I have to watch my step as I lift my foot over a gnarled root that is in my path. It has been a long day of travel, and my muscles are starting to ache. As such, the shift in my centre of balance, combined with the weight of the rucksack on my shoulders, almost causes me to stumble. I reach out, and my gloved hand presses against the rough bark of the tree that has so offended me with its disorganised roots. I let out a sigh, offering the tree an unimpressed glare, and my breath lightly mists in the late autumn chill.
I press on, and I see that my companion has stopped to wait for me. Not out of concern for my fatigue, of course. But instead because she has found another way to test my patience.
“See here, human,” she says. “Regard the moss that grows upon the bark of this birch tree. Tell me, are you able to consume it safely?”
I take heavy, plodding steps, crushing the thick grass under my boots as I go, to come up beside her and look carefully at the growth she is now indicating for me. It’s green, is about all I can intelligently tell of its nature. Has she used this one before in one of her little lessons? I truly cannot recall. I look to my teacher, then, for some sort of clue.
Miriham’s fair face somehow looks down on me, despite her being a head shorter. Her alien, violet eyes are keen and piercing, and her sleek, lavender hair not at all mussed by our extended hours of harsh travel. The dirt of the woods does not dare mar her creamy, pale skin. She does not carry belongings, as she is easily capable of foraging for herself while in this, her forest domain. And her clothing is a gorgeous, silken tunic, woven magically with the golds and greens of the woods about us. The intricate lacing and subtle embroidery evidence what may have been a lifetime of tradecraft, for a lowly human. Her tights are thin, hugging her slim form in deep, rich tan, and her shoes are soft. Not walking clothes at all. And yet, she easily outpaces me in our journey. She could still step unprepared into a king’s ballroom and eclipse the beauty of any human noble woman in attendance.
The tight scowl of her sharp features, the point of her nose and the much more dynamic points of her long ears, tell me that I am not to receive any hints to support my answer, so I relent. I run a gloved hand over my chin thoughtfully, and even through the leather can I feel an undergrowth of stubborn hairs growing in. I am normally clean shaven, but this has been a journey of a full week, with another week yet to go. And Miriham has made it clear that she cares little for my appearance, so I have allowed myself a touch of neglect.
“You can eat it safely, yes,” I nod in answer to her question. “But not comfortably.”
She narrows her eyes at me, the curve of her brow like a flow of liquid porcelain. “What do you mean by that?”
“I guess that… it gives you stomach trouble.”
“You guess?”
I shrug again. Days ago, I was overwhelmed by my elven guide’s beauty and grace. Now that I have gotten to know her, I am less impressed. “I don’t really know, so I’m taking a guess,” I admit to her.
Miriham chuckles mirthlessly with a dismissive toss of her lustrous hair, and then sets off again between the trees. I follow on without looking back at the green growth that has so embarrassed me.
“For a creature of such limited lifespan, you are distressingly cavalier with your eating habits,” she declares. “Harken, human. ‘Lulwy’s Verdant Gaze, the Earthen Pit does not Restrain Her’. Or, in your vulgar tongue, ‘gravemoss’. It has little nutritional value, but may be utilised in an emergency where no other food is available. However, it also…”
She hesitates curiously, expression hidden, before continuing in a lower tone. “It also contains a mild irritant which may cause… some upset.”
I stare after her. Miriham’s flowing gait is mesmerising, the roll of her subtle curves artistic. But I had been right! I was so seldom right! Grinning to myself, I plod on in stubborn pursuit.
It is the eighty-fifth year since the defeat of the Demon Lord, the scourge of all peoples and all nations, who in death shall be utterly forgotten, even down to their sinister name. My home is the walled city of Layman-on-Waters, also the place of my birth. I am told that we were not touched so viciously by the Demon Lord’s terrible campaign of chaos and murder, and that we had our elven neighbours in the nearby forest to thank for such grace. Following centuries of superstitious mistrust between our people, the humans of Layman and the elves of Ilvarith, Her Shining Glow Consumes All in the Light of a New Sun, found common ground in our hatred of the calamitous armies of the demonic. For a while, elves lived among humans, brandishing silver spears and crafting glorious magical mail from the tree sap of their misty woods. Though they held themselves at a distance from their human counterparts, interacting only rarely and as needed, their presence had been impossible to ignore, my elders say. The elves marched out to war in response to the signing of the Accord of Regents alongside loyal men of Layman, and many of both species returned with armour dented but unbroken. Then, the war done, the elves disappeared back into the forest. I was born about half a century later.
I am one of an increasing number of citizens of Layman who has taken on the learning of the elven tongue and the study of their culture as something of a hobby. I count myself rather good at their musical language, though I wouldn’t dream of saying such or testing my skills in front of Miriham, who I am sure would have something contrary to say. She is plenty proficient at our “vulgar tongue”, in any case. However, my study of the elves and my primary occupation, that of a bookkeeper for the castellan’s municipal Apothecary Guild, have little to do with each other. Until this past week, that is, when the castellan summoned me to his meeting chamber and set upon me the task that has me traipsing through the woods as I do now.
The war is over, but humanity has learned much from her neighbours. It is the belief of the Accord of Regents that we should be doing all we can to preserve the kinship we have developed with the other species of this great land. My castellan would like to begin correspondence and meetings with the lord of Ilvarith on a regular basis. He has chosen me as a well-known local scholar of Ilvarith’s people to act as emissary, to judge his interest in a friendship and to lay the path for a future alliance. A daunting task, but there is hope. After all, the lord of Ilvarith saw fit to send his eldest daughter to act as my guide through the mystifying forest labyrinth that hides his city from potential invaders. Surely he would not have done so, were he not eager to at least hear the case of his human neighbours.
Before setting out, I had envisioned Miriham and I travelling together as something from out of a fairy tale. She, a beautiful and regal elven maiden. Me, a homely but enthusiastic male human. Our romance, for I naturally dared to dream of such, would be the first of many between our people. Our love would be the spark of unity between man and elf.
No such luck, for Miriham is headstrong, arrogant and quick to put me in my place. I wonder at her haughty attitude, since there is nothing threatening about me, no sharp edges on me that she should need to grind down as she seeks to do. I am easy-going and calm, adverse to conflict and argument. Perhaps she is under orders to reduce my will, so that her father can use our meeting to seal my home into some form of bureaucratic subjugation. Perhaps, if Miriham had her way, my role in this diplomacy would be to trap humanity into unfavourable servitude.
I wish I was not so suspicious. But, Gods above, does she make it difficult!
“You wish to pause,” says Miriham now as we come to a bubbling creek running north to south between the trees. A good place to refill my canteen. “You do not have to say so. I can hear it in the ludicrous rasping of your breathing.”
I set my lips in a line as I walk past her and silently accept her invitation to rest. I set down my rucksack, containing the roll of my tent, some cooking supplies and a number of tomes I have collected on elven culture. A heavy burden. My back has grown strong from all this unfamiliar exercise. I remove my gloves and take a handful of icy water into my palms, raising it to my lips and drinking. A chill, but a welcome one, as I am heated against the autumn cold by the day’s ordeals.
“You are aware, I hope, that my father will not permit the building of roads through our woodlands,” Miriham says, standing over me with her arms neatly folded. I am cast into her shade as I drink. “When your castellan visits, he too shall have to walk the knotted path of the wilds. I dearly hope he is of more hale constitution than you, human.”
I sit down upon the rocky grass and rest myself back on my wet hands. I look up at Miriham. They say that the elves have the ability to ensorcell lesser minds with the power of their mystical auras. But right now, I am feeling grounded by my exhaustion and frustration, and her glamour and good looks do not affect me.
“And what is that smirk for?” Miriham demands.
“You said ‘when’,” I reply. “When my castellan visits. Not ‘if’. You seem confident our peoples are going to form a lasting relationship.”
Miriham clicks her tongue and looks away from me. “If all your confidence is built on the shaky semantics of a tongue that is not my own, then I worry for you. My father will listen to your pleas only if you can make a convincing case to him. He will not allow humans to stand up alongside him as equals unless you can prove yourselves such.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad, Miriham.” It’s the sharpest I have ever spoken to her, but I’m at my limit. “We accepted the help of the Fair Folk in the war because we wanted to work together. Your father agreed to help because he saw the merit of friendship. And I think there’s a lot we can teach each other.”
“As in our journey? Where I have taught you plenty about the woods your castellan claims as part of his custody? And where you have seemingly only shown me new lows in the buffoonery of the common human?”
“You’re very eager to make me out to be a fool, aren’t you?”
“You are a fool,” she glares. “By the standards of my people. Short lived, short of memory, thick of tongue and fingers.”
“Then why are you so threatened by a friendship between our peoples?”
This takes her aback, visibly. Her slender eyebrows raise in surprise as she regards me warily.
“If you think we are so hopeless, then why are you trying so hard to sabotage my quest?” I continue. “You’ve made it clear that we aren’t a threat to the elves. So what is so hateful about an alliance between us? If our inferiority is so obvious to your kind, then will your father not say as much? Why must you speak for him, unless you believe his words will be contrary?”
She considers her rebuttal carefully. I watch the setting sunlight sparkle in her amethyst eyes as she prepares her verbal weaponry to come against me. When she finally draws from her sheathe, it is with a dour, almost sorrowful menace. Miriham takes the effort to step gracefully across the little brook to the other side, and then pointedly takes up a prim seat, legs folded to one side of her slender frame, opposite me on the far bank. I watch her carefully, and I listen intently.
“You, an individual, are not a threat,” she says at last. “You are well-meaning but naïve. That naivete is due to the shortness of your memory, as I previously mentioned. You consider time in decades. I, in centuries.”
I sit myself up straight, crossing my legs, and wait for her to continue.
“My father is fond of humans, that is no secret,” she says with her eyes on the grass beneath her. “He enjoys your quick minds and ingenuity. He is impressed by the way your regents bound themselves together in a matter of nights to face a common enemy. The elven lords have never accomplished such rapid unity in their long history. Such willingness to adapt is proof of humanity’s strength, in a sense. And you, human, were so willing to throw yourself into these woods in service of a goal that may not be met within your lifetime. There is a curious charm to that.”
I stare, transfixed. Is she… complimenting me?
“But think, if you can, on the longer implications of a friendship between us,” she continues, narrowing her eyes at me in a sudden glare across the brook. “Humans are clever, yes. But they are volatile. You use your wits to craft new means of reducing your fellows in service of your own increase. You fight together only as often as you fight one another. Your willingness to make a lasting pact against a common enemy persists only so long as that enemy is present. We have already seen dissent among your Accord of Regents in these past seasons, so we know it to only be a matter of time. And you expand, you humans! You are constantly building, constantly pushing back at nature, constantly procreating! An individual may be pleasant and intelligent in their solitary company. But from my perspective, the perspective of ages, the human species as a whole is little more than a pack of sweating, hairy, vicious, lustful beasts!”
She stops short and looks away shamefully. She evidently feels she has said too much, and indeed, I am uncertain what to say to her in response. Fortunately, she is not done.
“Alone, I can manage you,” says Miriham. “As a society, as a culture… I fear you. And I fear the implications of an alliance between you and my father. When he shall have to hold to his oaths for centuries, and you shall pass away like a dry leaf on an autumn breeze. Who shall come after you, human? I know not. Even should I come to trust you, I cannot trust the one following on from you. One who is not yet born, even. What assurance can you give my father that your successors shall share your curiosity, your respect and your hope for the elves? Will they share your willingness to hold to oaths of friendship that began far, far before their time, when your human culture has shown only that you continually return to mistrust, paranoia and destruction, as often as the change of seasons?”
With a delicate sigh, she relents, leaving me breathless. Her words have shaken me. She is right, after all. What assurance can I give her that all the humans that follow on from me will also be willing to extend a hand of friendship? If I begin an oath of alliance, how many others will have to hold to that oath? How many will feel chafed beneath it? What can I, a simple human of only thirty years, possibly do to shift the course of history? Of elves, who will live long after I am dust?
“We start with one.”
She looks up at me with a critical glimmer in her eyes and awaits my explanation.
“I’m going to die some day, soon by your reckoning. That is certainly true. But I’m planning on accomplishing a lot before I do perish. I will meet others, work hard at my occupation. I will love, and hopefully be loved. And my friendship with you and your people is something I hope to pass on to my wider culture. The castellan of Layman is the same, only his impact shall be much larger than mine. And I ask you to imagine a possible friendship that allows your father to affect the future of my entire species. His kindness, his wisdom, will change my heart. I have no doubt of that. And I will in turn seek to change the hearts of my friends and loved ones, where I can and within the span of my existence. And they shall go on to change others. Until your father’s friendship is a cornerstone underpinning a great and wonderful shift in the human existence. A bridge that shall last the span of time and shall cross the gap between us. That’s my dream, Miriham. Call it naïve, but that is how I shall endeavour to progress this meeting.”
Miriham is staring, and I find myself unable to keep her gaze. I look away, suddenly feeling very small, but she remains. I wonder if that is just the sound of the brook running its course between us, or the lovely rustle of her breathing.
And then, a spot of chill lands upon my nose. I look up, and I see that Miriham is doing the same.
“Snowfall?” she wonders softly. “That is curious.”
“It’s almost winter,” I point out.
“That is not relevant,” she retorts with a frown. “In the woods of Ilvarith, my father is lord of the seasons. He determines the shifting of the natural world through his will. Winter’s commencement now is also his doing. But I wonder. What has caused his mind to turn?”
“Is this a problem?”
“It is not,” she sighs. “I had hoped to find him full and jolly on my return to his city, but alas. You shall now find that the lord of Ilvarith is a quiet and sombre elf, human. You should take that into consideration with your diplomacy.”
“I will,” I tell her, not fully understanding. “Thank you.”
“In the short term,” she continues, brushing some lovely, lavender hair behind one pointed ear, “for I know that is how you humans prefer to think, we must prepare for a more severe chill across the remainder of our journey. The way shall grow more troublesome once this snow begins to settle. And the nights shall be savage. I shall…”
She pauses, as if overcome by a difficult thought, and I wait for her.
“I shall require the warmth of a tent tonight,” she says shyly.
This is a surprise. Miriham has taken the time each evening to declare how comfortably she sleeps beneath the canopies of the trees. No tent of animal skin for her, when the woods themselves are allegedly more comfortable than any bed. For her to retract that now, simply because it has grown colder, is a shock.
“I understand,” I say instead. “And it is of no concern. You can have my tent, and I’ll find a means of constructing a simple shelter.”
Miriham has stood by this point to brush down her clothes. Her hands, running firmly down her hips, grant me a renewed perspective of the curves of her body. But her eyes are a frustrated scowl that I feel like a heat on my skin.
“Do not think on chivalry at this time, you fool,” she demands. “I am not suggesting that I vacate you from your precious lodgings. I have seen that you have ample space in there for a second person, provided you keep to one side.”
“O-Oh!” I say. Despite the encroaching winter, I suddenly feel very hot under my clothes. “That is-…”
“And I trust you shall prove yourself true to your words and more than a beast, human, by not attempting to ravage me in my slumber,” declares Miriham, pointing a finger at me across the water. “You must understand by now that I shall not remain silent if your treatment of me is less than respectful, and I shall be reporting of your conduct to my father on our arrival. And ancestors preserve you should you think to silence me with threats or violence in the wake of an assault on my person. If I do not arrive at the gates of Ilvarith in sound body and heart, you leave your entire city in dire jeopardy from my father’s wrath. Do I make myself clear?”
It is a powerful tirade, enough to make my head spin. Miriham’s cheeks are slightly reddened from the chill of the air as she glares amethyst daggers at me. I nod my head in certain assent.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I tell her. “And I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The twist of her lips suggests that Miriham is not so certain. But still, she releases me from the point of her finger.
“Very well,” she says.
—
This night, the interior of my tent feels sweltering, despite the seasonal shift outside. I feel the need to wriggle uncomfortably under the bedding almost constantly. But I force myself into stillness time after time, aware that a maiden sleeps beside me. Very, very aware. I must not disturb her. I must not think on her.
But think I do. I can smell the scent of her, florally fragrant as though freshly bathed in rich soap. I can feel the heat of her radiating like a roaring flame at my back, even though in my current posture I cannot see her. And the memory of her, undressed down to her silken shift, the bare curves of her shoulders and legs, the hem of her scant clothing fluttering prettily about her thighs, is utterly intoxicating. I have not slept beside a woman in some time, now. And I have never slept in the company of one so ethereally enchanting as Miriham.
Closing my eyes tightly, I try to force myself to recall the truth of my companion. Her sharp tongue and her vicious sense of humour. When I need an example of how she has tried to make me feel small, I have plenty to hand. Miriham mocks the way my boots are tied, in the simple and easily undone knot of a child. Miriham rolls her eyes at my inability to tell apart the eastern fern from the lowlands fern. Miriham looks at me from across a flowing creek and tells me that my human culture cannot be saved from its own primal impulses. She has made me feel stupid, and she has fostered worry for my entire species in my heart. I should provide my self-esteem a boon by ignoring her utterly.
And yet, the way her eyes had glittered in the low sunlight when she listened to my pleas could have been mistaken for compassion. She relents in her dismantling of my pride before I find myself without will at all. And at no point, despite all her aired grievances around the hopelessness of my quest, has she suggested I turn back. In fact, she waits for me to catch up.
And now, another source of distraction from my sleeping. Something is rustling nearby. A little sound, forceful and insistent while also quiet and secret, as if someone is trying to wrestle a caught lock on a stuck door without rousing the attention of the room’s dweller. Not the wind, for it is too rhythmic. And the animals that stalk this forest are likewise not so persistent. A woodmouse or red fox might try to dig their way into my tent and belongings while I sleep, but not with this much quiet force. Not with this amount of blanketed violence. An animal would relent in time, surely. And goodness, it really was hot in this tent tonight.
So, slowly I turn myself over towards Miriham. The sound comes from her side of the tent. Perhaps the tales of elves drawing woodland creatures to them is true, and she has summoned a minibeast to keep her company in her dreaming.
Miriham is buried under the thick quilting I brought with me from home, lying on her back in the dark of the tent, and she is awake. Her eyes shimmer in the gloom as her body judders and shakes as one suffering a light seizure. Her lips are pressed together firmly to hold in a breath of air. And her brow is curved tight into what I initially believe to be pain.
Then, she snaps her eyes on me. Her big, beautiful, gemstone eyes. And I see in the gloom that her face is bright red. She opens her mouth, and the held breath escapes as a rush of hot air across my cheek. She breathes it back in through clenched teeth as though reluctant to let it go.
“What?” she demands with the dangerous hiss of a roused dragon.
I can scarcely believe my eyes. Miriham is pleasuring herself. In my tent, under my sheets! I can feel my mouth turning dry as I take in the shocking transformation that has come over my elven companion. Gone the prim elegance and otherworldly grace. Gone the snide superiority and arrogance. In their place, flushed skin, dazed eyes, mussed hair, short breaths and quietly seething vulnerability.
“You…” she hisses. “I see what you are thinking, and I invite you to change your thoughts! Did you perhaps assume that I did not have needs as a woman? Or did you believe that I should be attempting to control my healthy, natural urges while in the presence of others? Are you so offended at the sight of a woman allowing herself a short moment of release?”
I have literally nothing to say. I could not have guessed that Miriham would lay bare her deed before me. Her powerful rise and proud, in a way, acceptance of what she is doing has me speechless. Of course I do not mind, I want to say. Of course a woman is entitled to the touch of her privacy. I touch myself plenty in the lonely hours of the night. Why not Miriham, princess of elves?
Obviously, I do not say this. I simply stare. My tongue is paralysed by the sight of my flushed, embarrassed companion. And Miriham huffs out a loud, disappointed sigh that grates in the depths of her throat.
“It is hopeless. Your attention has ruined my momentum. I shall never complete myself at this rate.”
Tugging her arms free of the sheets, she slaps her hands down roughly atop them in a childish display of frustrated denial. I roll onto my back so that she doesn’t have to feel my gaze on her vulnerability. And we are silent together.
Miriham is aroused. Miriham feels a need to release. And she is beautiful. There isn’t another person for miles around. I am all she has.
“Maybe I could-…”
“You had better-…”
We speak at the same moment, and once more lock eyes in the intimate proximity of the tent. I stammer as I shut myself up, and I bow my head to her.
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
Miriham is scowling. “No, you say your peace. I would be interested to hear what simple plan you have to rectify your mistake in acknowledging me.”
It is hot, and the situation is ridiculous. I can feel my hackles rising.
“I just thought,” I say, swallowing the heavy lump of my uncertainty as best I can, “if you needed a hand…”
Miriham’s smile is crooked and mocking. “You?”
“I’d know what I was doing,” I argue.
“To abate the lowly needs of a human woman, perhaps,” she retorts. “You truly believe you have what is required to satisfy me? Recall that I have lived your entire lifespan three times over, human. I have taken more partners to my bed than women you could possibly even name. And you dare to believe that you could satisfy me?”
My mind latches onto one singular thought – she has not said no.
“Have you ever slept with a human before?”
Her brow twitches and her lips purse.
“You complained that I haven’t taught you anything in our time together,” I say softly. “Perhaps now I could show you something of my culture. I’m accounted fairly proficient at what I do by my partners.”
Miriham swallows, and she says nothing.
“Or,” I add, “you could return to sleep unsatisfied. It is no concern of mine. Simply grant me an opportunity to step outside for a moment to myself, as I wouldn’t wish to burden you with the sight of my own pleasuring, and I shall leave you to your slumber.”
This last piece is unnecessary, but I feel it slip out of me unbidden. I am hard and aroused myself. Unlike Miriham, I would not be able to sleep in my current state. I would have to step out into the chill and handle myself until I am relaxed.
“You… You would…”
Miriham can’t seem to find the words, so I wait. I wait patiently, with the eager tension of a hunting hound. She wriggles her limbs back under the bedsheets with big, shy eyes. And in the end, her face glowing red in the hazy moonlight gloom of the tent, she sighs.
“Very well, then.”
“You’d like my help?” I tease, grinning foolishly.
“I would… appreciate some skilful assistance,” she replies, then shoots me with a keen grin of her own. “Are you capable, human?”
“You tell me.”
Steeling my nerves, I push myself forward beneath the covers. Miriham allows my approach with wary eyes. I prop my head up on one arm and loom over her. I can feel her skin, soft as silk, on my bare shoulder. Then, I sneak my hand forward under the sheets.
Miriham’s arm is slender, and I brush across her with my fingertips. I can feel the tiny hairs standing up to meet me at my contact, though she does not register a change upon her face. Then, breathing in slowly, I push my arm forward once more. I find the flat plain of her stomach, and I rest the weight of my hand upon it. I feel the dip of her navel through the soft fabric of her shift. Partially out of nerves, I stall by letting myself toy with it for a moment. I run my touch lightly around the rim of her. Then I raise my fingers upwards towards her breast.
“Th-That is…!”
She tenses up suddenly as I lay my hand upon her chest. Her eyes flutter as I bring my thumb down on the mound of her nipple. Miriham is not as endowed as other women I have met. Her slender figure is the willowy charm of her people. But she has the graceful curve of a work of art. A precise curve, the product of aeons of careful planning. By touching her breast, I almost feel as though I am desecrating something holy. But when she does not protest any further, I lift my hand and begin to draw tender circles around the indentation of her nipple with my fingertips. Miriham squirms beside me with a deep frown and an unconscious pout of her lips. The desire to kiss her is almost overpowering.
“Y-You are teasing me,” she breathes.
“That’s right,” I smile. “It is all part of the experience.”
“Continue like this, and I shall not be done by sunrise,” Miriham complains, and her words groan, dragging like notes of music through a discordant instrument. She is enjoying herself, that much is abundantly obvious.
“Oh?” I mock. “And here I thought the long lives of elves granted them patience and resilience. But you can’t put up with a little teasing, can you?”
Miriham snaps her teeth at me with a scowl. “I have attended to myself sufficiently tonight to bring myself to the edge of climax,” she insists. “I have no need of this… t-teasing! Touch me properly, human!”
I obey by squeezing her breast firmly, causing her to let out a surprised moan, before trailing my hand down her front. She wriggles, complaining that my touch is tickling her. Then, I reach her thigh. I try to force my roaring heart to calm as my fingers slide down to the hem of her shift, then onto her skin. Then back up her body, pushing her clothes upward to expose her nakedness to the thick fur of the bedsheets.
Between her legs, Miriham’s hair is a short, well-tended garden. No frond out of place, immaculate and controlled. Soft to the touch. I wonder at what colour it is, given the luscious lavender of her hair. Unnatural, surely. The product of magic? Fascinating.
My fingertips grow suddenly moist as I dip my finger down into the slit of flesh below her hair, and Miriham opens her mouth with a silent gasp. Unrelenting, I slip myself deeper until I find the wet mound of her clitoris. It seems to quiver with excitement at my touch. And I begin to rub.
“O-Ooh,” Miriham moans. Her hands grip the covers beneath her tightly. “Ooh…!”
“Is it good?” I ask with a proud smile.
“Do not ask such foolish questions!” she snaps, fixing me with a brilliant glare. “I am attempting to concentrate!”
I punish her for her outburst by fingering the opening beyond her clitoris deeply. I delve inside her. I feel the shudder of her body against my shoulder as she loses her breath, and also her words.
Miriham rolls herself on my fingers with force and vigour. Her movements are powerful and clumsy. Again, I am struck by how un-elf-like she is in this moment. Controlled by her desire, owned by her lust… She is much more like…
I remove myself from her to run my slick fingers once more over her mound, and she shivers in pleasure. I bear witness to the tightening of muscles in her neck and shoulders as she growls out a desperate, needy gasp of joy at my touch. At my touch, I remind myself proudly! And as I gently return to a sustained massage of her clitoris, Miriham sighs and scowls anew.
“You enjoy taking your time with my body,” she says with eyes closed and teeth gritted. “That is unlike my expectations of you.”
“You thought I’d be all over you at once?”
The corners of her mouth rise in a reluctant smile. “I had believed you incapable of holding yourself back, yes.”
“Well, know that I can keep this up all night,” I grin. “Perhaps I should hold you in place until sunrise, as you suggested?”
“I did not suggest that,” she replies forcefully. “I wish to sleep, so you must attend to me quickly. The faster you bring me to climax, the more slumber I am-… we are both granted.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m happy to remain like this for a while.”
“Human…” she growls warningly.
“I am really quite enamoured with the sight of you, Miriham,” I say. It is a jest, but it is also the truth. “I do not wish this moment to end just yet.”
“I do!”
“Well,” I smile. “You shall have to be patient while you are in my care.”
Miriham fixes me with another glare. She sucks on her lower lip thoughtfully, all the while rocking up and down on my gently massaging fingers. Then, she smiles darkly. She digs one hand through the covers and presses it up against my chest, and then slips it downwards.
“I believe I can convince you to haste,” she grins. “I know how to coax a man to my bidding, and the low will of a human shall be no-…”
Her hand on my cock is firm and controlling. Her grip is a silken vice, even through the cotton of my undershorts. But she has fallen silent, and her eyes grow wide. Her lips part gently in a disbelieving gasp.
“Blood of my ancestors,” she hisses in her native language, before blinking out of her daze and returning to the human tongue. “You are… That is, your manhood is…”
“Impressive?” I grin.
“I had heard tales of the propensity of girth in human organs,” Miriham says softly. “I had fancied such stories as naught but lewd fiction. However… perhaps there was some truth in them.”
She begins to rub my cock firmly through my shorts, and I let out a groan of pleasant acknowledgement.
“Tell me, does it not cause trouble for your balance?” she asks me with a curious frown. “Do your breeches not require alterations to accommodate the increased size of an aroused manhood? Unless…” She gasps lightly. “This is erect, is it not? Surely it does not grow beyond this!”
I laugh, and though she does not join me, I see amused firelight dancing in her eyes. “As I said, I have become enamoured at the sight of you, Miriham.”
“Ah, I see.” She smiles as she begins to rub me harder. Encouraging her, I increase the pace of my own touch. “Th-That is a fitting reaction for any man, even a human! I-… I should have… expected… no less…!”
“Ahh, Miriham!” I moan as I thrust my hips into her grip. “Miriham!”
“Y-Yes, say my name, human!” She writhes in pleasure beneath my hand. “Say the name of the one who has so mesmerised you!”
“Miriham!” I growl. “Miriham!”
Suddenly, she releases me with a bark of anger. I stare worriedly down at her as she uses short, sharp motions to begin throwing back the covers. I am witness to the soft lengths of her legs as they kick themselves free of our quilting. I see that her hair is dark, like bracken.
“You are aroused, and so am I!” she declares as she frees herself. “This mutual pleasuring is merely compromise! Come! Inside me!”
I stare, dumbfounded.
“Do not linger, human!” Miriham practically shouts. “And do not think this a mark of any particular feelings I might have for you! This is naught by relaxation and release for the both of us! As I said, I have experience beyond your feeble years! I know how to-…!!”
She yelps as I roll over on top of her. I plant one hand beside her head so that she is staring up at me, and I use the other to roughly remove my shorts. Miriham’s eyes are wide. Then, she stares down my body at my erection, and she hisses something I cannot translate in her ancient elvish.
“I must warn you,” I tell her. “I am full and potent. It shall not take much for me to spread my seed.”
“F-Fine,” she barks, eyes still transfixed by my cock. “We are of different species, so I cannot catch child from you.”
“Also…” I swallow.
“What?” Miriham stares up at me angrily and impatiently. “What is it now?”
“I may try to kiss you.”
Her eyes widen, lips opening gently. “Th-That… That is…” And then, a beautiful smile. “You truly cannot hold yourself back from me, can you?”
“No…” I say, and then she kisses me. Miriham’s lips are softer than any pillow, sweeter than any fruit. I melt against her. I connect myself seamlessly to her. Our kiss, so powerful a moment. It is a shame to spoil it, but other parts of my body are in control, and a moment later I am sliding my cock into her.
“A-Ah… G-Gods above!!” Miriham convulses as I enter her, and she wraps her limbs tightly around me. Her legs rise up to clamp urgently about my waist. “You… You are so…!!”
“Miriham…!” I moan as I begin to make love to her. I hold her thigh with one hand and grip her pillow with the other. “Miriham!!”
She feels sensational. Her purse of flesh is like a slick, wet bond of magic that has been wrapped about my hardened manhood, and it is squeezing me powerfully. As though pressing lightning into the surface of my skin. Like nature itself has risen to accommodate me. This shall not take long, but I draw out the experience with tense muscles and a force of will. I so desperately want to hear what she sounds like when she orgasms.
Instead, I am granted a furious tirade in elvish, and this I can translate.
“O-Ohh, beast!” Miriham wails. “Beastly… human!! Ravage me! Ravage me, you cur! You big, hairy beast!! O-Oooh!!”
I kiss her, and she slips her tongue into my mouth at once. I rock against her powerfully and passionately as the fires of climax rise within me. I ride her with vigour in obedience to her curses. I slap at her skin with my own over and over. As I brace myself for release within her!
And then, she beats me to it. She is always one step ahead of me.
Miriham throws back her head and lets out a plaintive cry of climax. She is a loud, passionate lover, and her orgasm reflects that deliciously. She writhes and gasps beneath me. She comes down from her high only slowly.
And then, her head whips down to set her predatory sights on me again.
“Finish, human!”
I thrust deep into her wetness, but I hold myself back for just a little longer. “Miriham…” I implore. “S-Say my name.”
“What?”
“Say… my name…” I hiss. “Please.”
Her eyes alight with mischievous greed, Miriham leans up and touches lightly at my open lips with hers. She draws in my breath as her own.
“Finish… Eli!”
I do. I come deeply inside her. I let myself flow entirely from my cock. I shudder and I growl. The orgasm lasts an age, it feels. And the relief at its passing makes my arms weak. I fall down atop her.
Miriham laughs joyfully as I press her into the sheets and plant my lips on her neck. I kiss her. I bite her. And she holds me there with hands in my hair. As my breathing slows, and I slowly deflate.
Some time passes. I find myself lying naked on my back in the tent, and Miriham likewise beside me. We are both staring up at the pointed roof of our traveller’s abode. And I cannot believe that I am here. I believe I have just woken from a dream. My cock is warm and satiated, and my skin itches with the rough treatment of my partner. But still, I can’t have just done that. Can I?
“That was phenomenal.”
The voice doesn’t even fully sound like my own. Yet she reacts none the less.
“It was… impressive,” she sighs. “I am impressed.”
I feel a cheeky smile crawl unbidden across my lips. “Do you still believe that there is no future for a partnership between elves and humans?”
“I should not go so far,” she chuckles. “Still, you have convinced me that there is… some merit in knowing humans.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Come the morning,” says Miriham softly, “we shall not speak of this night ever again. What has transpired tonight must never be learned by any other living being. It would not do either of us any good for my father to learn of what we have just done.”
My heart sinks. And just when I had begun to lose myself to her.
“However…”
I turn my head to face her, and she is staring dreamily upwards. Miriham licks her lips.
“Now that winter has set in, the days shall grow shorter, and the nights colder. I have no doubt that I shall require the hospitality of your tent for further nights on the remainder of our journey.”
My heart then soars. And just when I think my joy cannot grow, Miriham rolls herself over onto her side and lays against me. Her hand on my chest strokes teasingly at my bare skin. The weight of her face on my shoulder is intimate. And when she whispers, the air tickles my ear like wind across a campfire.
“When next I do require you,” says my lover, Miriham the elven princess, “take me from behind. Like a beast.”
shortstory
Ewan Stone 
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