You don’t remember how it started now—perhaps it was an off-handed comment you made, an idle jest one night while you were wrapped in her arms. You’ve seen her mete it out as a punishment, something meant to humble the proud. But you can’t stop wondering how it feels to be physically changed. To be something both more and less than human.
She’s surprised when you broach the subject but soon warms to the idea. That first night, the changes are partial—a fox’s ears and tail, nothing more—and temporary, lasting only an hour or so. But neither of you forgets the way you squirmed when she stroked your borrowed fur.
Your eagerness delights her and it’s not long before the transformations grow stranger and last longer. You come to crave the feeling of your body changing under her hand. It always hurts a little, like the ache of a new tooth trying to push through tender gums. But the dizzying rush of confusion as your brain struggles to process the flood of new sensations is addictive. And the arousal that burns when she explores your altered form, admiring her handiwork, soon drowns out any discomfort.
Eventually, your body—too responsive, too receptive to her magic—will forget its original shape. But it won’t matter. You’re ready to be something entirely of her own making. ♀
“Make me forget,” you whisper one night. “Just for a little while.”
“Until dawn,” she promises, kissing your forehead. She doesn’t ask what prompted your request, only obliges. The glamour she weaves around your weary mind is slow and gentle—less the captivating dazzle of sunlight (though she’s quite capable of that), more the seductive luster of moonlight. You sink into it, into her arms, and your chest aches with relief. Speech is beyond you now but you bury your face against her neck, humming with drowsy contentment.
She keeps you like that until sunrise breaks the spell. ♀
When it happens, it takes you by surprise: a small white flower blooming along your collarbone where she kissed you. “Oh,” the Queen says quietly, awe creeping into her voice. She touches it and it flutters free, leaving your skin unblemished. It doesn’t hurt—if anything, it tickles. The light of discovery gleams in her eyes and she sets herself to the task with relish, dragging her mouth across your bare skin to see what else will grow in her wake. Each and every flower—and there are many—bursts into life accompanied by a little flare of pleasure. By the time she spreads your thighs, you’re covered in drifting petals, velvet-soft against your skin. You writhe and moan under her tongue as she devours you and when you come (it doesn’t take long) the biggest bloom yet unfurls on your mound. Its layered pink petals are dewy with honeyed nectar. When she dips her fingers into its blushing center you can feel it and you gasp and twitch with surprise. “Oh,” she says again, a wicked smile on her glistening lips. ♀
You’ve been in Faerie long enough now that the land has laid its claim on you. “Let it come, there is no use fighting it,” she says one night when the pressure of whatever’s trying to break free of you becomes too great. She cradles your aching head in her lap and strokes your back. “I want to see what you become when you are no longer mortal.” The antlers that finally sprout from your skull are slender but solid, branching with delicate points that she adorns with gold. After the pain of becoming fades, something new rises: a yearning for the deep glades bathed in moonlight, the rush of wind on your face, the heady fright of pursuit. She cups your cheek and whispers, “Run.”
“Come here,” she says one evening when you’re fresh from the bath. You raise an eyebrow at the directive—there’s still a pleasant ache low in your belly from when she took you earlier. But she simply smiles and gestures to the rug at her feet. You obey, settling there between her legs, back resting against the edge of her seat.
“The way you yielded for me tonight was beautiful, but I know how much that kind of submission requires of you,” she says, her fingers trailing down the side of your neck. “So let me tend you awhile.” With a flick of her fingers she conjures a fine silver brush chased with intricate vines and flowers. She sets to work, pulling the brush through your still-damp hair, her strokes long and smooth. Your eyes flutter shut and you let out a soft sigh of pleasure.
The rhythm of the brush lulls you and you float, neither fully asleep nor awake. Your muscles ease. Your breathing slows. The world narrows to her touch.
She murmurs something in her own tongue, the language of the fae. The syllables are soft and fluid, sliding across your skin, sinking into your scalp. You know she’s casting some kind of spell but it feels so good you can hardly protest.
Your chin has nearly dropped to your chest when she finally sets the brush aside. You take a deep breath and shift, thinking her done, but she puts her hand on your shoulder and says, “Stay.”
She gathers your hair in her hands and begins to braid. You’re certain she’s weaving things in as she goes—a ribbon, a strand of tiny beads, a feather—and your curiosity burns. “What are you doing?” you ask.
“Braiding your hair,” she replies. You huff at the non-answer. But then she pauses and reaches out to gently tilt your chin up. She leans forward just enough for you to make eye contact. Her body is a wall at your back, sheltering you. “I’m also enchanting you, weaving spells of peace and ease and protection. Because you are mine and I will see you safe and well-rested tonight.”
She presses a kiss to your crown. “Now let me finish.” You comply, tilting your head back down, feeling the warmth of her words spread through you. When she ties the braid off you reach for it immediately, tracing it with your fingers. You feel nothing but the familiar weight of your hair. But your scalp prickles with a faint echo of magic.
“There,” she says, rising and stepping around you. She helps you up off the floor and catches you by the hips, pulling you in close. You look at her for a moment, this strange, fae queen who has captured you, body, mind, and soul. And when she kisses you, you think you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You’re walking with her in the garden one morning, the land wreathed in a silvery mist, when a strange tree laden with clusters of bright pink fruit nestled amongst glossy brown leaves catches your eye. When you pause next to it, she plucks one and hands it to you. It’s the size of a cherry and unexpectedly heavy.
“Sensitive fruit,” she says. “As the name suggests, the juice sensitizes the skin and makes touch more pleasurable. The natural effect is brief, but there is a fermentation process that renders it more potent and long-lasting. Popular during the revels, of course.”
Curious, you place it in your mouth and chew. It’s not a particularly pleasant taste and the juice is strangely viscous, coating your tongue as you swallow. A prickling sensation rises in its wake, like a limb waking up.
She reaches for you and swipes her thumb across your lower lip—it feels the same as always, but then she says, “Open for me.” Your lips part but you aren’t ready for what comes next: when she presses her fingers to your tongue it feels exactly like it does when she's stroking inside you. You let out a low moan and suck on her fingers, seeking friction, and she murmurs, “Good girl.”
Within moments she has you up against the tree’s trunk, one hand cradling the back of your head. Her thigh is pressed tight against your aching core but where you want her most is your mouth, your cheeks and tongue alive with novel sensation. She obliges, fucking you slowly, rhythmically, as the pleasure builds. And when you finally come, both your mouth and your cunt clench as you arch into her, your mind blanking and legs shaking. The intensity leaves you gasping but even as you come down from the high you already know: you want that again. And soon.
When she finally collars you, it’s nothing like you’d imagined. You thought it would be something plain—perhaps a simple leather band. An indicator of your status, a signal to her court. Something sturdy and unassuming, like yourself.
(How could you not feel out of place here, a mortal woman in the midst of her strange, glittering domain?)
She lifts it from the silken pillow and you don’t even understand what it is at first. It’s delicate and beautiful, a shimmering filigree of leaves and branches and beasts, studded with tiny jewels. The whole thing practically radiates enchantment. Despite the intricate metalwork, it settles around your neck like it weighs nothing at all, a testament to fae craftsmanship.
Your breath leaves you in a quiet sigh.
You didn’t realize you’d been holding it.
She steps around to face you, her fingers brushing the side of your neck just above the collar, and smiles at the shiver that runs through you. “There. It suits you perfectly, as I knew it would.”
Her hands come up to cradle your face. You lean into it, your eyes fluttering shut briefly as she presses a tender kiss to your forehead. Her touch a mark, a seal, a benediction. “Now everyone who looks upon you will know that you are mine.”
She watches you make your offerings—to the land, or your ancestors, or the old gods you still hold in your heart. Her eyes follow your hands as you pour the wine and light the incense. It was unnerving at first, letting her observe something so personal, normally so private, but now her presence steadies you.
When you rise from the altar, she’s waiting for you. She catches you by the waist, draws your body flush against hers, and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “And what offerings do you have for me, beloved? I would have your devotion as well,” she says, brushing her fingers across your cheek. A thrill runs through you, racing down your spine, and you melt into her touch. Her smile is the only encouragement you need to show her your answer. ♀
