HER FOREST, HER RULES
Laila Blake
Her heart hammering faster than the distant drums, Amy ducked under a low branch and then caught herself against a tree. The bark was rough under her short, pink fingers. Carefully, she peered around the trunk, daring a glance back. Trees, moss, roots, grass—but not another soul. She could still hear them, trampling around in the distance. There were shouts; someone was blowing a horn but she didn’t have anybody directly on her tail. This did not come as a great surprise to her, really, but there was little fun in not even pretending.
Finally, she pushed herself off the tree. She had to get deeper into the forest if she wanted to keep her edge. Maybe there were allies to be found deeper in its mossy glens. She seemed to remember a clearing that had served as a resting place for her clan before.
The underbrush crackled under each step; larger branches creaked like the moan of an ancient spirit, smaller ones simply broke under the impact. Stealth had never been one of Amy’s strong suits; just like dashing from cover to cover, a zigzagging line between the trees was far more fluid and elegant in her fantasy then it presented itself to the casual observer watching her.
The deeper she got into the forest and the farther she distanced herself from the trodden paths, the slower her progress. She had to stop more often to catch her breath, had to take more careful steps to avoid tripping, falling or making too much noise. When it felt momentarily as though someone was holding her back, she stopped, whirled around and then slapped her hand over her mouth at the sound of tearing fabric.
“Fuck!” She cursed in an audible whisper, sank onto a fallen tree and lifted the torn hem of her wide velvet skirt up over her knee to inspect it. It was large and ugly and she’d left her stitching kit back at camp. “Fuck-bloody damned…”
Her tirade stopped instantly when she found herself looking up at a sword, its tip gently coming to rest under her chin. Both Amy’s eyes and her mouth opened wider. How in the world had he sneaked up on her like that?
“What do we have here…” a warm raspy voice asked mockingly, “a cursing elf? An anachronistically cursing elf, what’s more. There are rules against such conduct, wench….”
Amy couldn’t answer; every single molecule of air seemed to have vacated her lungs for the present. The sword-wielder was one of the few members of their club who didn’t turn up every time. She had seen him before and admired him, but he’d never dropped his role, and she had no idea where he came from or where he went on the weekends he didn’t attend. He had beautiful gear that didn’t have the unrealistic sheen of brand-new materials to it and sometimes she wondered if he met with other larpers, too.
It was just that he didn’t really look like one—at least not like anyone from her club—he wore the leather breastplate like none of the others, boys all of them and whatever armor, wizard’s robes or ear extensions they invoked to suspend disbelief, their malleable, soft faces, zits and hair product always got in the way. Amy did not voice those complaints of course—she was on thin ice herself. Who had ever heard of a chubby elf? And really that was the point, that here, one of them had to feel like an outsider, the way she did almost everywhere else.
This one though, he was different. He seemed to be one of the few men in the group who looked their age—they were all in their late twenties and early thirties, but so few looked it, especially among the men. The sword-wielder did, though; his hair was cropped almost as short as the stubble of his beard. He wore an expression of condescension that suited his armor and stance and Amy was momentarily taken aback at how deeply he seemed to be immersed in his role. There was not a hidden grin, not a wink, not a gesture out of place. She could feel a twinge deep between her legs.
“Got a name elf?”
Amy swallowed, then dropped the hem of her skirt back down over her leather shoes and tried to arrange her features into a defiant scowl.
“Who wants to know?” she asked back, fingers gliding over the glued-on prosthetics on her ears that made them nice and pointy. When she saw him noticing, she quickly snapped them back into her lap, where they felt useless.
As though he had guessed this problem, Amy suddenly felt him bring his sword closer. The sharp point was pushing against her skin. Right there under her chin where a tiny amalgamation of fatty tissue made just enough of a curve for him to poke at. The sword was not sharp—but it was real metal and Amy swallowed uncomfortably. Then she raised her hands, yielding.
He hadn’t said another word, just cocked up his brow and ignored her back talk. His eyes were locked on hers, and while she found herself blushing, his face showed no sign of discomfort or embarrassment. Just for a moment, Amy could give in to the fantasy that he really was a warrior who had come to capture her. A shiver went down her spine, and she wet her lips.
“Amariel,” she finally whispered, voice croaking a little. The sword had a greater effect on her than she was willing to admit to herself. “My name, human, is Amariel. And I would be very much obliged if you could…back the fuck off.”
She blushed harder, annoyance glinting in her eyes—more at herself for her inability to stay in character and come up with the right things to say than with the guy, but it was easy to transfer those things. Especially because it seemed to be his eyes and the cocky set of his brows that caused her brain to go to mush.
He smirked and lowered his sword. Amy swallowed; she was about to touch her neck in relief when she felt the tip now resting against her chest, just above the swell of her breasts, bound and squished together by a cheap fake leather corset.
“You know I can’t do that,” he rasped. The tip of the sword sank lower along her sternum; the metal was cold against her skin and Amy shivered. Her hands started to prickle from holding them up and she bit her lips while he continued: “I have my orders…any elves in our forests are taken in for questioning. But then you know that, don’t you? That’s why you ran….”
The sword was still scraping along her skin until it rested on the hard top of her corset. The point of the blade was completely submerged between her breasts. Amy quivered and looked up at the man, wide-eyed and momentarily shocked. It wasn’t like she had never fantasized about this. Her friend—a skinny enchantress with a costume that even Amy couldn’t take her eyes off of—had told her this kind of stuff went on sometimes, but it had never happened to Amy. She licked her bottom lip and breathed in the smell of the forest—wet and alive. She was making this up, surely.
“Well…if you have orders, human…” She tried to sound unimpressed and pointedly looked down at the sword between her pillowing breasts. “I myself have little interest in meeting your captain.”
He moved like the wind—that was the last thing she thought before everything happened all too quickly. The sword clattered to the ground and she felt herself bodily pulled off the log, turned and pushed against a nearby tree. The force of impact made her grunt—and then whine when the man pulled back her arm and angled it up on her back, just the way she had seen in a hundred cop movies.
There were two ways to step out of the game. There was a word and a hand signal—and for that reason it was never allowed to incapacitate hands and mouth at the same time. Amy knew them both, the word rolled around in her head and her fingers tightened on the rough bark as she felt that warm shiver run down her spine. She could say the word and he would back off, but then the tingling would stop and so would the throbbing between her legs. Briefly, she considered if this made her slutty—but then the very idea of being exactly that made her heart beat faster. She didn’t often have the opportunity to be and now that it seemed right within her grasp, all she wanted was a taste.
“Is that so?” he growled into her ear. He was taller than she was, bending over a little to get close to her dark hair. He brushed it from her neck with his free hand, while the other tightened slightly on her wrist.
“Oh…yes,” she exhaled. It came out much more a grunt than her regular voice and she tried to remedy that when she continued, working harder to keep up her role. “I hear that…in humans, you get duller and duller with each…rank you climb.”
He pulled her arm up higher, and she moaned and suddenly could feel his groin on her behind. “Terrible conversationalists,” she continued in open defiance, even as her ass instinctively pushed back against him. She had spent every first weekend of the last sixteen months in costume, spouting elf lore and feeling geeky even amongst her peers, but here she was—and nothing could have been more exciting.
“Whereas elves are known for their raucous feasting…” the man replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm—and something else. “How well do you know humans, elf?”
“I told you my name, stop calling me elf,” she whispered, her voice hoarse against the bark of the tree. She could feel her own hot breath deflected, leaving the slightest trace of moisture on her cheek. “And tell me yours.”
“Making demands now, eh?” Amy could hear his smile, then feel a hand in the curve of her waist, strong fingers dragging down with the grain of her velvet dress over the wide curve her hip. “Gohan.” A voice like the growl of distant thunder.
“I saw you running this way, elf,” he continued. A lip brushed over the shell of ear. “Knew I wanted to be the one to catch you.”
Her knees buckled and Amy held on tighter to the tree. Her cheek was resting on bark and she was sure that she could smell the resin in its depths, hear the insects feeding and the birds far above. She felt like an elf then, truly, for the first time.
“And now that you’ve got me…” she asked voice hoarse and raspy with feeling, “what are planning on doing with me?” She leaned her head back just enough to lay it against his shoulder, to brush her cheek against the stubble of his beard—this was what confident women asked in the movies, how wrong could it be? At the same time, she pushed her rear against his eager hand. Encouraged, he brushed it down her hip and cupped one round cheek. His hand could not nearly cover it, but it felt like that was exactly what he was doing when his thumb found the crack of her ass all the way through dress and panties and bore down on it. Amy gasped; the corset forced her hard breath to expand her lungs upward rather than outward, causing her breasts to bob up and down with each inhale.
“I had some ideas,” he growled, fisting her dress so that it lifted a few inches off her ankles. “But I’m not adverse to some new ones….”
She could feel the wind on her calves. The part of her brain that was still unsure about the whole venture tried to point out that this wasn’t her—that she had never acted this brazenly in her entire life. But it wasn’t her; that was the point. She was Amariel—and Amariel would have been no stranger to using her body as leverage to escape capture from this human who had a voice that ran through her veins all the way into her chest, like the deep bass of a dance tune.
“The way I see it, human,” she said, as he pulled up her skirt higher, inches at a time. “I would much rather spend time with you than your captain.” The velvet was starting to bunch on the swell of her ass, just below the bottom of her corset. The wind had reached the sensitive back of her knees and he could reach for the hem now, pulling the rest up in one go. Amy gasped and immediately, his hand was there, warming her flesh, rubbing the rising goose pimples away.
His breath was faster, too, she could feel it in on the side of her neck. This wasn’t normal, the voice in her head said. Normal people went out for a date or two. She didn’t even have to insist on three but this was insane—anybody could come and see them, anybody! And yet, she didn’t move away. His fingers thanked her by finding their way between her thighs and against the moist panel of her panties. They were anachronistic, too.
“Do you consent, elf?” he finally growled, almost panting with the effort of holding himself back. He tugged at her arm again—Amy had almost forgotten he was still keeping her immobile. She whimpered as his hand tightened its grip and then nodded hard.
“Yes…yes,” she all but moaned and a moment later, her arm was free. At least it was for a second, before his hands grasped her hips and pulled her back a foot or so. Instinctively, her hands found support against the tree. There was the rustling of material behind her; the leather had such a distinctive sound as he slapped it away. Then his foot found hers, pushing her legs apart with as much roughness as the scene required. He ran his fingers up her shapely thighs and then wormed them under the flexible dark elastic.
“Bad elf,” he growled, rubbing along her wet slit, making her gasp and moan. “What insects spin yarn as fine as this?”
“Magic ones,” she exhaled and then cried out when he pinched her clit as though in punishment. Red-hot arousal pulsed through the tiny pleasure knob. He pulled the stretch fabric to one side until it rested in the crack of her ass. He squeezed the naked cheek hard enough to make her moan again, and suddenly she felt something else entirely pushing against her exposed folds.
“Like your elf-cunt? Magic?” His teeth were on her shoulder when he pushed inside of her—slow and deep. Amy could have cried it felt so good—after months without sex, she was tight but wet enough for it not to matter. She wanted to reply, tried to take a deep breath, but when she opened her lips to speak she felt his fingers invading her mouth, curling against her tongue. She could taste herself on his skin, wet and salty, and she sucked at the fingers eagerly. For a moment, the forest seemed to spin on his axis and when the feeling of vertigo left her head, she was sucking to the beat of his hard thrusts.
“Touch yourself,” he commanded in another groan and however humiliating it would have seemed to her only minutes ago, Amy hastened to pull up the front of her skirt as well and buried her fingers against her clit, rubbing, pulling and falling in rhythm with his thrusts.
“Good elf,” he rasped. Stifling her moans was becoming a more and more difficult task. He pushed harder; Amy tried to keep pace, but she could feel by the tightness of his grasp on her hip that he was holding on for dear life. Instinctively, she bore down harder on her clit, coming mere moments later with a gasp of surprise and heady exhaustion.
“Fuck,” he shouted when he pulled away. Amy pressed her fingers hard against her throbbing clit—her pussy felt all too empty without him inside, a tunnel of muscles grasping at nothing. Just a moment later, something wet landed on her ass, soaking the back of her panties, and then her dress fell back down over her legs. Two strong arms wrapped around her tenderly, kissed the back of her neck, nuzzled against the soft spot under her ear.
For a long moment, she let him warm her, gave herself into the feeling of peace and safety. But neither peace nor safety were high on Amariel’s list of priorities and with a well-placed push against his chest, she whirled around, stepped on the breeches that were still hanging between his ankles and before Amy knew what was happening, he was toppling backward into the soft forest ground.
“Ow!” Gohan protested when she straddled him and pulled a dagger from her belt. She had it at his neck all too easily. “Hey!”
“It seems the human curses anachronistically, too.” Amy grinned down at him. Her long dark fair fell like a veil around her face. Playfully, she pressed the dagger against his Adam’s apple and smirked.
“Come find me if you ever want to work for the other side, human,” she smiled, then cocked her brows and bent low to brush a little kiss over his lips. “You haven’t lived until you find out how we elves feast….”
Her knees were still weak when she raised herself up again, but Amy felt light as air as she hurried away into the forest. There was come on her ass and she had some allies to find. This weekend everything would go just the way she had always wanted it to go. It was her weekend, her forest, her game.