Authors: Maria N. Lang
Futanarium 1: An Erotic Short Story Bundle
By Maria N. Lang
Copyright 2014 Maria N. Lang
This book contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language, and is intended for sale to adult audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are of legal age (18 or over).
This bundle contains stories including various more or less dark kinks and BDSM themes. Some taboo, some less so. There is adultery, reluctant sex, impregnation and more.
I love hearing from readers! You can find me here:
Amelia had always wanted to be taken away, shown another life than the plush and secure surroundings she was used to as a princess. She dreamed of vague, powerful beings, not entirely understanding her own desires other than the secret she kept most dear. She desired being a victim, something she never truly had been in her protected life at court. The uneasiness inside had long since grown from seed into full-blown tree inside her, and it was what had made her insist that her father bring her along on his campaign against the forest folk.
It was her father’s desire to expand their lands, and the large, western forests seemed ideal. The scattered tribes of wild elves, nymphs, dryads, centaurs and other, far wilder things were judged an easy enemy to keep at bay. They had been, until their champion had shown up around two years ago. Now, it would all come down to one last battle, one last clash. Man against nature. And here she was, confined to the royal tent.
She huffed, adjusting the corset she wore beneath her flowing, dark blue dress to breathe more easily, casting a glance around what had been her home the last few weeks. It was nothing like her quarters in the palace. Much of it was muddy carpeting, most of the mud luckily concentrated around the solid, wooden table her father and his commanders used to plan skirmishes and battles.
Here, her quarters were nothing more than a double bed, a closet and a large chest shielded from the rest of the tent’s interior by a dark red, heavy curtain. She blew a dark brown lock of hair out of her face, irritation contorting her otherwise pleasant features and poisoning her gentle, grey-blue eyes. The army had departed the camp, lead by her father, and she sat here, waiting.
She walked to the entrance for the seventh time to ask the same indignant questions to her two guardians that had begun to strain their manners after the second round. The two knights were condemned to guard a girl of 20 instead of participating in the battle, and they were fuming silently. She knew it, and in her frustration at being jailed inside the tent, she questioned them ceaselessly, regardless.
“Who is she, anyway?” she said, the question not directed at either of the knights. The aged, graying veteran replied.
We don’t know, princess. A wild elf, as dangerous as any predator our lands can offer up, huntress by nature, but more cunning and clever than any queen lynx.”
If she’s so dangerous, why hasn’t she been assassinated?” she said, making no attempt to hide her petulance. She knew the answer, they knew that she knew, but she was a bored, spoiled child in a woman’s body.
Your grace, we are fighting seven and a half feet amazon elves, centaurs, nymphs so beautiful that merely laying your eyes upon them blinds you. Living trees, even. We can’t get to her.”
Why did you let it get to this, anyway?”
We were... Careless, your grace. This champion wild elf united the tribes of the forest before we could react.”
And why, exactly, does that mean I can’t leave this tent, sir knight?”
You know your father’s orders, your grace. The camp is crawling with soldiers far less noble than the people you are used to. It is for your own protection.”
Amelia’s nose flared, her eyes sending needles at the knight. She had no retort, had had none the last seven times, but it did not stop her from clawing uselessly at the resolve of her guardians. She closed the flap of the tent with a huff, returning to the warm interior as displeased as before, but momentarily occupied by irritation rather than anxiousness.
There had been no news of the battle, and while her father assured the men that victory was certain, the tone had been different during command meetings. The forest folk fought in ways the veteran commanders had never experienced, and their army consisted of beings they had never been trained to fight. Civilization had never been in danger when faced with nature. Not until now. Amelia sat down on the edge of her large double bed, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge of it. Time crawled at snail’s pace.
She looked up from her angry attempts at sowing. A voice that broke through the low, droning backdrop of the camp had torn her away from her attempt at passing time.
Retreat! The king is dead! Flee!”
Amelia’s hands slowly sunk to her lap, her eyes staring dead ahead at nothing. Tingling exploded in her chest, solidifying and working its way down towards her stomach. A column of shocking realization that nailed her to the bed and kept her breath locked in her lungs. The tent’s flap was torn aside, one of her guards stepping inside.
No response, except for the girl breathing in, and then out mechanically. Her cheeks burned with powerless shock and adrenaline, knowing that she was in the path of a charging beast but finding herself unable to move from its path.
She finally tore her gaze from the nothingness, looking to the knight with wide, dismayed eyes. Her fingers first clutched, then let go of what she had been sowing. She kept looking at the guard for five long, silent seconds, before swallowing and then taking a gasp of breath.
“Your grace, we have to leave. Pack what you need most, but do it quickly!”
The knight offered a hurried bow, trained from a young age to show respect to his betters, and then exited the tent to join his fellow guard. She thought it was comical. Stupid, even. Her father was dead, they had lost the battle, and all he could do was bow? She picked up what she had been working on, examining it briefly before throwing it to the ground. How could someone unused to life without servants pack what she needed from a selection of belongings that could clothe and serve ten women for a month?
Even muffled by the thick, blood-red fabric of the tent, Amelia could make out the sounds of hopeless battle drawing closer. The tide of death was still far away, though. Far enough away that she could still spare a few more moments. She stuck a pale hand past a small stack of shirts, her fingers finding and tightening around a small scabbard. She had never used the dagger in her life, but her father had insisted that she brought it along. Now, she was glad. The cool, unfamiliar handle managed to let her feel just a little safer.
She could hear the guards shifting uncomfortably outside, growing more restless with every passing second. The various attempts at organization that had characterized the resistance she had heard had obviously broken down into desperate brawls as the few guards and the remnants of the broken army retreated through the camp. They could not afford to wait much longer, but she still had things to gather. Not just her own, but her father’s things. Seals, important documents, things of personal significance and memories were all thrown into the trunk she was filling.
“Halt! Remove yourself, creature!”
It was too late. The tone of the knight’s voice suggested that he was containing fear. Even inside the tent, she could hear it. Amelia froze in the middle of feverishly rummaging through documents and maps for anything she had to bring back, looking to the entrance of the tent.
“Get back! Crawl back to the forest that spawn--“
The knight’s voice was cut off with a sickening finality that she had only experienced a few times before, usually at executions. The tingling sensation of worry in her chest spread into her throat, making her try to swallow a nonexistent lump. She stormed to her bed, grasping for the sheath to tear the straps away and pull the dully gleaming dagger free. She held it inexpertly in both hands in front of herself, like she might have held a kitchen knife to fend off a burglar.
Her pulse provided the backdrop to what she could hear outside, each thump, grunt and clang of metal causing her to jerk slightly, hardening her hold around the hilt of the small blade she suspected would soon be all that stood between her and whatever was outside. She felt an eternity pass between each blink of her eyes, hearing and sensing the deadly, unchoreographed dance outside her tent with every fiber of her being on end. Finally, there was the dulled rattle and thump of metal and body hitting the ground. Amelia tensed, holding the dagger in front of her as if it could somehow ward off whatever might be coming.
Seconds passed in silence, a silence too deep to be natural, one filled with the promise of horrific things to come. None came. Amelia took a step towards the entrance of the tent, yelping a tearful, feeble challenge.
Another few seconds passed, then the flap was opened and the creature stepped through, changing from silhouette to imposing reality. It was a wild elf. She was impressively tall, dwarfing the princess easily. Amelia was a pampered thing who had never been forced to do anything in her life. She was a frail, beautiful flower. In comparison, the creature standing opposite her was like a flowering cactus. Tough, beautiful in its own way, dangerous, and everything she had been told.
The wild elf was bloodied, massive and only lightly armored compared to the soldiers Amelia was used to. The sharp, pointy ears clearly identified the creature as sylvan, but it was nothing like the noble, frail creatures she had heard tales of from the south. The woman was thickly muscled, her frame statuesque in the most flattering sense of the word. Her muscles were toned to perfection, at the breaking point between strength and agility, maximizing both without limiting either. She was something humans could never hope to be, both a weapon made flesh and ethereally graceful at the same time.
There was no doubt that this woman was a feral, uncontrollable force of nature, her majestic, perfectly sculpted, naturally graceful form easily supporting the muscle that made her what she was, her thick, flowing, dark brown locks framing her chiseled, elegant features beautifully.
It was the eyes that kept Amelia locked in place, though. The angled, large eyes of an elf, but with a burning passion unlike any she had ever seen. An intensity she had never experienced. The woman was a huntress who had just fought her way to her prey, and her body was her weapon. Everything about her exuded a natural superiority that knightly arrogance and self-importance could not hope to match. It was no wonder this creature had united the races of the forest, the princess thought. Merely staring into her eyes was enough to feel the world slipping from under her feet, so intense was the sensation that she forgot everything else, the chaos around her tent slipping into the background. All she could hear and feel was her breathing, and how this being seemed to drain her with that gaze.
Put down the weapon, child,” she said. Amelia continued to stare into the elf’s amber eyes for a long moment, then shook her head. Despite the savage beauty that surrounded the creature, she knew how deadly the wild elves were.
Little one, your father’s army is retreating. You have lost. Put down your weapon. Now.”
It was no longer a gentle suggestion, but a command. Her stomach constricted. The elf had an overwhelming presence, one that imposed itself wholly upon her, made her feel even weaker than she was in comparison to the huntress. Her voice was strong, demanding, but comfortable, and her accent could not be placed. It was neutral, like someone who had been taught the language to perfection, but rarely heard it spoken. Amelia still shook her head, taking another step backwards as she raised the dagger higher.
“Princess Amelia Janneleth, I demand that you and your forces surrender to me immediately.”
I don’t even know who you are!” Her voice was shrill by now, eyes darting about for an obvious escape route other than the tent flaps behind the statuesque intruder. Realizing there was nowhere to run, she turned her attention entirely on the huntress, shrinking as she realized the elf had her weapon drawn. The blade of the axe was in the shape of a crescent moon, with deceptively strong metal filigree connecting it to an intricately decorated, dark wooden handle.
Soraya Eldamar, Champion of the Deep Woods, and your conqueror,” she said. The elf lifted the large weapon that still bore clear traces of the day’s fighting, fresher ones from the disposal of Amelia’s knight-guards, and swung it towards the muddied, red carpet near the entrance of the tent, letting go as the axe neared the ground. The weapon cut through the fabric, digging into the hard earth beneath, serving as the dangerous underlining of her following words.