The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

1

“Fairies,” said Mike Masters, deadpan.

“Yeah, sure,” grinned Maeve Donnell. “Anyway, it’s a theory.”

Mike barked in short, sharp laughter. “For global warming. Right. Blame it on the fairies.” The two sat in the coffee room of the Physics Building–as everyone called Timmons Hall–still wearing their lab jackets. Mike stretched. “Damn, I wish I didn’t have that last lab session this afternoon.”

“Don’t look at me,” Maeve said. “I’m not going to sub for you again. You owe me two labs already.” She was conscious of Mike’s gaze and could almost read his mind–why should Maeve Donnell mind giving up her Friday afternoon? With her plain face, lank light-brown hair, slight figure, and Coke-bottle glasses, she wouldn’t have anything to get ready for later on.

But he said again, “Fairies. Where’d you come up with that idea?”

“I didn’t, you barbarian,” she shot back. “Shakespeare did. Midsummer Night’s Dream? Titania’s speech?” If she’d expected recognition, she didn’t see any–just a blank look in Mike’s admittedly good-looking eyes, not the hazel-tinged mocking she had seen a moment before. When he said nothing, Maeve added, “You don’t know the play.”

“I’m a fucking physics major,” he objected. “I don’t read fucking plays. And I can’t understand that Old English shit anyway.”

“Watch your fucking language,” she said, though she was so amused that she giggled, spilling three drops of coffee, one, two, three, on her thigh. The white lab jacket soaked them up and they joined a host of other nameless stains. “And for your information, smart guy, Shakespeare did not write in Old English. His language is Early Modern English.”

“I can’t understand it, anyway,” Mike said. “But you were saying? Some–fairy crap–about global warming?”

“Here,” said Maeve, setting down her coffee mug (one she had brought to college with her, one from her long-gone ballet lessons, decorated with two delicate red ballerina slippers–faded to the faintest blush now–and the almost unreadable pink script below: “Ballerinas Do It in Five Positions”). She went to the one computer terminal in the corner of the coffee room, available only because it was nearly two p.m. on a Friday and all the grad students were gone for the weekend, except for Mike, who had an undergrad lab to supervise, and Maeve, who was, well, Maeve and had nowhere to go, nothing to get ready for.

She logged on, went online and rattled in a Google search. A couple of mouse clicks, and then she said, “Got it. It’s Titania, Queen of the Fairies, arguing with her husband, King Oberon. Listen to this.” In a dramatic voice–really not bad, she thought, expressive and lively–she began to read the speech aloud:

“These are the forgeries of jealousy,

And never since the middle Summer’s spring

Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,

By pavéd fountain, or by rushy brook–”

“Pay-vid fountain?” Mike broke in. “What the hell’s that?”

“Pavéd fountain, moron,” Maeve said, turning to frown across the room at him. “You have to pronounce the last syllable because of the meter of the poetry.”

“Oh, shit, it’s poetry,” moaned Mike. “I can’t understand poetry.”

“Shut up and listen.” She frowned back at the screen and found her place before beginning again:

“By pavéd fountain, or by rushy brook

Or in the beachéd margent of the sea,

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,

But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.

Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,

As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea

Contagious fogs: which falling in the land,

Hath every petty river made so proud,

That they have overborn their continents.

The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain,

The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn

Hath rotted, ere his youth attain’d a beard:

The fold stands empty in the drownéd field,

And crows are fatted with the murrion flock,

The nine mens’ morris is filled up with mud,

And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,

For lack of tread are undistinguishable.

The human mortals want their winter here,

No night is now with hymn or carol blest;

Therefore the Moon (the governess of floods),

Pale in her anger, washes all the air,

That rheumatic diseases do abound.

And thorough this distemperature, we see

The seasons alter; hoar-headed frosts

Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,

And on old Hyem’s chill and icy crown,

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

Is as in mockery set. The spring, the summer,

The childing autumn, angry winter change

Their wonted liveries, and the mazéd world,

By their increase, now knows not which is which;

And this same progeny of evils,

Comes from our debate, from our dissension,

We are their parents and original.”

Mike clapped his hands. Sarcastically. “Bravo. Of course, I don’t know what the fuck you just said, but anyhow–”

Maeve sighed and pushed her black-rimmed glasses back into place on her nose. “Look, it’s simple. Shakespeare has Titania say that the quarrel she’s having with Oberon has mixed up all the seasons, right? Hyem is the spirit of winter or some damn thing, but he wears a crown of summer leaves on his head, right? The fairies fight–brawl–and ignore their duty to dance on the green, and that disturbs the winds, and they drag in moisture from the ocean, and that causes floods, and so on and so forth, until the moon gets into the act too, and–” she gasped for a breath–“and before you know it, the crops are dead, the animals are drowned, and the humans are so fucked up they don’t know summer from winter any more. Global warming, see?”

“Caused by fairies. Yeah, right. Maeve, c’mon. I’m suffering here. I was up late last night studying–”

“Drinking.”

“Well, a little. And I’d really, really like to go back to my apartment and sack out. C’mon. Just sub this one lab for me. I’ll pay you back.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Foot rub?”

“Do I look like a massage whore?”

He yipped in surprise laughter. “Damn, you can be funny, girl. If–but really, what do you want?”

Not looking at him, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms, Maeve said sharply, “Take me on a date.”

“A what?”

“Go out with me, okay? Take me, I don’t know, clubbing. Do you know that in two years here as a grad student I’ve never had one fucking date?”

“Well if you want that–”

“Get over yourself. I’m not an easy piece, jerkwad. But I would like to go out some time just to have fun. Just to be normal. Tomorrow night. Take me out and I’ll do the lab for you.”

“Aw, c’mon–”

“What’s it going to hurt? Who’s it going to make jealous? Who are you seeing? Cindy? I thought you two broke up.”

Mike had the grace to look at least semi-abashed. “Well, yeah, but hope springs, you know.”

“I am not asking you to fucking marry me. I just want to go out, okay? One night of feeling like a regular girl, not a science geek freak. We don’t even have to stay out late or anything–you can get me back home by eleven, as long as we go out, have a nice dinner, and then do something. Even a movie.”

Mike shrugged. “What the hell. You know where the lab–”

“Room 1111,” Maeve said tiredly. “I know. You know where I live, so you come and pick me up, right? And you get out of the car and come to the door and knock like a gentleman. I’ll expect you at six forty-five sharp.”

“You’re a buddy.”

“Go, shithead,” she said with a rueful grin. “Before I change my poor excuse for a mind.”

“Thanks,” Mike said, already stripping off his white lab jacket. “I mean that sincerely. You’re saving my life.”

“Go,” she said.

But when he walked out the door, she sighed. He is such a jerk. Yeah, but a good-looking, reasonably smart jerk. Oh, well, what the hell. Maeve logged off the computer, rose and stretched, and then went to face twenty clueless freshmen in the physics lab. Her life could have been worse.

True, she didn’t quite know how, but still–it could have been worse.

2

The lab ran from one-thirty to three-thirty, a real grind: the slot was like a drain that sucked up the dregs of the freshman science students, those too clueless to enroll in a good section of Physics I. As a result, the straggling few were (A) unprepared, (B) uninterested, and (C) unmotivated. In fact, when Maeve called the roll, she found that she had exactly fourteen students present out of twenty. The lab lesson was on hydraulics and fluid movement, and for all the eager response she provoked, she might as well have been explaining alternate-side parking to a fireplug. Ruefully, she noted that the geeky freshmen didn’t even hit on her, and they’d try to nail anything. Story of my life.

After the lab, Maeve went to the library to do a little research on one of her Meteorology papers, but since the library closed early on Fridays–six p.m.–she didn’t accomplish much there, either. Not in the mood to cook, not wanting a pathetic table for one in any restaurant, she stopped at the Student Union coffee shop for a sketchy dinner (spinach salad, pre-made and a little tired, tuna sandwich, chips, soft drink, one chocolate-chip cookie) and ate it while burying her nose in a book.

Then the drive home. One advantage of attending college in a coastal Florida town was the weather–warm most of the year. Though it was the end of April–no, wait, thirty days hath September, April–no, it was already May 1, but where Maeve had been born and raised, up in Maine, that was still a cold month–the weather was balmy. Maeve felt itchy, unwilling to settle down. She sat on a bench on the quad and read until the daylight failed, and then, seeing it was past eight, she decided she could probably go home, take a hot shower, and collapse into bed. Anyway, she needed to feed Tybalt, the prince of cats. He’d be ravenous.

But she drove the long way, by the beach. A gorgeous full moon rose from the Atlantic, and at Duende Beach she pulled off, parking in an overlook. Impulsively, she kicked off her shoes, climbed out of her car, and walked down the slope to the edge of the ocean. Ghost crabs whispered and scuttled out of her way. The water breathed to her.

The moon looked so huge when you saw it rise this way, oranged by the air (the blue light rays are absorbed by the atmosphere, while the longer red rays pass through and give us the illusion that the moon near the horizon is orange rather than its true color....right out of the Meteorology book). It printed a broad, shifting, golden path on the dark sea, like a magical road to another place. Or another time.

A warm wind sprang up, caressing her cheek.

Maeve breathed deeply and murmured, “In the beachéd margent of the sea, to dance our ringlets to the whistling wind.”

Dance our ringlets.

“This is for you, my lady Titania,” Maeve said, and she bowed to the sea, the moon, the night, before going into First Position, heels together. She swept her arms up, embracing the wind, and then began to twirl to a music she heard only in imagination. Dance our ringlets.

A chassé, a fouetté jeté, possible only on the harder, still-wet sand close to the waves. Then the spinning fouettés en tournant–Maeve had never been able to perform the magic 32, but she did her best with the grainy sand cool under her bare foot, counting up to nine before she began to tire, pressing on through thirteen before dropping back to a plié and First Position again. She curtsied. “That,” she said, trying not to pant, “is as many ringlets as I can muster. Well met by moonlight, proud Titania!”

And now her feet were sore. She climbed back up the slope of beach to her car, got in, and drove barefoot to her apartment, the rising golden shield of the moon pacing her. 3 Home was three rooms and a bathroom in an old house a couple of miles inland. It had been split up into three apartments years before, and the landlady liked to rent only to college girls–mature ones, who didn’t have wild parties. Maeve currently shared the house with Nancy, an absent-minded Spanish major, and Deena, who was studying architecture. Neither was a particularly close friend, and tonight without much surprise Maeve saw that neither of their cars was in the drive. Typical. Both girls lived in state, and both routinely took off for the weekends. It would be a quiet Saturday and Sunday. Maeve parked under the carport, grabbed her shoes, stepped off the concrete drive, started across the lawn, and yelped as some tiny but incredibly painful thing jabbed into the sole of her left foot.

Damn sandspurs.

She hobbled on her heel, unlocked the front door, locked it again behind her, and turned right into her apartment. Tybalt, a jet-black cat with the arrogant stride of a tom (never mind that he’d been fixed), stalked in and stared green at her.

“I know, I know, dinner’s late,” grunted Maeve. She collapsed onto the sofa, did a yoga bend of her knee, and used her thumbnail to pry the nasty little sandspur burr from the sole of her foot. It was smaller than a green pea, but sharp stickers covered it. A little droplet of blood oozed out. Maeve thumbed it away, and it stopped. She wouldn’t bleed to death.

Tybalt was butting her now, ramming his head repeatedly into her hip.

“Okay, okay.” she said, and went to the kitchen. She tossed the burr into the trash, then opened a pouch of moist cat food. She emptied it into Tybalt’s food dish and while he was snarfing it, she poured fresh water into his drinking bowl. “Enjoy,” she said.

She padded to her bedroom–bed still unmade, she had become a little sloppy once out from under her mother’s thumb–and took off her top, bra, and jeans. She tossed them into the hamper (have to do laundry before Monday) and then went to the bathroom for her shower. She would have loved to stretch out in a tub, but the tiny bathroom afforded only a tiny shower stall. Anyway. Lots of hot water. A loofah. Some foaming body wash, ginger-scented, nice. Big soft fluffy towel. Nightie, and then under the sheets. She yawned. Might watch a little TV, tired of reading. Another yawn.

Tybalt sauntered in, panther-leaped to the bed, and sat, curling his tail around his base. He gave her the green stare again.

“What?” she asked him.

He said, “There’s a fairy to see you. I thought they were small enough to eat.”

Maeve sat up in bed as if she had touched two live wires. Tybalt was–lying down, in a compact cat swirl. He lifted his head and stared at her.

“Did you–say something?”

He gave her a cat look for another few seconds, then tucked his head back down.

Maeve blinked. No, wait, he had been sitting, not lying down. Must have dozed off there for a second! Cats don’t talk. Though if they could, they’d sound exactly the way she’d imagined Tybalt’s voice, a throaty masculine purr.

All that fairy poetry, all that stupid dancing on the seashore.

Get a grip.

Maeve pounded her pillow, reached over and turned out her bedside lamp, and lay back down.

“You called me.”

The voice was feminine, small and soft, on the very edge of hearing.

“What?”

“You danced by the sea and called me. You sacrificed a drop of blood. Here I am.”

Maeve switched the lamp back on and pinched herself. Ow. She felt goosebumps flying in V-formation up the back of her neck. “Who said that?”

“I did. It’s been a long time since I had a mortal votaress.”

Maeve heard the panic in her own voice: “Where are you?”

“Here.”

“I–this is crazy. I can’t see you!”

“Lie back. Close your eyes.”

“I don’t–”

“Lie back. Close your eyes.” Something compelling, something almost ominous in that tone. Maeve obeyed, her heart fluttering like a terrified bird in a cage of bone. Through her closed eyelids she saw the dullest, dullest red, the light of the lamp passing through her own capillaries. She felt a touch on her left eye, delicate as a landing moth, and then cool liquid flowed, pooling in the corner of her eye, seeping through her lids and tingling.

The woman’s voice chanted:

“I pour fresh dew, with juice of poppy mixed,

And bilberry, eyebright, mandragor. Betwixt

Your closéd lids the liquor flows aright;

Darkened human orbs gain now second sight.

Ope now your eyes and see what shall be seen;

Who was unbodied voice now stands a queen.”

Tingling, fizzling, cool, but not painful. Soothing. Maeve drew in a deep breath. “Can I–should I–may I open my eyes now?”

“Girl, don’t you listen? Of course!”

Titania wasn’t what she expected. Oh, she was dark enough, to be sure, and sultry enough, a tall woman with a cascade of jetty-black hair tumbling down, high cheekbones, a sharp chin and exotically slanted black eyes–pupils completely black, black as moonless midnight–and she smelled strangely of forest and field, the sweetish aroma of mown hay, the musky whisper of crisp leaves and ripe berries. But, my God, she was almost naked.

You can’t wear leaves!

But that was all she wore–curled autumn leaves clung to her skin, and very few of them, two modest yellow maple leaves covering the nipples of her magnificently jutting breasts, one big red oak leaf coyly curled to cover her sex. Her crown was holly, bright with berries. And as for the rest–a russet body, velvet skin tinged with a golden-pinkish blush, full red lips, a mysterious smile. “Well?”

“I–I see you,” Maeve confessed.

“Of course you do. I knew you would. And so you are my votaress.”

“Your–I don’t–”

“My disciple,” sighed the woman-creature. She turned and prowled the room, the lamplight softening her cleft round hips, catching the tips of her strangely pointed ears peeking through the wanton disorder of her inky tresses. “My follower. You must be–you danced the ringlet on the beachéd margent of the sea, as dear Will put it.”

“I think I’m drunk. Or maybe just crazy.”

The woman sat on the edge of the bed–it creaked a little, and Tybalt gave the newcomer an irritable glance–and she reached to stroke Maeve’s cheek. “You are neither. You have wild blood in you, child. We are named alike, we two.”

“W-what?”

“Some call me Mab. That’s a barbarous shortening of Maeve, the form of the name I prefer.”

“I thought you were Ti-Titania!” The touch of those fingers! Maeve shivered and felt an unfamiliar heat deep at her center.

“I am Titania, and Maeve, and Gloriana, and Hildur, and all those other human mortal names. I am Queen of the Fair Folk, Empress of the Elves, ruler of the Fay.” She was leaning close now, so close that her face filled all of Maeve’s field of vision. Her red lips were ripely parted. Maeve breathed deeply, closed her eyes, opened her own tingling lips, and waited for the kiss she knew was coming.

It did not come. “Oh, my,” said–well, call her Mab, that’s what she called herself first–Mab, a laugh in her voice, her gentle hand soft on Maeve’s temple. “What do I see in your mind? Oh, really, Maeve, you are . . . a virgin!”

“I don’t . . . want to be,” Maeve heard herself answer. Her eyes flew open in shock at the confession. The Fairy Queen was still inches away, her ocean-deep pupils drowning Maeve.

“I should hope not,” Mab said. “At your age! Girl, when the world was in its prime, my followers were never more than two-thirds as old as you before tasting the first sweet fruits of love. It’s time you lost your flower, Maeve.”

“But I–I don’t look–I’m not attractive,” Maeve said.

“Nonsense!” Mab yanked the covers from the bed–or had she simply waved her hand and made them fly of their own accord? Coverlet and cat went flying, anyway, and Tybalt scattered out of the room. Mab stood and held out a hand. Maeve clasped it and felt light, as light as a summer cloud, and floated up and out of bed. “Come.”

Somehow they stood–outside? Somewhere in the open, but not the yard. Not even Florida. Maybe nowhere in the world! They stood in a round clearing in silver-leaved woods, beneath a brightly beaming and enormously full moon. Before them lay a round fountain, its waters still and mirroring. Another gesture from Mab and the water . . . tilted up on end, became a standing round mirror, impossible, but there it was. “Look at yourself.”

In the strong moonlight, Maeve saw herself, standing there in her nightie: long straight brown hair, puggy nose, wide brown eyes. Not much of a figure. Everything blurred because she wasn’t wearing her glasses and she was abysmally myopic.

“Change,” Mab said.

A couple of tiny minnows swimming through her reflection had distracted Maeve. “What?”

“Change yourself. Be what you want. Look into the Mirror of Dinmoiraire, and imagine yourself the way you’d like to look when you take to bed . . . " Mab tilted her head sideways for a moment as if listening to a faint, far voice . . . “Michael. That is his name.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, girl, how can anyone have so much brain and so little wit? Here, let me see through your eyes.” She stepped behind Maeve and touched both temples lightly. “Hmmm. You have short sight, however keen your Second Sight might be. I shall fix that. There, is that better?”

The images in front of Maeve shimmered into crystal-edged sharpness, so clear that she reached for her nonexistent glasses. “Oh!”

Mab’s face, over her shoulder, sharp chin tilted at a considering angle. “Now that you can see better, let’s begin with your hair. Look at it. Imagine it another color. Make it–the color of a harvest field!”

Somehow, with no transition whatever, her reflection’s hair brightened, became a thrilling blond. Maeve gasped. “How did you do that?”

“I didn’t, you did. Try something else.”

Black, like hers, and as full and flowing!

Mab laughed aloud. Their reflections might have been twins, at least as far as the magnificent, untamed hair went. “Too flattering! Thank you, Maeve, but find a look that’s fair to you.”

A paler blonde, then, almost the color of starlight on frost. Yes, nice, and fuller, more flowing, framing her face. Her eyes . . . blue. But not a bright blue, a dark blue, an inky blue, the blue of the ocean depths before light is lost. Yes! Her cheeks–reshape them a little. Fuller mouth. And my Lord, that snub nose–better. Better. Oh, yes, better.

“Take off your garment.”

“But that’s–”

“My followers dance sky-clad.”

Maeve’s head was spinning. “I don’t think I can–”

“We have to shape your body, you know,” teased Mab. “Make you appealing to Michael.”

In the moonlight, Maeve hesitated. This has to be a dream.

Mab wriggled. “I suppose I have to show you. Shed your clothing. Like this.” The two leaves covering her nipples drifted away; the oak leaf tumbled from her pubic mound. “Well?”

Maeve’s face felt burning hot. Mab was . . . so beautiful. Large areolas, stiffly erect nipples. A dark pubic patch, but her cleft sex showed through it. Just beautiful.

She reached for Maeve’s hand. “Come with me,” she said in a husky voice. “I know you’ll see things my way.”

The fairy queen stepped right into the upended floating disc of water, tugged her arm. Maeve gasped, held her breath, closed her eyes–

It shimmers.

She had expected a plunge into cold water, something. Not a sensation that felt as if she were stepping into a static-electric field, but that’s what she stepped through. She heard Mab say, “Open your eyes, silly. You can breathe.”

Maeve did as she was told. Where–was she? Not outside. The enclosure was not a room. It gave the sense of cathedral heights overhead, and it glimmered with golden light, very soft. “Oh!” she exclaimed.

Her nightie was gone. She was as naked as Mab.

“This way.”

Softness underfoot, cool, not a carpet . . . moss? Was she in a cavern? Maeve took dream steps, not large ones, but she had the odd sense that she was covering a lot of distance with each swing of a foot. Drifting lights in the air . . . fireflies?

A table, crystalline, two throne-like chairs. Mab gestured her into one, and then she took the other, just across. A round little table, a tea-table, cozy. “We will eat and drink,” Mab said.

“I’m not–not hungry.” Maeve folded her arms across her chest.

“Sample it anyway.”

On the table a flagon of wine shivered itself into solidity; a cornucopia of plums, pomegranates, figs, appeared beside it. The fireflies swarmed all around her.

“My people are curious about you,” Mab said. “Are they making nuisances of themselves?”

“Your people?” Maeve tried to shrink into herself.

Mab waved her hand. “In the air, all around you.”

The . . . glowing little specks. “I thought they were bugs.”

“No, they are fairies. Sadly dwindled in these latter days. Each of them has given me a bit of stature.”

“Huh?”

The naked Mab reached for the wine, poured it–funny, Maeve hadn’t even noticed the delicate glasses, shaped like lilies–and passed a lily aglow with the golden light of the wine to her. Then she poured herself one. “Drink, dear,” she said.

Maeve automatically took a sip. It burned its way into her veins, making her heart pound, making her giddy. Mad wine. She eagerly drank more, felt the world reel around her. “Fairies thrive on faith, belief,” Mab said. “You know that children’s play–every time a child says ‘I don’t believe in fairies,’ one of us dies? It is not quite like that, but when the people of your world don’t believe in us, we waste away. I was hardly bigger than a . . . canary, is that the word? A small bird? When I first answered your summons on the beach and followed you home. Your cat would have eaten me, I think, had my people not given me some of their essence. Each of them became smaller; I became larger, until I was my old size again, my human size. I feel stronger now, and they are beginning to grow a bit, too. You believe in me.”

“I, I–I don’t know,” confessed Maeve. “Maybe I’m crazy!”

Mab laughed. “You are not crazy.” She reached for a plum, plump, red. Maeve watched her bite into it, watched the juice flow. “Here.” She handed the fruit to her. “Take, eat. It is so very sweet.”

Maeve looked down at the plum in her hand. The bite Mab had taken looked like a mouth. It gleamed with juice. Feeling almost as if she were drugged or drunk, Maeve raised the plum, opened her mouth, and bit into it. Syrup-sweet juice gushed over her tongue. She ate greedily, feeling a few drops fall on the upswell of her breasts.

“It’s good,” Mab said teasingly. “You like it, don’t you?”

Maeve could only nod. When Mab held up the flagon of the pale greenish-yellow wine and raised a curved eyebrow in coy inquiry, Maeve eagerly held out her lily-shaped glass. She drank again, swallowing avidly, feeling the spreading warmth, the delirious whirl of sensation. It no longer seemed all that strange that she was sitting here naked with another naked woman, in this . . . what? Grotto? Vault? Whatever, lit only by distant candles. She reached for another piece of strange fruit, pausing guiltily when her fingers touched it.

But with a smile, Mab made a generous gesture. “Enjoy it. Eat your fill,” she said. She clapped her hands. “Honey!”

Maeve was devouring a sort of pear, soft and mellow, melting on her tongue, and again dripping so much juice that she felt it spatter on her breasts and even on her thighs. Her eyes widened as a bowl appeared next to the cornucopia, a simple white bowl holding a honeycomb oozing with golden honey. “We feast on this quite often,” said Mab. She dipped two fingers in the honey and then licked and sucked them. “Mm. This sustains us even better than wine and fruit. It is the best of honeys.”

She dipped her fingers in again and then held them, glistening with the shimmering honey, out to Maeve. “Go on, my dear.”

Shyly, Maeve extended her tongue and touched just the tip to Mab’s extended fingers. The sweetness of the honey hit her like a physical blow. The viscous liquid was beginning to drip down from her hostess’ outstretched fingers–there fell a single drop, striking her right nipple. She felt it ooze its way over the stiffly crinkled flesh and then flow in a sticky, slow runlet down the bottom slope of her breast. Not wanting to waste any of it, Maeve engulfed Mab’s fingers with her lips, sucked them hard, shuddered at the explosively sweet taste on her tongue.

“That’s right,” Mab murmured approvingly. “Yes, that’s right. Suck it all. More.” She dipped her fingers again and served again, and now Maeve practically gobbled her fingers, not only sucking but bobbing her head. The honey was, if anything, more intoxicating even than the wine; sweeter than the plums. She wanted more. More. More!

Somehow Mab was sitting astride her thighs now. Astonishing how little she weighed, how lightly her hot flesh pressed down on Maeve’s naked thighs. Mab cradled her head, scooped more honey, dribbled it over her own breasts. “Suckle,” she crooned. “Suckle me, sweetling, suckle me, dearest.”

She cupped her hand beneath her breast and lifted, rubbing the nipple across Maeve’s lips. Maeve gasped, and her lips parted; parted and her tongue quested; quested and her mouth closed over the jutting, hardened nipple. Blood pounded, pounded in her ears. She was burning alive, all on fire, so good, so sticky, so sweet. She sucked hard, drawing the dripped honey into her mouth and–and something more? Herself’s milk?

Maeve moaned, moving her head to the other side, opening her lips to the other teat. Mab caressed her, stroked her cheeks, hummed and murmured, and her body thrust against Maeve’s hot, so hot. “Suckle, my sweetest. Eat the fruits, drink the wine, taste the honey, swallow the milk of the Fair Ones. Yes, yes, that’s right. Please yourself with your fingers if you wish, yes, love is sweet, sweeter than my fine honey.”

God, this better be a dream!

Because somehow Maeve had managed to spread her thighs, had reached down with her right hand, and was stroking herself, oh! so deliciously wet, and her pussy tingled and wanted a cock, a cock, a cock, but the tit in her mouth was so yieldingly sweet, so stiffly lewd, and it made her burn, burn. She was not an abandoned lover, it always went slowly even though she knew just where to touch herself, but this time she rose and rose and then yelped aloud and trembled all over as her release took her. She panted, gasping.

“You liked that,” said Mab, smiling. She sipped a little away, reached down, took Maeve’s hand by the wrist, and raised it. “You smell so nice,” she whispered.

And then she sucked the first two fingers of Maeve’s hand, the hand that had been busy at her slit, into her hot, hot mouth, and sucked.

Maeve quivered again with orgasm. “Oh, God!”

Releasing the two fingers with a lascivious smack, Mab smiled again. “Call me goddess,” she breathed.