Excerpted with permission from "How To Train Your Virgin," a novella by Wednesday Black. (Copyright Badlands Unlimited LLC). The New Lovers series is devoted to publishing new works of erotica that explore the complexities bedevilling contemporary life, culture, and art today. Reprinted with permission from Badlands.
The queen of a mythical realm realizes that her king now prefers the bodies of inexperienced human virgins to her own. His insatiable appetite threatens the kingdom and everything the queen holds dear. She plots to seduce and deflower the two humans the king favors, but her plans backfire in spectacular fashion. What will become of her marriage? Her kingdom? Her virgins?
* * *
He has found another one. I can see it in his eyes. Beside me at the table, before our guests, my king is all attention and husbandly devotion. But I can see her in his amber eyes—someone else, someone not me.
In the Onyx Hall our glittering guests titter and play as they await the arrival of dinner. They are rowdy tonight, these members of court, some antlered or furred, others hoofed and be-snouted, seizing the wine proffered by the cloaked servants as fast as it comes.
In the center of the hall a troupe of musicians pluck their fleshy instruments, the cartilaginous extrusions from their caved-in bellies thrumming to a familiar tune. A river of entertainers flows this evening, an opened vein of life in honor of my husband and me. Their music echoes among the buttresses of the Hall’s ceiling, and dies in the tapestried dimness beyond our tables where the servants come and go. Already we have seen a merman and a mermaid making love in a clear vat, sinuous forms fucking among their cloud of bubbles, crying out in watery si...
Yes, it is a hell of an affair, this anniversary of ours. No one remembers the number anymore, or whether there was a first. For you see, time moves differently in my Realm than in yours. Here it spirals and warps, stutters and starts. And for the first time in this quaking eternity, I sense that this anniversary could be our very last. Something must be done.
There was a time when my king thought of me before any other, when thinking of me was what hardened that instrument, that bold cock. There was a time when he thought only of taking me from behind as hard and fast as he could, as if by plunging deep enough, long enough, he could fuck his way into my soul. I love him with that painful, yearning kind of love that invades the body from some other place—could it be the soul?—and can only be satisfied by the act of sex. Back then, when he had me under his control, hands on my ass, fingers pressing into my flesh, I felt his love and I was happy. But these days he is distracted by her, by her, and her and her and her—by the great panoply of lovely creatures walking the earth.
One of my king’s messengers trots up to our table, a black dog who sits upon the sparkling carpet. I know it brings news of his latest love interest—a creature of your world. In its eyes I can see her face. Indeed my husband’s messengers are not great concealers of secrets. And yet my husband does not suspect I can understand their communications. Like all husbands, he underestimates his wife.
As the servants deliver the feast, steaming boar with a single apple-sized cherry in its crisped snout, I study the human’s image in the dog’s eye. A girl young and fresh, with wide, Slavic cheekbones and short-cropped hair. A human pixie—but appealing to my husband and king where no true pixie could. Unlike us, she has the capacity for innocence. She is a virgin, doomed to age and wither, yes, but fresh in youth like newly fallen snow. The only kind he likes.
I smile at my guests. Why must I now be quarantined from his desires? Because he no longer loves me—not as he did? There was a time when we would seduce such a girl into our vast bed, when we would torture her untried, narrow cunt for days on end, sucking the honey from her slight thighs and rounded ass, before turning her onto her belly and fucking her to near death. My king with his cock and me with my tongue, no match for his hardness, no, but possessing a serpentine flexibility. My king used to make me proud: There was a malevolence about the way he would unsheathe that cock before the frightened creature, the way he would advance upon her despite her crying, her sudden change of heart, her protests. We were like two wildcats playing with supper—a team—and always with hearts and minds only for each other.
I want to crush those humans, those high-assed youths of whatever sex that take his attention and draw him away from me now. I want him under my thrall again, in love, at once in charge of my body, my breasts, my heaving cunt, and at my side always.
If I could send a shadow minion to take this new distraction screaming out of her human sleep—to push its long fingers up into her tight asshole and then to fuck her virgin pussy with its branched, terrible cock—to denude her of that alabaster virginity— well, I certainly would. Wouldn’t you? But alas, that’s not how it works.
There is a flourish of applause and catcalls as the guests celebrate the conclusion of the performance (a set of centaurs in heat). Now a dozen wood people have gathered in the open space. A single deep drumbeat smashes through the hall. A sudden hush falls as a vine girl steps forward, her fingers rustling with new leaves.
A sparrow, yet another of my husband’s messengers, alights on the banquet table on the far side of him, beside the dog. I glance that way casually. Its eyes hold yet another ill-disguised vision of yet another human. I can feel my husband’s ancient heart thump when he sees it. This human is similar to the other—can it be? Oh, my damn husband. It is a young man, his shoulders those of a man but his face lacking the crags and hardness of one. His eyes the same haunting, cloudy green as hers.
Two to ruin, then. I will coax from each of them that which makes them desirable to my king, that gentle, burgeoning sexuality. I will bring them to me through their dreams. I will seduce them into an initial depravity that will extinguish all innocence.
I raise my crystal glass and smile at my handsome husband.
“To you, my love,” I say. “Forever.”
“And to you,” he says, raising his glass with his right hand and flicking away the bird with his left. We drink to our marriage, our eternal bond. He leans for a kiss, not knowing what I know. His crown shimmers.
“Our desire is undiminished after all these years,” I say, and I reach beneath the table. My hand finds the place where his legs meet. Beneath the fabric his cock lies like a sleeping giant. Yet it is only a moment’s work to free it. Without leaning over I unlace his ties, and, already awoken in so short a time, this beloved toy of mine bobs up against my hand.
My husband’s eyes glint as if mined with shards of glass. My core twinges. I am immediately wet through with readiness for those lips, that thrusting tongue. Remembering the human twins, I flinch. In anger I clutch his cock and twist it. His mouth becomes a line as he rears away to peer down at me, perplexed. I continue to hold his cock, leaning now to keep it in hand as he strains away. My cunt is pulsing, but tears are forming in my eyes.
The music of the performance rises at that moment—an insistent drumbeat growing in volume. One of the vine men leads the vine girl forward. He is a hoary chap with face almost entirely occluded by the vines that grow from his skin. His body is shaggy with tendrils and leaves, and at his base, the thick genitals are petrified erect. His wooden feet clack on the mirrored tiles.
The diners have finished their meals. The servants are slipping through the shadows, collecting their emptied plates or bringing lavish cakes and pies. More wine is poured. My husband reaches down and holds my hand on his cock, gently, as if to show me how. The vine woman is standing before us now, and the servants appear and disappear unbidden, clearing the table.
“A gift?” my husband asks me.
“Just like old times,” I tell him.
The vine girl is a thing of beauty. Staggeringly lovely in the flawless way that all those who live in this realm can be whenever they wish. A willow tree made female flesh. It is this perfection that my husband has tired of, but it is all we have here.
Yet, although she is not human, my husband’s cock obliges the gift: It grows so that it touches the underside of the table. Beneath the girl’s simple white shift her vines rustle and coil around the swell of her breasts. Her fingertips, themselves delicate twigs, begin to grow longer and thicken. She does not look us in the eye but gazes at the floor.
I remove my hand from my husband’s cock and slip it down to my own lap, where my skirt, designed to split apart like tulip petals—my own design—falls open. I am hot, hot as sand in the sun.
The vine man begins to tear the woman’s shift from her shoulders. One heavy breast is exposed, nipple dusky as bark, then the other. The vines ripple and flutter in the air.
“Let me,” I say. The vine man backs away, bowing.
The guests are silent, leaning forward, attentive. A few hands or paws have vanished into laps. Noble mouths hang open as secret contacts take place out of sight beneath the banquet tables. Rustling and snorting fill the air. I look around and smile. This is how it should be. All gazing at us, all feeling our energy, our heat. I reach forward and I tear the rest of the woman’s dress away. She flinches. There she is. Naked, quivering, and filled with fear.
“On the table,” I tell her.
She does not hesitate, though her eyes flick up at mine for an instant. She has heard about me. I am ripe with desire, knowing that she obeys my order even though she fears the outcome. This is where my desires lie—not with humans and their silly expiring bodies, their pains and passions and petty daily chores—but with those that fear annihilation and yet consent anyway. The vine girl reclines on the table.
“Face me,” I say. “Spread your legs.”
And she spreads her legs to us, revealing her damp center, her ripe pussy lips beneath a smattering of soft hairs. My king and I stand now, looking at her. Beyond the table, the court looks back. Like a heartbeat the drum continues to throb. It is faster now. My cunt responds to the increased urgency: I squeeze myself and a thrill darts down each leg. Like the shifting, groaning guests, my husband is also open-mouthed. He is ready, with his pants now collapsing to the floor and his cock bobbing in the open air. Casting him a glance over my shoulder, I step forward and snatch a handful of her strange, sapling hair. I shake her.
“Wider.”
Her pussy lips part to reveal a tiny slice of pinkness within. I lean in for the first taste, walking my fingers up her gleaming thighs as I do. Above her belly, her heavy breasts rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths. I flutter my tongue over her lower lips, easing them farther apart. She cries out once.
“Silence,” I say, biting her wet center.
My husband grips me from behind. His cock rudely presses against my rear and his hands are already parting the skirts. Perhaps he loves me still. His bare skin and mine meet with an electricity that almost ruins everything—I almost explode at his touch, but I push back the release—I must wait, I must wait. He folds me at the waist, eager enough that my whole face is thrust roughly against the girl’s pillowy, wet pussy lips. The hair there is softer than any human’s, a downy corn silk, and I draw my long, deadly tongue up and down her from the lowest part to the apex of her clitoris, even as my husband positions himself at my entrance. Blood is pumping to my cunt; a twinge has rapidly become a constant agony. My mouth and nose are buried in the girl’s shivering, shuddering depths. I can hear her crying out and I move my tongue faster. My husband butts his cock head against my entrance, forcing the broad, slick tip inside and pressing with a bruising power.
“Let me,” he tilts upward, probing the opening for a weakness. “Let me in.”
It’s like a dark, secret cave in the vine woman’s pussy. My husband adjusts the head of his cock until it is angled true, and with one push has it just inside. I squeeze him tightly and for a moment he laughs, for he can’t enter farther. A game we play. How I love him! But he is strong and with a grunt he pushes past my defenses. The walls of my cunt are forced apart by his smooth cock. I groan into the girl’s pulsing slit. She too is moaning loudly and I push my tongue even deeper, mimicking his cock, pressing up against her deepest spot again and again. I am a brutal tide.
“Oh, god,” she screams.
“Take it, you,” he orders.
I hear the guests—louder now, moaning, screaming even, but all I can see is her thighs on either side and her belly above. He is pumping me and my muscles are contracting around him, bruising themselves against his hardness. I’m quivering—a cannon is going off in my head and somehow he thrusts harder and harder and faster and faster despite my clenched muscles, deeper and deeper, and I moan out into the girl, vibrating my tongue so that a shudder starts in her thighs. She bucks all around me. The sound of her mingled pleasure and agony tips me over the scales, and everything contracts and swells and I am helpless, buried in this pussy but unable to do anything else. Filled from behind. Dominated entirely, my husband absorbed in me and our game, like the old times. I am loved.
And then my king pulls out of me without ceremony or kindness; my muscles clench together around his absence, and I gasp as he lifts me forward onto the girl, so that I am trapped face to face with her, sweat-slick breast to breast. Ribs clunk ribs. Eye to eye now, I see her pupils go wide.
“No!” I protest, pressing away from her face, from this proximity.
I feel him behind me and a vicious shame ignites where his cock was, where his love once was—as I realize what is happening. He is entering her—I can see it on her face— he is fucking her while I lie atop her like a beached sea creature, pinned in my humiliation by his weight.
“No, no!” I cry. And yet I am coming again—what has been started cannot be stopped now. I could slash his eyes out, rip out her tongue! He is going faster. The girl wails, weeps, shakes her head—her eyes roll back.
“Fucking wood beast, I’m going to fill you up, little tree whore,” he bellows over my shoulder. And he comes, exhaling into my back, in one long, shuddering gasp.
Quivering with my spent orgasm and hatred, I lie between them. I crane my head away from hers and look around at the Onyx Hall. The court guests are all around us, some so close that I could touch them where they stand. Farther off a number of guests are fucking, bent over tables or down on the stone floor. Tongues and tits and asses and cocks—lords and ladies, creatures of all kinds—performers become guests and guests, performers. They are smiling.
The king rolls his weight off me at last and I in turn roll off the girl with as much dignity as I can manage. I resolve to destroy her, to rip out her vine fingers—but later. I have virgins to plot against now. My husband, spent, oblivious, has sat heavily and is drinking wine. His dog is whispering into his ear. I want to go to him, to scream in his face, why don’t you want me?
But my legs buckle and servants are all around, bearing me to bed, away from the hall, away from my shame.
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By Wednesday Black
Wednesday Black is a writer of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. She studied writing at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she spent part of her childhood, and at The New School in New York City. She splits her time between New York and New Orleans. This is her first work of erotic fiction.
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