Fafnirs Quest

Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again;

Take me to you, imprison me, for I

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

--John Donne

Wizard's Quest

"That is all I can do for you barbarian. The venom from the wyvern bite will slowly bring your death unless you do as I have told. You only have a few sunrises left. Seek the standing stone I spoke of to the West. Though the path you seek into the forest is now avoided by all; it is still well worn from ages past. A hunter such as you will find it."

In the small smoke filled hut, the lanky old wizard was dwarfed next to the huge barbarian, by comparison, a mountain of muscle almost 6 feet tall. The blue tattoos on the wizard's bald head, face and chest showed beads of perspiration from his exertions with the black arts.

"Your arm will heal slowly and cause great pain--even for one such as you. The talons of the wyvern taint the flesh causing a painful wound that does not heal, but does not kill."

Fafnir tested the wizard's patchwork, rotating his left arm, gauging the pain. He was grateful it was not his sword arm. As he stood, his muscular frame snapped taut and ready for action like a sinewy predator preparing to leap at its prey. The wildness in his penetrating blue eyes an indication that he was already preparing to leave and escape the confines of the village.

"If you have deceived me wizard, the last strike of my sword will be to split your lying skull."

"Only a fool would lie to a slayer such as you. You need not fear treachery barbarian."

The wizard peered through the smoky haze to make the sacred man-to-man, eye-to-eye, contact which he knew meant more than any words to the barbarian. The wizard understood the unspoken blue-eyed response. Few men ever looked a wizard in the eyes without fear as this barbarian did.

"The villagers are grateful beyond words that you have slain the beast. Now their children and livestock are safe. It is for their thanks and our arrangement that I have helped you, not for your threats. Few men have seen such a creature and lived to tell, let alone slain one as you have. You are favored by the gods. To ignore those favored in such a way is to invite misfortune, it is as simple as that."

Fafnir still saw the concern in the eyes of the wizard--real or feigned he was not sure--and knew that his threat had served its purpose. He did not think the wizard was lying, but he had been deceived before by the servants of magic so trust would need to be earned.

"Remember my words barbarian. You will know the moment."

Standing Stone

Another night under the stars and another morning alive! The poison would not claim its price today. The morning air was brisk with the remnants of a chill fog--nothing compared to Fafnir's homeland in the frosted North.

The envenomed bite in his side ached incessantly as he moved. The pain only fueled him onward. All battles had their price and their scars; he had already borne more than his fair share even for a warrior. The bandages on his right side were crusted in his dried blood, but holding. The bite was manageable for now, his wounded arm likewise. Despite a slight lightness of head, he felt vigorous and alert. The poison in his blood was unmistakable and as euphoric as Stygian lotus.

The standing stone was within sight. Arriving during the moonless night, he had slept almost on top of it unnoticed. He could not read the ancient runes etched into the smooth granite (they were Elven script) but he knew their meaning: a warning to travelers of the dangers of the forest. More importantly, it bore the glyphs which warned of enchantment and the presence of evil. Evil he could handle, but magic was a bigger problem.

Fafnir stood for a long while at the entrance to the wood. He felt danger prickling up his spine; the same feeling he got before a battle...or an ambush. The surrounding undergrowth was thick. The opening in the wood was like a tunnel into another land. Occasional sun beams penetrating the leaves mixed with the dark gloom of the heavy forest canopy. His barbarian instincts were analyzing: every branch, every drop of dew, every tree, every stirring leaf. His hungry blade was already out, unconsciously, ready to taste flesh, hide or fur. Power runes along the sharp heavy blade shimmered in the morning light.

Fafnir entered the sun-spotted gloom, all of his hunting instincts called to bear. He proceeded cautiously along the trail, quieter than most forest animals. He would look for the slightest sign, the slightest out of place leaf. The skills of one who hunts to survive guided him.

There! A fleeting glimpse, it was too big to be a dragonfly, definitely not a bird. It seemed to have arms. To the right, again! Yes, a small woman less than 2 feet tall with wings fluttering like a butterfly. She lingered in the air a moment before flying off deeper into the forest, away from the path.

The wizard's words rang in his head, "as deadly as a serpent's fang." She did not seem so, but one always heeds the warnings of wizards. He must catch her, the only possible cure.

Pursuit

For hours, Fafnir chased the pixie through the forest following a glimpse here, a flutter there, the scent of wild flowers which grow elsewhere. He was lightheaded and out of breath from the effort, but this was a race for life. She seemed to be slowing down, tiny footprints now with a longer second toe. Was she getting weary or was she laying a trap?

Suddenly, the brush erupted to Fafnir's right with thundering hooves. In his pursuit, he had neglected his own defense. He rolled to the left, momentarily forgetting his injuries. Thrusting his legs underneath as he tumbled, he regained his footing, ready to fight, his sword already finding his hand. A sabre-boar turned immediately to charge again with the strength and agility of a quadruped. Razor-sharp tusks at the head of a few hundred pounds of mindless carnivorous beast closed quickly upon him. Fafnir knew he had one move and one move only before his saga would end unpleasantly: food for a giant hog. The room for error was narrower than the room for death.

The rune blade had never failed him. He would ask much of its ancient steel now. As the boar charged full-force in attack, Fafnir dropped to the ground bracing the pommel of his sword into the ground like a pike. By chance, it found purchase against a stout tree root. Every sinew in his arms was tested as he held the blade firm against the charge while the creature attempted to trample him to death. The blade drove deep into the heart of the beast, splintering bone and rending muscle. The deathly squeal did not echo amongst the trees; nevertheless, it was as chill as the darkest banshee wail. "One more trip back to Valhalla empty-handed for the steel-cunted Valkyries today," he scoffed. Once again, death could wait a while longer.

The boar thrashed. It was still alive, but dying. In barbarian tradition, he drew out his keen-edged dagger, "Reliever," to slit its throat. One of hundreds of such times it has relieved someone or some creature of its life or its pain. On one knee, he loosed his mightiest barbarian roar to the sky as thanks to the gods and the spirit of the boar. Instantly resuming his pursuit, Fafnir ran deeper into the forest, all sense of location completely abandoned. The crime of leaving the boar and its bounty of food to rot could be paid in hell.

The pixie could not have gone far. He was wiping the blood off his blade as he ran. Was his sword cloth stained with the blood of the boar or his own blood? His side was bleeding again; his life leaking away. The pain in his arm was that of a hundred bee stings. No time, he must keep moving.

The Enchanted Pool

Ahead, he sees the fluttering wings of the pixie as she lands near a strangely serene pool amongst ferns and moss-covered stone. Fafnir approaches cautiously. The water is mirror flat, reflecting like polished silver. His barbarian senses once again cry out in warning,

magic.

The pixie looks his way, as if to make sure she is seen, and then slowly steps into the pool up to her ankles.

Before his eyes she transforms. Her wings shrink and disappear as she grows in size to a little more than 5 feet tall. Now appearing as a slight woman, lean and lighter than a barrel of potatoes, the creature of enchantment now seems to be an attainable prize, the contours of her shape stir the lusts within him.

Her flowing auburn hair and fair skin are as fine as the most pampered of princesses. Her oval face hints at her fairy blood with high cheek bones, delicate chin and narrow nose contrasting a well-rounded, full mouth. Her bare arms are slender, implying the strength of a child. Her legs show a hint of sculpted muscle and are revealed all the way to her hips. His lust stirs to higher levels at the further sight of her, her soft inviting flesh radiant as she stands in a patch of sun.

She is dressed in silken green leaves. They are arranged as if the scales of a fish, from her maiden mound to her perfectly proportioned breasts, tight and form-fitting. Her breasts are covered, but her cleavage is open and her chest otherwise bare. She has the chest of a fully-developed woman, no dainty child, breasts that he can hold in his hands.

As Fafnir approaches, she turns to look at him with the palest of blue eyes. He knows that look. It is the look of an animal deciding whether to run or stand to fight. Desperation and consideration ran their course behind those eyes. She lingers, frozen, as he approaches closer. There is another look in those eyes as well. It is the look of a predator and it is also the look of lust--the difference being as fine a line as the line between pleasure and pain.

In a soft voice as pleasant as the summer wind on a field of heather, the pixie speaks, "Will you ever stop pursuing me mighty boar-slayer?"

"No," answers Fafnir, his voice a boom of thunder compared to hers, finality in its tone.

"You would have me...despite the cost?"

"Yes."

"You know that I can do nothing about what I am?"

"I know."

Fafnir saw the slight slump of her resignation as a signal and surged forward like a lion while enveloping her small frame in his bulging arms. Their mouths find each other as they collapse to the ground.

He lifts up over her using his good arm to inspect his panting prize as sharp stabs of pain from his mortal wound remind him that he is in fact a dying man.

He pulls his sword belt and loincloth free and lays them within reach. Only his pouch with its shoulder strap, boots and bracers remain. His hairless muscled chest, marked with scars, shades her from the sun. The pixie makes no attempt to escape, recognizing fate in the making, his intentions clearly evident. His proportionate cock is already as rigid as his rune sword. A new weapon, unsheathed, to be guided by his might.

He feels the soft curves of her body. The leaves encasing her are finer than Keshan silk. He can feel her erect nipples underneath the greenery. His calloused hands on her body are as strong as a blacksmith's and as skilled as a woodcarver's.

Carefully peeling away one of the leaves, he exposes her left breast. They are not the breasts of some forest creature, but real and human and soft and round and warm, slightly pink with a blush of arousal. Her aureoles are small and faint, but her nipples are budding hard and erect. Her body betrays her desire. She did not run away when she could, a willing victim of his animal desires--or perhaps she has chosen fight over flight? Leaf after leaf quickly falls as he exposes her whole chest and her two handfuls of delight. He can feel her heart beating quickly, like a captured hare, while her chest rises and falls with increasingly rapid breaths.

Fafnir can wait no longer. He reaches down lower. A single leaf is all that is in his way. He peels it back revealing her needy nymph parts. The leaf is wet with her lust, her pouting nether lips swollen in anticipation and glistening with moist desire. Fafnir tests the hardness of her clit sending waves of pleasure through her. He can see the reflection of those waves as ripples of pleasure in her face. She arches her back involuntarily at the sensation and gasps in reflex. Yes, her body betrays her true need to give herself to him, undeniable words written by her flesh. She is ready to be penetrated.

The remaining leaves fall away on their own as Fafnir thrusts into her, sheathing his weapon into hers for the duel of mutual pleasure. The soft walls of her love nest stretch tight to match his girth. Does her gasp show strain in accommodating him or her pleasure in doing so? He cares not which.

He fucks for his life, or perhaps to end it in bliss, as his wound stains her side with blood. In the tales of legend, the power of a pixie's love can cure all ills. Each thrust seems to fill him with greater strength. Can the legends be true? Her cure flows up his cock into his body like the warmth of a fire, more with each thrust. The pain from his damaged flesh is second in his thoughts to the pure passion of their enchanted embrace. A passion that consumes him as a fire consumes tinder. His pain is fading away, but the euphoria of the poison remains.

Like the distant call of spring in winter, Fafnir remembers the warnings of the wizard, "More deadly than a hundred Centurions." Yet he would gladly face those hundred Centurions to win her. The peril he truly faces is now clear before him. He remembers the wizard's instructions. With his seed, the pixie would earn his life maybe also his soul. His manly essence would be drawn into the insatiable depths of her mystic lust. He would be swallowed by her sorcerous void of need, forever. He could feel the dark magic of her curse now exposed. He knew that finding her had been way too easy, too good to be true.

The hunter in him could feel her mournful loneliness as easily as he could feel the fear of a beast being chased. She had a burden beyond bearing, to know that no man could resist her charms, yet also to know that if he did not then he would be consumed by her curse. Regardless of her plight, now that the moment to satisfy her lust was here, she was determined. She

wanted

to climax desperately. Fafnir could tell that she was trying, trying for him as well as herself. She sought the one man that would be able to outlast her, the one man that could force her to come after all these years. She could not help her nature. She could not help that no man could push her to the pleasure she craved so dearly even if it meant his own life.

Fafnir could feel the first pressures of seed building up inside him. His own early fluids were already mingling with hers. Soon, his lust would be too great to hold back. The pixie under him had her arms wrapped tightly around him in affectionate embrace. Her head against his chest feeling his smooth weathered hide with her cheek. He made to rise and decouple from her. He would try again for her cure. This time it was too late. She would take longer to achieve release than he would. The wizard warned that her cure would be bestowed only when she was in the throes of her own passion.

Fafnir felt her arms hold fast around him, preventing him from decoupling. She saw his intention in an instant. With an inhuman strength, a magical strength, she instantly wrapped her legs around him as well, clinging to him and his cock. He could no better pry her off of him than iron bands. Despite binding herself to him, she continued to work his cock. The pleasure was beyond his imagining. She milked his cock with her sweet sheath as his last moments of resistance started to pass.

The wizard's words cut though his mind like a knife. The fog of his lust cleared for a moment, "You must tame her." Yes, that was what she truly desires. He knew what to do. He rolled over so that the pixie was on top. She was distracted and surprised by the movement, but quickly resumed her ministrations. She did not seem deterred by the position. Her arms and legs pinned under him now made them prisoners of each other. The soft leaves and earth of the forest floor both bed and bondage. His arms holding her tight. In a few moments, she realized what had happened and that she was now held, but her tentative struggles were useless.

The pixie squealed as Fafnir's mighty hand came down on her bare ass. The sound from his slap resounded like a thunderclap in the forest. Without pause or mercy, he smacks her other cheek with his left hand. The pain in his arm is less, but the blow still hurt him more than it had hurt her. It helped Fafnir regain his composure. He had a few more moments before he would fill her with his come and ejaculate his life.

At the pain, the pixie only increased her movements. His slaps seem to fuel her passion. The wizard was right. He

must

tame her. Fafnir unleashed a frenzy of spanking. Alternating sides, each arm holding or striking, he works up and down every inch of her tight round bottom. Soon her soft cries turn into groans of pleasure then a moan like an animal in heat. Looking down towards her face, Fafnir finds her looking back into his eyes. Tears welled in the corners of those pale blue eyes. Tears of pain? Tears of pleasure? No...an emotion rare in his life, tears of joy! The pixie wants to be tamed. She wants her curse to end. She wants to give herself. Helpless to fulfill her own needs, she needs him to break her. He knows it.

With each strike, Fafnir fuels his own lust as well driving her into his impaling cock. However, the exertions help to distract him just enough. His hard shaft is winning the duel of their coupling. Now

she

tries to escape in earnest, struggling desperately; the pain is getting to her. It is Fafnir's turn to hold her with the iron bands of

his

arms. She could escape no more than he could. She is not broken, but she is no longer the one in control.

There! That was the sign. The first contractions felt by his member told him. She would come soon. Her body is already responding, nearing the point of no return. She tries to lean back in her passion. Fafnir knows that it will take more pain to break her, more punishment. He releases her arms. She is free to rise up, but her legs are still trapped mercilessly underneath him. She cannot escape as he continues to slap her while she feeds off the pain.

The poison is strong. Fafnir is feeling fainter as death approaches. His exertions have cost much of his precious remaining strength. The euphoria is gone leaving him with a spinning, aching head. He blindly continues punishing the pixie knowing it is his one last chance. With a force of will only available to a one who has lived a life filled with physical adversity, he renews his efforts. Fafnir grabs her hair and holds her with one arm while he slaps her breasts and face with the other. The harsh combination seems to finally be enough. The pixie can take no more. He slaps her ass again with all his might, sending her over the edge for good.

His own release is deferred as the pixie's sheath clamps down on his member harshly, in spasm or by intention, he did not know which. Fafnir feels her magic flow through his body like a slow wave of pure energy. She breaks eye contact with him and tilts her head back to the sky to cry out in abandon. Such a moan of pure lust and enjoyment Fafnir has never heard. It was the moan of a mighty beast and not that of the small woman riding his cock like a galloping horse. The moan went on and on as if years, perhaps decades or centuries, of trapped energy and frustration were being untapped and poured out in a guttural expression of pure bliss.

Freedom Earned