humiliated, shuddering wave that rattled the tattoos straight down to her ankles. She squirted around nothing, soaking my thigh and the moss, and the noise she made was somewhere between a curse and a thank-you.

When the spasms slowed I pulled out completely and stood up, leaving her on her knees, cunt fluttering open and shut on empty air.

“Catch your breath,” I told her. “We’re not done.”

Above us, the pixies went into a frenzy, spinning in the air, shrieking with joy. Tillioron howled his own pleasure, shooting pale sap all down the tree, laughing like a maniac.

She slumped to the moss, panting, eyes wide and dazed. The tattoos on her skin pulsed slowly, fading from blinding to a gentle, eerie glow, but the rhythm of them was off now, hungry, like a heartbeat looking for the cock that had set its tempo.

I knelt next to her, licked a line of sweat off her shoulder, and grinned. “You taste better when you’re broken in.”

She didn’t answer. She just lay there, catching her breath, body still twitching with the aftershocks.

Up in the tree, Tillioron whistled, low and dirty. “You’re a fucking monster, Hrodgar.”

I looked up, wiped my mouth, and grinned wider. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The witch rolled over, hair a mess, face smeared with dirt and blood, and stared up at me with a look that was half-hate, half-hunger.

“You’re not done, are you,” she said, voice raw and wrecked.

I reached for her, claws gentle now, and pulled her back into my lap.

“No,” I said. “But we’ve got all night.”

And the night, wild and black and holy, wrapped around us like a promise.

---

She went limp for all of ten seconds, but then the feedback loop kicked in. Every time I moved inside her, the tattoos along her spine sparked, sending jolts of sensation through her body. She squirmed, clawed the moss, then pushed herself up on shaking arms, trying to crawl away even as her cunt squeezed me like it never wanted to let go.

I let her get a few feet before grabbing her by the hips, pulling her back, and plunging in again, slow this time, drawing it out until only the head stretched her wide, then shoving it all the way home.

She gasped, back arching, tattoos strobing with each thrust. I fucked her slow, then fast, then slow again, just to see which rhythm made her lose control the quickest.

She tried to curse me out, but it came out as a pleading sound, high and lost.

“Feel that?” I said, grinding against her until she whimpered. “Your own magic’s making you needy. Should’ve set better wards.”

She shook her head, hair flying, but I saw the way her thighs quivered, the way her hips jerked every time I bottomed out.

“Say it,” I growled, fisting her hair and forcing her head back until the tendons in her neck stood out. “Say you need a beast’s cock more than your precious magic. Say it, and maybe I let you come.”

She hissed something filthy in a dead language. I laughed and slowed down again, hips rolling lazy and deep, just enough to keep her right at the edge without letting her tip. She whined, actually whined, the sound torn out of her like a confession.

I reached around, hand covering her mound, and worked her clit while I drove in from behind. The effect was instant, her whole body locked up, cunt milking me in hard, insistent pulses.

Above, the pixies dropped little clouds of glowing dust, turning the air electric. The pollen settled on our skin, amplifying every sensation. Each time I fucked her in, it felt like the world itself was pressing in, hot and bright and hungry.

Tillioron was loud now, making no effort to hide his own pleasure. “Look at her go!” he yelled. “From ice queen to cock-drunk in record time. Keep going, Hrodgar—make her squirt magic!”

The witch tried to snap back at him, but I reached up, grabbed her throat, and forced her head back, making her look up at the dryad.

“Show him how good you take it,” I growled. “Show all your little friends what you’re really like.”

She thrashed for a second, then shuddered, a moan ripping out of her as the feedback loop doubled down. The tattoos on her chest blazed, lines of energy shooting up into her face, making her cheeks flush with unnatural color.

I pounded her harder, cock leaking inside her, knot swelling at the base. Each thrust pushed her closer, the magic in her tattoos going feral, shorting out with sparks that left after-images across my vision.

Her cunt was on fire, every pulse and spasm turning into a new wave of heat. She clenched so hard I almost lost it, but I held off, wanted to see her break all the way.

I leaned over, mouth to her ear, biting the lobe as I fucked her through another shudder. “Say it,” I demanded, voice guttural. “Say you need it.”

She tried to hold out, lips sealed, but the pixies swooped in, buzzing in her face, and the shame of it finally cracked her.

“Please,” she gasped, voice strangled. “Fuck—just—please—”

I grinned, tail wagging, and gave her exactly what she asked for. The world narrowed to the slap of flesh, the glow of tattoos, the wild cries of the pixies and the dryad above. Every inch of her was wired for it now, a single circuit of need and magic and helpless surrender.

Her head lolled, mouth open, eyes wide and glassy. The moans poured out without filter, each one more broken than the last.

I reached up, tangled my claws in her hair, and pulled, making her arch back into me, throat exposed, tattoos running in wild, luminous patterns over her collarbone.

The knot swelled at the base of my cock, fat and hot and stubborn, dragging at her rim every time I pulled back. She felt it. Her eyes went wide. She tried to squirm forward, away from the stretch, but I caught her hips and held her in place, working the swelling bulb against her entrance in slow, brutal nudges. Each push spread her wider than the last. Each retreat made her cunt clutch after it, hungry and confused.

“Take it,” I snarled, and gave her one more hard, grinding press. “Take it, witch. You begged for it.”

She squealed, a high broken sound, as the knot finally popped past her stretched, swollen rim and locked us together. Her body went rigid, every muscle tensed, then shaking.

The tattoos lit up like lightning, a full-body climax of color and sensation. Her cunt clamped down, milking the knot, desperate and greedy for every drop. The sparks leaped from her skin to mine, a feedback loop so wild it made my vision blur.

Above, the pixies went nuts, spraying arcs of pollen, making the whole clearing look like a storm of glowing rain.

Tillioron howled, voice cracked with delight, and shot his own load down the tree, thick streams splattering the bark, dripping onto the witch’s back and ass. “Consider it a blessing from above!” he called, voice thick with lust and mockery.

I held her through it, hips grinding in slow, deep circles, rolling the knot inside her until the aftershocks made her twitch and gasp.

She collapsed, finally, all fight gone, breath coming in little sobs. Her face was wet, streaked with sweat and tears and magic.

I didn’t let go. I kept her pinned, kept fucking her through the come-down, making sure the memory would never leave her, not for a hundred years.

“Good girl,” I said, voice soft but savage. “Knew you’d like it.”

She didn’t answer, just lay there, shuddering, held tight by the swell of my knot and the weight of my body.

The pixies landed on us, tiny hands stroking her hair, her face, her ruined robes. Their giggles were soft now, almost kind. Maybe they’d been broken by a city witch once, and this was justice.

Tillioron slumped back in his tree, panting, sticky with sap and grinning like a fiend.

The clearing was a mess, moss scorched, trees scarred, air thick with sex and ozone and wild, pulsing energy.

And at the center of it, me and the witch, locked together, both of us changed for good.

I nuzzled her neck, licking the salt off her skin, feeling her melt further with every lazy swipe of my tongue.

I could do this forever.

But I wanted to see her shatter, one more time.

So I started moving again, slow, deep, dragging the knot inside her, fucking her through the haze, wanting to hear that perfect, helpless cry just once more.

I’d gotten what I wanted, her body, her magic, her pride undone.

Now I wanted to break her soul.

And she wanted it, too.

---

It built slow, mean, and perfect. Every time I rolled my hips, the knot at the base of my cock swelled a little more, stretching her wide, forcing her cunt to yield, inch by inch. She’d gone from screeching to gasping, all the words burned out of her, eyes rolling with each shove of flesh.

The tattoos on her skin were blinding now, white and blue and gold, casting wild shadows on the shredded remains of her robes. I wanted to see how far I could push it, how much of her magic I could fuck loose before the last bit of pride melted away.

She braced on trembling arms, hair stuck to her face, every muscle straining against the inevitable. The feedback loop, her own spellcraft turned against her, made her buck and twitch with each thrust.

“Please—” she finally whimpered, the sound so small it almost vanished in the noise of the clearing.

I bared my teeth, knowing she was at the edge.

“Please what?” I asked, voice all gravel and hunger.

She looked over her shoulder, face streaked with tears and moonlight. “Please… knot me—make it stop—fuck—”

Her voice broke, then she dropped her head and just moaned, helpless.

I gave her what she asked for: a hard, savage thrust, the knot ramming against her entrance until it finally popped in, locking me tight. The shock of it made her scream, pure, shattered sound, magic leaping off her in wild arcs that burned across both our skins.

The first pulse of my orgasm hit like an avalanche. I howled, low and full, driving my hips forward and grinding the knot in her, holding her as I unloaded rope after rope of cum inside, the heat of it melting her from the inside out.

She seized around me, cunt spasming, milking me for all I was worth. Her body bucked in time with each spray, and she started to squirt, liquid splattering the moss and the backs of her thighs, the force of it sending more sparks flying from her tattoos.

The feedback was so intense that for a second I saw nothing but light, the world gone white-blue, the sensation of release burning through every nerve.

Above us, Tillioron shouted, voice peaking as he shot his own load. The cum rained down, thick and sticky, splattering the witch’s back, my shoulders, the grass around us. “Consider it a blessing from above!” he called, voice twisted with pleasure and mockery.

The pixies dove through the spray, shrieking with laughter, trailing motes of glowing pollen that stuck to our skin, amplifying everything.

I held her there, locked and pumping, until the last drop spilled. Her cunt clung to the knot, every aftershock making her twitch and whimper. When the magic finally ebbed, she slumped forward, arms giving out, face buried in the ruined moss.

Her tattoos didn’t go out. They settled to a gentle, pulsing blue, slow and steady, like the heartbeat of someone who’s finally given in.

I didn’t let her go. I leaned forward, pressed my muzzle to her cheek, and licked her, slow and gentle. “Good girl,” I murmured, voice soft enough only she could hear.

She made a sound, half-sob, half-moan, utterly spent.

The clearing was chaos. Moss soaked with sweat, cum, and magical runoff; trees leaning in close, leaves shimmering in the afterglow; pixies tangled together in the grass, writhing and laughing and smearing each other with the glittery mess.

Up in the branches, Tillioron watched us, lazy and satisfied, cock still leaking down his thigh. “Well,” he said, voice smug and full of wicked glee, “guess that’s one less city bitch to worry about.”

I ignored him. The witch was limp in my arms, breathing hard, eyes glazed with the kind of pleasure that leaves a soul changed forever.

I rocked against her, still locked, loving the way she shivered each time the knot tugged at her. I wanted her to remember this. I wanted everyone to remember this.

“You’re mine now,” I told her, nuzzling her ear, voice a mix of threat and promise. “Try your tricks again, and I’ll put you right back here.”

She didn’t answer. She just shuddered, then relaxed, magic spent, pride gone. Only the need remained, slow and heavy as a summer storm.

The pixies started singing, little voices rising in a crude chorus, celebrating their freedom and our victory. The moss glowed in the darkness, a soft green bed for our mess and sweat and tangled limbs.

When the knot finally softened, I pulled out slow, savoring the way her body clung to me. My cum ran down her thighs, sticky and thick, pooling beneath her in the moss.

She tried to turn, but I held her close, arms around her, claws gentle on her belly. For a moment, we were just two animals in the woods, panting and spent and happy to be alive.

Tillioron dropped down from his perch, landing soft as a shadow. He circled us, appraising the scene, then grinned wide, teeth white in the moonlight.

“She’ll remember this,” he said. “They all do.”

I looked at the witch, her body streaked with sweat and sap and magic, tattoos still glowing in the night. I saw the truth in Tillioron’s words.

She’d remember. They all would.

And if anyone else came into my forest thinking they could break its rules…

I’d be waiting.