Trapped in the Thicket

I scream to the trees all around us, "Stop!" I beg, laughing. "Stop! I can't take it anymore, please!"

She obeys, though none too quickly. Drawing to a close after a few languid throws of her hips, Cereza releases her bite around my neck, resting her cheek instead against my shoulder instead. Her breathing comes in ragged wheezes. The air is still, for a moment, until we break it with our shared giggles, when the slip of her softening cock out of my abused cunt—and the dribbling flow of her essence that follows—sends a trembling chill through both our stomachs that she, unbound as she is, is fortunate enough to express with a wriggle of her body. For my part, still quite unable to move, I'm forced to simply endure how my inability to shake out the tickling in my gut simply compounds its pressure into the still-building desire in my loins. Let it never be said that Rien Monfrese was ever satisfied with one orgasm, to say nothing of only a half of one.

Cereza's hair smells of fresh sweat, and forest dew, and all the wonderful things in the world. I murmur with the soft sensation of her vines stroking affectionately through the hair at the back of my head. She nuzzles her nose curiously against the curve of my shoulder and sighs, wriggling herself against me, smearing the sticky sap of our shared bodies between us in a woeful mess—but oh well. What fun ever came from a clean fun?

As she recovers, Cereza lifts her head, blinking up at me with a lethargic groan.

"That's five times you said please, now," she appraises me.

"Six," I say. "Lost in the throes of your passion, you must've missed one."

"Six? Why, that's even worse!" Giggling, Cereza separates herself from me. Stepping down from the boulder, she walks backwards a pace or two, deft eyes surveying the sopping waste she has made of my body.

I follow her gaze, finding the vines that still constrain my movement burning brighter than ever, like chains of beautiful, pink stars. Bridled energy bristles through my limbs. Once she lets me loose, I've no idea whether I'll scream, shiver, or run around the clearing until I'm out of breath. I clear my throat.

"Perhaps we can speak on your superstitions after you free me?" In the wake of her resplendent use of me, my stomach finds space to begin its rumbling anew. An uncharacteristically shy smile finds my face. "To say nothing of feeding me—which was, beg pardon for reminding you, your part of the bargain in the first place."

"No, no, no," Cereza replies, firmly. "This won't do at all. After all, what is six but two threes?"

Groaning, I flex my muscles against my shackles, finding, quite expectantly, that they've become no looser in the interim. "Then what do you propose we do on the matter, great glade witch?"

"Mind your tone, Rien the soldier, Rien the half-elf, Rien the rarity." Cereza says. "Thicket curses are never to be trifled with."

Touching her lip and deploying her eyes to the sky in thought, a look of shrewd revelation soon tinkles in the corners of Cereza's eyes. Reaching down beside her, she lifts the cooked rabbit, now cold, and waving it right front of my face. The still-overwhelming smell of sustenance wafts beneath my nose. The meat is so close, I snap my head forward, aiming to tear it from her grip with my teeth alone; but the second I make my play, she snatches it away from me.

"I suppose we'll have to find a way to make you say it again." Hiding the spit behind her back, Cereza leans fully forward, her grin growing in eager measures. "For your own safety, of course."