The Erotology of the Sylph

The Monster Hunters Association is the creation of Jonathan Richards, originally appearing in the Monster Ecology stories in TSR's Dragon Magazine. Sorry again, Mr. Richards. I never thought I would be writing another one of these, but you have to follow your muse. And sometimes one's muse is an unfortunate sylph.

This is a piece of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons fanfic, and follows from the previous story, The Erotology of the Nymph.

Thank you to Steven Jackson for beta reading and suggestions.

*****

"Sylphs are beautiful, humanoid women with wings like dragonflies. (...) Aerial monsters occasionally feed on them, but they are in greater danger from evil humanoid males who attempt to capture them for dark purposes."

-Monstrous Manual (1995)

*****

Zantoullious the Gangly groaned and cricked his neck, adjusting himself on the gently undulating

carpet of flying

that was floating steadily above scrubby, alpine mountain valleys. He pulled his somewhat dirty grey robes tighter around himself. It was cold up here. The problem with mountains was that they were so high.

At least it was only the two of them on this particular Monster Hunt. President Dreelix's carpet technically had room for four, but that was rarely a pleasant experience. Zantoullious had spent many hours trying to get comfortable on the mat while not accidentally elbowing Lady Ablasta or kicking their honored club president. Two riders was much more comfortable... and the bony Zantoullious and three-hundred pound Grindle the Coin-Counter averaged out to about two average-sized humans.

"You okay back there?" Grindle called behind him, as he flew the carpet. Much like a seal in arctic waters, he seemed unbothered by the cold.

"I'm fine," Zantoullious responded, wearily. He once again raised their

gem of seeing

to his eye and squinted through it. It had been made from a ruby, and other than giving the endless shrubs and mountain goats a pinkish tone, it had done them absolutely no good whatsoever so far.

"Actually," he admitted, "let's land. I need a break." Grindle, agreeable by nature, made no objection, but brought the carpet down to smooth landing on a... flat part that jutted out a bit. Whatever that was called. Zantoullious had an extensive vocabulary related to wizardry, alchemy, and enchanting, and Grindle's mind was a veritable encyclopedia of up-to-date economic data, but neither of them were... mountainologists. Or whatever.

Zantoullious brooded while Grindle laid out his

portable hole

, extracted a roast chicken and a skein of wine, and tucked in.

"No sign, eh?" Grindle asked, delicately wiping his mouth with one sleeve of his stained, sweaty wizard's robe.

"I would have told you if there had been," Zantoullious answered, peevishly. They were here to follow up on reports that had trickled in to the Monster Hunters Association that a sylph had been spotted in the area - more than once, in fact. When they had spent the previous night in the nearest city, a round of drinks had been more than enough to get every trader and trapper in the area talking about it. Even after ruling out the unlikely claims (a one-toothed prospector had insisted that he'd been invited to spend the night with a cabal of a dozen beautiful sylphs, who showered him with every pleasure before vanishing in the middle of the night and stealing one of his boots), there were numerous corroborations that yes, a sylph often foraged in this area. One with long blue hair.

You would think that if crusty fur-traders on foot could regularly spot a sylph, two wizards flying in the sky with magical detection equipment would have no trouble, but so far it had been an exercise in frustration. When Zantoullious had suggested this venture, it had sounded so reasonable - simply go grab a flighty, attractive nonhuman and bring her back for... careful academic study, and the eventual economic benefit of the Association. It would surely be elucidating to compare a sylph, up close and personal, to Azurielle the Nymph, the erstwhile enemy of the association whom President Dreelix had recently turned into a near-mindless asset. Sages had long speculated that the two species were related, after all. There had to be

some

explanation for why so many species of monster resembled distinctly fuckable elven women.

Of course, the fact that Azurielle

was

such an asset (Zantoullious spent a pleasant moment contemplating her near-platonic ideal of an ass) was part of their problem. When Dreelix had captured her, it had initially been with the intent of selling her for a king's ransom, to fill the coffers of himself and the Association. However, when it came right down to it, none of the officers were eager to take such a step. Better to acquire some merchandise that they were less... personally attached to.

"Well, it's only natural that we'd be having some trouble," Grindle soothed, philosophically. "We usually hunt animal monsters, or the occasional vegetable, like that shambling mound. Elementals are new." (1).

Zantoullious muttered agreement, and kicked a rock off the ledge in frustration. How the hell did you go about finding a single, human-sized creature known to roam widely, that could fly and turn

invisible

at will?

Not for the first time, Zantoullious wished that they had more support - for instance, from Spontayne the Studious, the most powerful wizard in their organization, or even Willowquisp the Zoophile, who would surely have dredged up far more information about the sylph's behavior, habitat, and probably bowel movements than he had. But those two, along with Buntleby of the Western Grove and his former adventuring buddy Rhionda the Swordmistress, represented the... less

practical

faction in the Association. If they knew what the group's leadership had been up to lately, they would surely object strenuously. Zantoullious shuddered to think of what mighty spells Spontayne might use to register his objection. Hence the need to keep this expedition small and on the down-low.

Just as he was internally bemoaning their situation, Grindle pointed out with one meaty hand. "Look over there."

On the other side of the valley below them, navigating a steep natural trail on the next mountain over, was a stocky figure. They trudged slowly, but steadily and confidently.

"Who do you think it is?" Grindle wondered. "You'd have to be crazy to hike this deep in the mountains, alone, on foot."

"Not even a mule," Zantoullious agreed. "They can't be carrying many supplies."

"And look! See the sun flash off them? I think they're wearing metal."

The two arcane colleagues exchanged a look. Metal armor, able to summon food and water at will, probably certifiably insane - all the tell-tale signs of an adventuring cleric.

Zantoullious made a decision. "Let's go ask if they've seen anything."

"Are you sure?" Grindle asked, beginning the multi-step process of rising to his feet. "We don't even know what god they worship."

"Grindle, I refuse to spend one more minute looking through that cursed gem at edelweiss, and since Dreelix won't trust me with the command words for the carpet, it's not like you can take a turn. We may as well see if that priest knows anything."

Soon they were pulling up carefully alongside the traveler in mid-air. Grindle was a much better pilot than Dreelix - Zantoullious wondered if they could find more excuses to leave their president behind in the future. The cleric... if there had been any doubt, the ornate war mace strapped to their belt dispelled it... stopped and turned to face them. They wore a hooded grey robe over chain mail featuring a bloody axe, a symbol that Zantoullious did not recognize.

"Hello there, stranger!" Zantoullious waved, putting in more friendliness and cheer than was natural for him. "We mean you no harm, and would simply like to inquire about your travels. Perhaps we could give you a lift?"

The stranger pulled back their hood, revealing a reddish face with a blue snout, sharp teeth, and gleaming yellow eyes.

"I'll take that offer," the hobgoblin said in fluent Common, in a guttural voice. It promptly stepped on to the carpet and sat cross-legged next to the stunned Zantoullious. They could smell the musky scent of its fur, and at this distance it was clear that the creature was at least six-and-a-half feet tall, and all muscle. Hobgoblins were a warlike humanoid species often at odds with humans and their demihuman allies. Other than ones temporarily called by one of Ablasta's

monster summoning

spells, Zantoullious had never met one in person.

The three sat on the carpet for a moment, awkwardly.

"I'm headed southeast," the hobgoblin prompted, and Grindle slowly elevated the carpet and flew them between the looming peaks surrounding them.

"Now then," the hobgoblin said casually, after they were well underway, "what are you hoping to get from me?"

Zantoullious tried to gather himself. "Er... we were wondering if, in traversing these mountains, you might have, uh, seen any signs of any, er, human-esque beings with, you know, large butterfly-looking wings? Perhaps gathering berries or herbs or some such?"

The hobgoblin chuckled, gratingly but with apparent genuine humor. "Trying to bag a sylph, are you?"

"Well, we're scholars, you know," Zantoullious hedged. "We're simply trying to learn more about the lesser-known and elusive creatures that inhabit the less-illuminated corners of..."

"Yeah, we're hunting sylphs," Grindle affirmed. Zantoullious shot him a glare, and he shrugged.

The hobgoblin scratched his chin. "And you're just... flying around looking for one? Hoping you see it before it sees you? And then what?"

"Well," said Zantoullious. "Er, if we can get within range, we came prepared with

hold monster

spells, or if she didn't notice us, we would attempt to follow her back to her lair and, er..."

The hobgoblin shook his wide, dusky head. "Yeah, right. Sylphs are highly magic resistant, and in a mid-air chase she'd lose you faster than you can roast a halfling. Let me down over there." Grindle automatically obeyed the command of the humanoid cleric, depositing him on a rough ledge near the bottom of one of the innumerable alpine valleys.

"Well," the hobgoblin said, stepping off the carpet, "you saved me the rest of the day of travel, so I'll give you some useful advice." Despite themselves, Zantoullious and Grindle leaned forward in anticipation. "You're both ignorant morons who couldn't enslave a hogtied elven whore. Give up." It started to turn away, in a gesture of obvious contempt.

Zantoullious felt the weight of that derision, and it stung. He had spent much of his life buried in books, achieving a not-inconsiderable amount of arcane might... and then found that somehow, that earned him surprisingly little respect from anybody. Fundamentally a coward, he didn't want to pick a fight with this self-assured hunk of muscle and blessings, but at least he could get in the last word. "We're not

amateurs

," he called at the hobgoblin. "We've subdued a

nymph

, you know." He spoke with confidence, despite how far he was stretching the definition of 'we'.

The hobgoblin turned back with a sneer. "You must be mistaken. A dryad, maybe."

"No, it's true," Grindle piped up. "A nymph. Safe to look at, can't escape, all nice and convenient."

The hobgoblin gave them an appraising look and fiddled with a ring on his left hand, before apparently deciding that they were too dumb to lie. (2) "You can look at her? How?"

Zantoullious swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing. "Perhaps we can make a deal? We'll tell you about the nymph, and you tell us everything you know about sylphs."

"Everything I know, eh?" The hobgoblin barked out another short laugh, and thought for a moment. "Sure, why not. Walk with me."

*****

The hobgoblin ("you can call me Rakar," he informed them, in a tone that made it clear that was not actually his name) led them to a sort of weathered rocky gazebo in the middle of the valley - clearly little-used but sufficient to provide shade and shelter, and the only sign of habitation that they had seen all morning. Rakar sat himself down on one of four rough stone stools positioned around the outside of the structure, while the two Monster Hunters claimed others and explained Dreelix's successful nymph-neutralizing stratagem and its results.

The hobgoblin seemed to find it all quite amusing, pressing for details about the various ways in which Azurielle had been abused. Zantoullious quickly turned red and muttering, but Grindle, adaptable to the social situation as always, was happy to take the lead.

"...and then she sees the hell hound and she makes this sound like..." The treasurer attempted to emulate the particular whine of fear. "But you know, the hound was surprisingly adept at positioning her. Of course, it helped that she had the strength of a baby, but still. Very deft at pushing her tits down, ass up and holding her there. We didn't have to help at all." And so on.

When he was finished, Rakar chuckled. "You're a good storyteller, Grindle. And I have to admit, I've learned some things. A cursed robe, deliberately damaging their beauty... who would have thought?" Zantoullious was suddenly conscious that by sharing their proprietary methods, they might have just sealed the fate of more than one fantastic avatar of natural beauty.

But nothing to be done about that now. Rakar was continuing. "Now let me return the favor and teach you a bit about sylphs. For example, here's one.

Cunt

."

For a second, Zantoullious thought that the cleric had simply barked out a swear for some reason, but no. To his astonishment, something appeared in the air next to Rakar. The first thing the wizard noticed were the enormous butterfly wings, about four and a half feet long, tinted green but so translucent as to be almost invisible. They jutted out in almost parallel directions, bound together at the base by a tight, rough rope. And attached to those wings...

Unfolding out of a fetal position was a slight, slender woman, about the same height as each of her wings. She had short purplish hair that seemed to rise upward, elfin features, and wide, bright eyes that trained on Rakar's face with desperate attention. Her pale skin was heavily tattooed with goblin runes that Zantoullious could not read, but also symbols that he readily got the gist of, such as the arrows pointing upward from her inner thighs to her tiny, clean snatch, or the bulls-eyes around nipples... although those particular ones were hard to see clearly, because she was wearing a sort of top consisting of more rough rope above and below her breasts, with lengths of twisted wires running between them to dig, clearly painfully, into the bulging flesh of those red, scratched-up sacks. Her hands were encased in fingerless black leather gloves, and a gag of a similar material was secured around the back of her head. Finally, around her neck was thick collar of the same Hobgoblinish black leather, with a heavy metal ring hanging off of it.

Rakar casually yanked the air next to the slyph, this action somehow pulling her down to the ground. Then he unhooked the gag, drawing it forth and revealing that it had been holding a long, polished wooden phallus deep in place. The creature's throat visibly deflated, and her whole body spasmed for a long moment (3) as Rakar did so.

"Thank you!" she gasped out with passionate sincerity. In response, Rakar delivered a blow to the size of her head with the full force of his meaty fist. It left a vicious red pre-bruise on her cheek and sent her light body crashing to the stone ground, tears leaking from her slightly slanted, almond-shaped eyes. While she was dazed, Rakar unbelted his sturdy leather trousers, pulled out an equally lengthy blood-red dick, and then lifted the slyph, who appeared to be completely weightless, positioning her on her back in the air with her head hanging backwards. Then once he was properly lined up, he rammed his cock balls-deep in her tiny throat, which bulged just as widely, if not more, than it had when housing the gag. The sylph gurgled, as the hobgoblin casually began jerking her head, and her entire weightless body, back and forth on his manhood in an act of slow masturbation.

"Where did

she

come from?" Zantoullious demanded, open-mouthed. This was not the first time an enslaved, gorgeous nonhuman woman had been suddenly presented to him, but it was a difficult thing to keep blasé about.

"She's been with me the whole time, of course," the hobgoblin shrugged. "Her collar is tied to my waist by invisible rope made from her own hair. Very securely, obviously." (4)

"She's been flying after you?"

"Hah. Flying? Not exactly. This whore will never use her wings. But sylph wings are only for moving horizontally - they

levitate

naturally, so it's not hard to pull them around behind you. Good exercise, really."

He indicated the black leather encasements around the sylph's hands.

"Sylphs are natural magic-users, but they still need to use their hands to cast. The gloves prevent that, and hands are wasted on fuckholes anyway. The gag is mostly to keep her mouth-cunt trained to be filled at all times; she knows better than to speak without permission."

"And what's the purpose of the, er, brassiere bit?" Grindle asked.

"...That keeps her tits in constant pain." Rakar looked slightly pained himself from the stupidity of that question. (5)

"Wait, wait." Zantoullious held up his hands, flustered. "Let's back up. You've ALREADY captured a sylph."

"Sure." Rakar smiled down at his slave. "My particular order of priests has been doing it for generations. This one's my personal property. Her name is Vrolvrenuc, but since you humans would mangle the pronunciation and the meaning doesn't translate (6), you can call her Cumdump. I happen to be up here in the mountains to grab another sylph, for the glory of Maglubiyet. And personal profit, of course."

"Maglubiyet?" Zantoullious furrowed his brow. The name of the moderately-feared god of goblins and hobgoblins was familiar, but... "Don't you goblinoids have a god specifically of, er, slavery and oppression? Ker... kor..."

"Khurgorbaeyag, yes. But he's an underling to Maglubiyet. It's all well and good for Khurhorbaeyag's clerics to do MOST of the slaving, but it's a divine imperative that Maglubiyet's followers take the

best

slaves, so as to reinforce the hierarchy." Rakar intoned the word

hierarchy

with just as much reverence, or more, than he gave to the names of his gods.

"And sylphs are top-of-the-line, eh?" Grindle asked, eyeing the floating, throat-fucked morsel hungrily.

Rakar grinned. "Try her out yourself."

Grindle didn't have to be invited twice. Rising and casting off his robes and trousers, he pulled the sylph's legs apart with his muscular arms, muttered a

cantrip

of lubrication (one of the first goals of the average teenage wizard's apprentice), and positioned his rapidly-thickening cock at the entrance to her pussy. The size discrepancy between the two bulky men and their tiny fleshlight was stark, and Zantoullious couldn't help but stare in fascination. The sylph's eyes visibly widened, too, as Grindle slammed forward to fill her most feminine orifice. A pained grunt came out from her cock-filled throat.

Grindle's hands fumbled around the sylph, trying to figure out how to most efficiently hold a partner unencumbered by gravity. He settled on wrapping one meaty hand around the base of her wings, just over the rope, and the other on her left hip to keep her steady. Between the two new friends, they found a rhythm that jerked the poor thing back and forth between their proportionately large phalluses. It wasn't long before they both twitched and released their cum into the creature; in Rakar's case, directly down her throat into her stomach. She must have been well-trained, though, because when the hobgoblin pulled her off and wiped the remaining seed off on her face, she barely coughed. She simply took a shuddering breath with a sigh of pleasure and immediately turned to begin licking Grindle's tangled, dirty, and surely odious genital area clean.