Cunnimonkas

Be

Be quiet brother, mistress will hear you!

Behold: a male halfling monk, of the Open Hand, thirty-four years of age, beardless as all halflings and with only modest mutton-chops ending just below the ear. A shoulder length mop of dark hair covers tanned skin and chestnut eyes. Completely naked. Although only two feet ten inches in height, field work and martial training have endowed me with a respectable musculature, save for the effeminate roundness settling about my hips and belly--an effect of our monastery's exquisite sweet breads. Below that, the glans of my circumcised penis--the whole measuring 2.7 inches erect--pokes out from a mound of dark, curly pubic hair. Standing upon lean strong legs, sweating, I resemble a trembling frog.

Over my right shoulder filthy straps secure a small bundle of firewood and plump wineskin. My hands carry a large copper serving tray atop which lie the following: Three clean cotton rags and one of Lolthian silk, two large Philodendron leaves, flint and tinder, a clean wine goblet, a pile of ground rogue's morsel, a fresh twig roughly the diameter of my thumb, and a one-gallon spoutless kettle.

The ripple of the Chionthar River fades behind us as we ascend. The steepness forces me onto the balls of my feet, biceps and shoulders straining with the weight as calves propel one meaty foot after the other. There is no path, I am drawn upward. I am watched.

Be witness, brother.

Present

I am stopped abruptly by a tangle of knotted roots. Threading carefully between them I step upon the crest of a broad ledge and moonlight gilds my naked body. I stumble and struggle to regain my composure--blinded, momentarily, by a glowing Apple tree. Light pulses throughout its branches and glows in a resplendence of buds not quite bloomed. My face and shoulders relax. A faint trill of running water holds me spellbound until the sting of cool mist pinches my buttocks, restoring focus.

The shelf is enclosed almost entirely by Storm Laurel save for two small gaps. On my right, a ribbon of water emerges from the ridge and pauses in a small pool before trickling again into darkness. On my left, a narrow cut in the trees allows moonlight to illuminate the apple tree, the luster of which then shimmers upon the creek. It is a water-moon ley, no doubt; built to connect the energies of Glimmerwood forest to the Chionthar River.

In the center sits Mistress, who has yet to notice me. One leg bent, the other stretched leisurely across the altar stone, the half-elf cleric slows my thumping heart as I follow the moonlight across her armor. Seeking her light green eyes, I find only the barrier of raven black hair. At 19 years old, Madame Darkshartz has developed a strong and supple body but still girds herself with that dark curtain.

She sees me. Summoned by an index finger, I race toward her as if yanked by the spine. Within seconds only 12 inches separates me from the imposing steel of her sabatons. Lactic acid floods my muscles, the weight of the tray now seeming to grow with each passing second. I focus on her breath to distract from the pain. Focusing all my thought--in, with a pitch that fades as she is sated; out, passing almost without sound in a smooth flow. Again, in... and out.

She is pleased. The slave did as he was told--and he's funny.

Even sitting she is taller than me. Standing upright I reach only to her nose. She is scrutinizing me now. My unkept hair, my bulging hips, my fuzzy peach-like shoulders, and walnut-sized biceps. Mistress having just emerged from the Cloister, I am confident that mine is the first penis she has ever seen outside a necromancy text.

In... and out.

She is carefully examining it now. My penis is small, even for a halfling, and when shriveled, as it is in this mist, barely overcomes its nest of dark pubic hair. Just as I had never seen anything of the world other than the monastery campus, she has seen very little beyond the Cloister of Dogmatic Folly. Her entire young life spent as an acolyte, taking orders from a bunch of sanctimonious crones; pedantic, farinaceous, and formaldehyllic.

Finally she curls her index and middle fingers inward with two quick twitches. The meaning is clear: I am to proceed.

Duty

Relieved of my burden, I offer the goblet. She inspects it and accepts. I prepare the fire and draw water, then unfurl a Philodendron leaf across the weathered granite to protect her feet.

Madame Darkshartz leans forward, knee-high steel greaves covering tailored leather boots. I unfasten them deliberately, studying the ornate clasps of her sabatons. Freed, her toes wiggle and stretch, seeking the cool air as they brush against my chest.

Mistress trills her toes and draws deeply from the goblet as I soak the cotton cloth in rogue's morsel water and carefully bathe her from knee to toe. She lifts and straightens her leg as I work, nudging my left testicle. A smoky chuckle greets my bouncing and fully erect penis.

I position myself directly before her feet and work systematically from heel to toe, finding each pressure point while my thumbs follow the natural meridians. Gently squeezing her large toe and bending it slightly from side to side, I note a few grains of dirt beneath the nail. The toe looms before me, only inches from my face. A sudden compulsion seizes me and I lean forward, taking it into my mouth. She gasps--muscles contract--but then relax, her toe now held within my pursed lips. Now I run my tongue under her cuticle, freeing it from the soft tissue. Now hooking my lower front teeth under the nail, being careful not to stress the skin enough to cause pain. Now I bring my upper incisors down, securing the nail. Now it is possible to nibble and scrape while providing moderate suction. Now the dirt thus freed, I swallow.

Lolthian silk collects any remaining moisture as it caresses her moonlit skin. Settling her feet upon the clean Philodendron leaf, I bow my naked halfling body and dryly kiss her insteps--first the right, then the left.

I await her command.

Service

A toe strokes my buttock and I rise into a mist of mulled wine. Madame Darkshartz is drunk. Focusing on her breath, which has become erratic, I struggle to resonate with her scattered energy.

Lifting off the stone, Mistress deftly removes her soiled linen braies, tossing them at me. They find my lowered head, descend the brow, and come to rest across the bridge of my nose. Before I can gather them, she clutches my hair, savagely forcing me down and toward her.

The shock unbalances me. Heart pounding I crawl. Uneven gasps I shuffle to her. A pubic hair tickles my nose. Blindly I extend my tongue, pulled by her vibrant ki, and carefully kiss the mons pubis. Mistress lifts her hauberk and lets it fall, the steel rippling with light as it clatters down to my feet.

It is the scent that restores me. O, the scent. It takes me back to the monastery--sweet cheese and ale shared with my brothers after liturgy. I recall from bawdy jokes passed among the brethren that one should proceed slowly in my present duty. Breathing deeply, I trace a semi-circle, planting more delicate faerie's feet while Mistress drains the goblet. Madame Darkshartz pinches my head between her thighs as she leans to re-fill the wine goblet. Then, flopping back against the tree, she lifts her hips and scoots forward, thrusting her vagina over my face and gripping my skull like a honeydew melon.

I direct my attention to the upper arch of the vaginal opening--licking and sucking--and the tiny clitoris is wooed forth. She arches her back and presses into me as I begin to delicately flutter my tongue. Her breathing becomes sharper now. My skull is locked in direct alignment with her spine and the grinding rhythm intensifies. I can't breathe. She sucks air through clenched teeth. I sense her pleasure as a cresting wave--a burning without pain. My head locked in the indomitable vice of her crotch. Thunk!--an open palm comes sharply down upon my head. The orgasm too intense for contact, Mistress cries out in a clipped squeal and sends me tumbling to the creek.

Madame Darkshartz curls into the tree, breath gradually slowing, the wine goblet forgotten. The moonlight reveals the perfect roundness of her buttocks. I follow the curve. I crawl to her. Compelled by the bulging, dark warmth of her labia, I tumble forward, unthinking, like a stupid Baldurian clockwork. The mad monk's body deserts him. We repeat--I find myself stupefied once again, mooning at fireflies and water striders.

Sublimation

Laurel boughs meet in a wild rhythm and melody rises from the creek. The granite is pink in the moonlight and comfortable and I could stay here. I must be on the ley line--I can feel the play of its chords. It is simple but sweet--what is that tune? I swear I know it. The beat grows clearer, more intense, as I return to Mistress and touching her I know that she hears it too. Our blood pulses together. We join.

Now I am rising--rising on the granite and unfolding in all directions. The moon is enormous. Can I touch it? I know the tune and it is louder now. Mistress is calling me. The music is calling me and I lift my voice. Suddenly a jolt stiffens our bodies. A tiny bead of her life essence--her jing, I swear it, just like the ancient monks wrote--passed to me. A note swells and surrounds us. The chorus is deafening.

Sorry brother, I must have dozed off. It is so comfortable here, nestled in Madame Darkshartz's gluteal cleft. I drooled a little and hasten to lick it up. She kicks me dismissively--it seems the evening is over. Collecting my burden I return to camp.

It is too far to see our ledge, gazing up I see only the top branch of the apple tree. A single bud reaches the first rays of sunlight. It opens slowly, reflecting creamy white radiance down to the camp where I straddle, dirty braies in hand.