The Woods Behind Cascadia Home

CHAPTER-1:

Merry, My Love

Ziffy was making it hard for Tom to get dressed as she grabbed at his clothing as to strip him naked, once again. She even snatched up his shirt, and made him chase her to get it back.

"C'mon, Ziffy," he scolded her, playfully, "give it!"

"I'm a nymph... we're mischievous... it's what we do," she told him, as she surrendered the garment, and shot him a seductive smile.

He so wanted to spend the night with her, but dark was approaching, it would be getting cold soon, and he was not prepared to go camping—as it were. Perhaps he would go into town, tomorrow, and get a tent, sleeping-bag, and so forth, so he could spend the night with Ziffy whenever he felt like doing so. And as he pulled up his pants, he informed her of his plans to purchase the those items, asking her if she wanted anything... like clothes, he thought.

"Most fae don't wear clothes," she informed him, as he remembered that she could read his mind, "Besides, you don't have to go to that trouble just for me," she admitted, humbly.

"Gee, I could spend all day with my fellow-fogies, or by myself,

or

," he over-enunciated, pausing for dramatic effect, "I could come out here and spend time, make-love to, a beautiful, sexy, magical girl...

hmmm...

decisions-decisions..."

Ziffy giggled, and blushed, at his sideways compliment, and then made an unexpected admission, "You should look under your cottage. There's a hidden trap-door in your bedroom, under the wardrobe. You might find some surprises down there!"

"What are you talking about," he asked, suddenly stopping, and wondering how many secrets the old Roslov Estate actually held.

"Yuri had your cottage especially built for his butler, Francis Macy—one of the few he shared his secrets with," she began, "and... someone else..."

"Who," he started to ask, but was cut-off by Ziffy placing a finger over his lips.

"Hush, Thomas," she said, gently, "Enough questions. We have to get you home, now."

The nymph led him back to the edge of the forest as he followed her, all the while, admiring her naked form as they progressed. And, honestly, he couldn't wait to find out what (or whom) was beneath his cottage. But he was getting very hungry, the pangs were becoming pronounced. Perhaps he'd have dinner first, or maybe just a snack, before trying to muscle that wardrobe out of the way.

"Oh, you don't have to 'muscle' it," she turned, and told him, as he just started to see Cascadia Home through the trees, "All you have to do is knock on the door, twice, and say, 'Merry, my love.'" And a half-hour later, after a microwaved pot-pie, and had a glass of wine, he did so, and it worked.

The wardrobe slid silently to the side, not even making a scraping sound as it moved over the hardwood floor, revealing the trap-door Ziffy had promised. He opened it. A warm, orange, flickering glow, as if from a kerosene lantern, lit the set of stairs leading beneath the cottage. However, Tom stood in place, unsure of taking that first step. After all, the day had been crazy enough, already! And he couldn't even begin to imagine what was on the other side of that staircase. But the mystery of it all overcame his fear and apprehension, and he took that first step.

***

At the bottom of the stairs, Tom found himself in what looked like a very comfortable parlor, or sitting-room. It was very old fashioned in its appointments, with a lounge, a couple of armchairs, a large bookshelf laden with antique hardbacks that reminded him of a lawyer's office, and a beverage service in the center of the room. The beverage service had an ornate decanter (of what was obviously crystal, and not just glass), filled with a brown-colored liquor, and several (likewise, crystal) tumblers surrounding it. And as he suspected, the room with lit with kerosene lanterns, but set in gilded sconces on the walls, rather than the more common type that were meant set on table-tops.

"You are welcome to pour yourself a bourbon," a tiny voice invited him, from the shadows of a dark corner of the room, "It's from a distiller that only works in small batches... very smooth, like silk," the voice informed him, "It comes on with a lot of charred-oak, but finishes with hints of hazelnut and clove..."

The voice was feminine, most definitely, he thought. And when he tracked the source, he saw the silhouette of a female form, sunk into the shadows in that corner of the room, that had to be fully matured judging by the swell and curves, yet no more than four-feet-tall. The height was hardly that of an eight-year-old! A "little" person, he pondered, like that guy on that fantasy TV show?..

"Ziffy told me you might be showing up, tonight," the squeaky, little voice persisted, "we have a... well.. 'connection,' you might call it," the shadowed form admitted to him. And there was a pause, a moment of deafening silence that seemed to go on far longer than it actually did, before it spoke again, "Please, pour yourself a drink, have a seat, and let us talk for a bit. Ziffy tells me you're really a nice person!"

"Is she talking to you, now," Tom queried, his voice unsteady, and unsure—as if today could get any more bizarre, he mused to himself.

"Yes," the voice responded, flatly, "She's hiding at the edge of the forest, right now, looking at the cottage. And she says to you, 'I guess that depends on what you define as

bizarre...

'"

Tom chuckled at the nymph's retort, and moved to the beverage-service to pour himself a couple of fingers of the bourbon. He then took a seat in an armchair opposite the shadowy form, and introduced himself, "I'm Tom, Thomas Alden, and you are?.."

Tom let the question trail off.

"I know," she replied, "Ziffy told me. And I'm Merry, Anne-Marie Roslov..."

"As in Yuri Roslov?"

"Sure, he's my papa," she told him, quite cheerfully. But then she amended in a more somber tone, "Well... was..."

With this, she stepped into the light, and Tom's eyes widened at the visage before him!

First, Merry's complexion was mottled splotches of peach and olive-green. Next, her hair (that was shaved to the scalp around her right ear) was magenta, and streaked with a dishwater-blonde. And, finally, her ears were not only pointed, but protruded greatly from the sides of her head, the one on the left, not matching the one on the right. She wore a pair of cut-off "daisy-duke" style denim-shorts, and a white tank-top (once again) cut-off just below her modest bust, revealing a taut little tummy.

"I know," she began, seeing his shocked expression, and sounding somewhat chagrined, "I'm not all tits, hips, and ass, like a regular goblin-girl... But that's because I'm half-human. So, I'm taller," she added, as a compensatory remark.

"No, Merry, you're a beautiful girl," Tom offered, as he did find her quite attractive, just in a very different and exotic way, "It's just that I've never met a goblin, before!"

"Half-Goblin," she corrected him, "And thank you... Francis always thought I was beautiful, too! And so did Papa! They told me so, all the time..."

"Well, they were right," he confirmed, as he turned on the charm, and then took a sip of the whiskey. He was going to need it, as quite to his astonishment, he felt a stir in his loins. It was unbelievable to him. He had already fucked his dick raw today, and, still, his swelling cock wanted more! What was it about this place, about these girls, he asked himself. And then, Ziffy's voice was in his head, saying, "Yes, she wants to fuck you, fool! So, don't waste your time with honeyed-words, and sly seduction."

"Yes, you are very beautiful, Merry," Tom said, as he stood, and languidly moved toward her. She seemed to shrink a little at his boldness, but did not step away from him. And when he reached her, he place a gentle hand on her shoulder, saying, "I'm glad you're here, and your welcome, upstairs, anytime you want. You don't have to stay cooped-up down here..."

With this, Merry fell into him, embracing him as if a child seeking comfort in the security of a parent, and asked, "Are you gonna' take care of me, now, Thomas?"

"You bet, Merry," he assured her, as he began to stroke her magenta-blonde hair.

"Are we gonna' make-love, now," she asked, in a soft, innocent tone, and then continued, "Are you gonna' be my husband? Francis was my husband, before... but, then, he died," she concluded, her tone at this revelation had gone back to that a somber one—like when she had spoke of her father.

She had no one, Tom realized. And although this was more than overwhelming: myth becomes reality, faeries in the forest, a goblin-bride... his heart melted, and he felt a conspicuous fondness welling inside him for Merry.

"Of course I will, Merry," he told her, as he continued to stroke her soft hair, and found that these were his most honest words in a long while. However, he reckoned, that her definition of "husband" was some one that would take care of her physically, emotionally, and sexually—and not the more legal and traditional sense of the word. So, he scooped her up in his arms, headed to the stairs, and up into his bedroom. He set her down on his bed, gently.

"Oh, thank you, Thomas," she told him, the amount of gratitude in her voice bordered on the melodramatic, "It's been so long since I've know the love of a man. And I promise I'll be a good wife: respectful, dutiful, obedient," she trailed-off, as if trying to think of more words to add. And Tom was somewhat taken aback by her list. But then again, he thought, her first husband had probably died about a hundred-years ago, or so, and she most likely never caught wind of the Civil Rights and Women's Liberation movements of the '60 and '70's. An

old-fashioned

girl, he mused to himself, as he struggled with his sense of honor and dignity, as to tell her that in modern society, women were no longer so subservient to their husbands' anymore.

Down with the patriarchy!..

the slogan rang in his head, and he had to stifle a chuckle.

She seem to be trapped, culturally and socially, in the early 20th-century—a living anachronism. And he decided, right then, he would bring her up to date on the subject of modern culture and society, but just a little bit at a time. He'd ease her into it, give her a chance to get acclimated to more modern notions of what a "wife" was.

***

Merry took off her top, exposing her ripe, yet modest-sized, breast to him. At this, Tom felt the swelling in his nethers go from gradual to instant, as his burgeoning manhood begged to be free from undergarments and trousers, and he hurriedly rushed to accommodate his rising lust. She, in turn, but slowly, work the button and zipper of her denim shorts, sliding them down her svelte legs, and revealing her hairless mound that was the color of a ripe olive.

Much like Ziffy's had been, he could see that her pussy was already sopping-wet, and the inner lips were flushed-and-swollen in mere anticipation of deeds-to-come, when she had brazenly splayed her legs wide in salacious invitation.

Now, completely nude, he knelt by the side of the bed, and began to kiss and nibble his way up her thighs. She gasped, at first, and then started into a monotone of pleasure-filled moans as he grew close-and-closer to her awaiting sex. And when he had made it there, and his tongue raked along the length of her tiny slit, she squealed with delight, "Oh! Yes!.. feels so good!"

Emboldened by her words, Tom began to voraciously work her sweet box. His lips and tongue teased, lapped, and sucked at her throbbing (surprisingly large) clit. And it was not but a few moments before Merry small frame began to buck and spasm under his oral endeavors.

It was, once again, the same way with Ziffy, in how Merry was so easily brought to orgasm. And as he would come to find out over time, most all of them were like this—to given degrees. But as he came to know them (the elves, orcs, nymphs, pixies, dryads, goblins...), that there females were not all that dissimilar from human ones, actually. For Tom had discovered, in all of his numerous romances of years past, that women are more mentally and emotionally stimulated than men, and these magical creatures were very, very passionate! So, as time would tell, it came to made sense to him.

"No more, Thomas," Merry cried out, and he immediately stopped his workings, "I cannot take any more. Please, put it inside me, now!"

Tom got to his feet, and moved onto the bed, as Merry turned onto her hands and knees, perching her shapely, green rump shamelessly high as to accept his long awaited invasion. To which, he placed it at her opening, and slowly, gently pushed into her slick depths.

"Oh, God," she gasped, as he entered into her, and, "YES," she groaned, as he withdrew, and slowly pushed back inside. At this, Tom firmly gripped the small, fleshy globes of her plump ass as he languidly began to thrust, to-and-fro, into her unbelievably taut love-canal. Her pussy was so tight that it was almost painful to him!.. almost...

Tom's pace gradually began to pick-up until he was hammering, relentlessly, deep into her constrictive, little cunt. She wailed her ecstasy, cumming again-and-again, as his cock-head pummeled her cervix. She was gushing her juices all over his groin, that continued to spurt in a seemingly, never-ending torrent. Until, finally, she collapsed forward, prone on the bed, quaking, shuddering, groaning, as her pussy continued to squirt from her loins, soaking his mattress.

Tom looked down at her twitching ass, and then his glistening cock, that pulsated as if begging for more. And consumed with lust, he took hold of the base of his shaft, and aimed it at her taut fuck-tunnel. But, instead, and quite accidentally, his turgid crown had found her anus, and began to open the entrance to her bowels.

Her legs had gone together, and he really couldn't see her pussy. He was just relying previous experience to find his mark. Besides, the "prone-bone" position, with her legs together, and his straddling hers, was his favorite!

Merry's eye went wide as she realized what was happening, and she yelped as she felt his swollen tip penetrate into her rectum. But instead of launching out from underneath him, and wailing in pain, she arched her back, thrusting her hips toward him, pushing his sodomistic invasion even deeper.

She loved buggery—as Francis called the act. However, in the beginning, she was uncertain about such things when her former husband first introduced the idea. This was despite the fact that she always liked putting a finger "in there" when she would masturbate. It was just the thought of putting something so

big

in there that made her a bit hesitant. But Francis was patient and gentle (as he always was), easing her into it. It took a couple of weeks of trial-and-error, she remembered. But, before she knew it, she was being "properly buggered" most every time they would have sex.

"Deeeeeperrr... Thomassss," she hissed, sounding most feral, as he realized that he didn't have his dick in her pussy, but, rather... up her ass!

He almost pulled-out, ready to fire a salvo of apologies for missing his target. However, judging by her reaction, he didn't hit "the-wrong-hole" at all... His cock was exactly where she wanted it, so he went with it. Of course, he had done this many times before. And while he enjoyed it, didn't have any particular fetish for the act. He had just found that some women didn't like it, some would do it just to please, some really liked it, and there was a few that demanded it! He reckoned, at his point, that Merry fell into the last category on the list.

Tom began to pump furiously at Merry's asshole, as she bellowed and brayed at his unnatural workings. He feared that someone might hear her ecstatic cries echo out from his cottage. But, then, he though that some random-passer-by would probably just think it was one of the biddies from Cascadia Home getting ruthlessly butt-fucked, and not a little, green half-goblin.

Merry's hips came up to meet his every thrust, taking as much of him into her as she could, and he could hold back, no longer. He could feel the gyration of her hand working her clit as her petite body quaked in perpetual orgasm, and the gushing of her juices soaking his balls. It was all-too-much for him...

Tom's hot jism flooded her bowls, as he wailed his release. And this only seemed to cause her to cum harder as his goblin-bride screeched and bucked beneath him. Then, finally, he collapsed on top of her, exhausted. And after a few seconds of trying to catch his breath, he rolled off of her, and gathered her into a warm embrace.

This was how they fell asleep.

***

The next morning, Tom found that Merry wasn't there in his bed with him. Instead he smelled bacon, and could hear a flurry of activity emanating from beyond his bedroom door. It could only be his "wife" holding true to her word of respect, duty, and obedience. So, he got up, donned his robe and slippers, and headed out to investigate.

Sure enough, there was Merry, in the kitchen, standing on a step-stool, over the stove, and cooking her heart out...

"Thomas," she greeted him cheerfully, "I was hoping to have everything done before you roused yourself. Just have a seat, breakfast will be done soon... There's no coffee, though," she informed him, sounding disappointed, "I couldn't seem to find a decent kettle! And then there is

that

thing," she said, almost irritated, as she pointed an accusing finger at the microwave, "I though it to be a small electrical oven, but all it did was chirp at me, and it was too small for the baking sheet! What, in all that is holy, is that

thing

for," she concluded, frustrated, and this time putting the emphasis on "thing" rather than "that".

"That's okay, Merry," he told her, as he walk over to her, and placed a gentle, loving kiss on her forehead, "And you didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Nonsense," she exclaimed, forcefully, "You are my husband; I am your wife... It is my duty to prepare your meals."

"I'll get the coffee," he said to her, conceding to her logic, as he didn't quite yet want to get into explaining the finer points of a modern relationship, "and I'll show you hot to use the coffee-maker, and microwave... what you call, "that thing"... later. And, by the way, never put anything metal in the microwave, okay?"

Merry turned, and gave him a puzzled look, "Why? I looked inside it; it's metal on the inside. That doesn't make any sense, Thomas!"

Breakfast was wonderful—what the English call, "The Full Monty," although the fare was more American than British. She made bacon, eggs, biscuits, country gravy, hashed-brown potatoes... he could really get used to this! Over the past forty-years, he rarely had more than an egg-and-cheese sandwich, or a microwaved breakfast-burrito, in the morning. She was already being too good to him, and it made him a bit uncomfortable.

"You know, you don't have to go through this every morning," he said to her, "You can make something quick-and-simple most of the time. I've been a bachelor all my life, and I'm afraid all this wonderful cooking might make me fat," he concluded, his jest meant to bring some lightheartedness to his suggestion, and not seem too critical.

Merry took it in stride, as she replied, "Well, then, you'll be fat

and

happy! And, besides you'll need your strength: It's almost time to go back to bed!"