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He circled one finger around the smooth curve of her opening, gauging its size. It would be a tight fit for his cock, but pleasantly so. Sliding in and out of her rigid ring would feel similar to a human lover’s encircling thumb and forefinger, stroking his cock from the base to the head and back again until the teasing pressure drove him mad and he exploded in her hands.
Dermot slipped two fingers inside the dryad, testing her readiness. Her inner space was snug, not much bigger than the opening, and coated with a thick, slightly sticky fluid.
He swallowed another mouthful of ambrosia from her breast, and hungrily tongued her nipple, wondering if she would allow him to feast on her other nectar after he’d satisfied her with his cock the first time, before he took her with his cock a second time and finally came himself.
Removing his fingers, he guided the head of his cock to her opening, then slowly slid inside. The hard ring of her opening caressed the rigid length of his cock, and her wet, sticky walls held him in a deep embrace.
She sighed, a soft exhalation of rustling leaves, as he groaned. He’d never felt anything so good. She was the perfect woman. She might even make him come the first time, although he hoped not. He wanted to prolong this pleasure as long as possible.
He slid mostly out of her, her rigid ring stroking the length of his cock all the way to the head, then thrust deeply into her waiting wetness, her opening stroking him down to his balls.
Dermot lifted his mouth from her breast, throwing his head back and groaning. “Oh, God, that’s good.”
The dryad moaned something in Gaelic, and stroked his shirted back with her stick-like fingers. Her hands roamed downward and cupped his ass.
Dermot sucked in a quick breath, hope swelling in his heart. It was too much to ask for, to expect that this beautiful, ethereal creature would—
Smack.
The dryad slapped his ass, the openhanded blow striking his bare skin as if she was beating him with a whisk broom.
Dermot gasped as she hit him on the other side. Then she found her rhythm, her stick-like fingers slapping his ass again and again, a rain of fire on his tender flesh.
He began moving with her, each blow on his ass driving his cock through her hardened ring, sheathing his full length in her sticky depths.
“Oh, God, yes,” he begged. “I’ve been a bad, bad boy. Hit me again.”
The dryad complied, her branching fingers caning his ass until the skin burned and he was floating, flying, transported by the pain to a place of such unutterable beauty he knew he must have reached the faerie realm.
A different kind of pain, deep in his scrotum, wrenched Dermot back to the forest.
He was no longer moving with the dryad’s beating. In fact, he was no longer moving at all.
Something warm and wet flowed down the back of his legs, each stroke of the dryad’s hands adding another trickle. She’d whipped his ass until he bled, and showed no sign of stopping.
He started to pull out of her, until the agony in his scrotum stopped him. Blind panic consumed him. He was stuck!
He reached between their bodies, feeling where they were joined. Either he’d swollen or she’d shrunk, but there was no way his cock was sliding through her ring.
“Wait. Stop!”
She continued beating him, and Dermot grabbed her arms to make her stop. The dryad growled, at least that’s what he thought the noise of clattering, lashing branches translated to. Her face was distorted by fury, and he wondered how he’d ever seen it as beautiful. Terrifying and alien, yes, but it wasn’t remotely beautiful now.
She fought him, her hands clawing and whipping at his chest and back, tearing the fine cotton of his dress shirt. Finally, in desperation, he let go of one of her arms and punched her, a swift right cross to the jaw.
“Ow!”
It was like slugging a tree.
Dermot cradled his injured hand beneath his other arm, whimpering. It felt like he’d broken all four fingers.
The dryad began lashing his ass again, all semblance of erotic play gone. Each blow made his vision swim in a wash of red pain. If he’d been capable of it, he’d have fallen to his knees.
He stopped trying to resist, his mind floating in a hellish parody of his earlier ecstasy. Idly, he wondered why his state of abject terror hadn’t reduced his cock to the size of his thumb. Then he wondered what the tabloids would make of the manner of his death when his body was found. He’d wanted to accomplish so much with his life. He’d made a good beginning, started a number of new projects and initiatives within the company and accumulated a sizable reservoir of personal favors among the rich and powerful while building his share of the family fortune. But none of that mattered. Instead he’d be remembered as a blight upon the family name, the Stone who died in the bizarre Irish sex scandal.
A Gaelic shout pierced the fog of his pain, causing the dryad to redouble her efforts to beat the life out of him. The shout was repeated, followed by an angry confrontation between a cloaked woman and the dryad. The golden-haired woman held up her fist, bright blue light radiating from between her clenched fingers. She shouted again, and the dryad held up one arm to shield her eyes.
The ring around Dermot’s cock loosened fractionally.
