Best Fantastic Erotica

by Cecilia Tan

  Father Francis’s dreams were unsettled. Strange and impure thoughts filled his mind. His skin tingled as if he were plunked into a freshly opened bottle of sparkling wine. He danced in the forest, naked. Strange primal creatures danced with him. Naked, lithe, beautiful little girl creatures. Some had horns, some sported long pointy ears, some had tails, a few had hooves. Others had horns, hooves, and tails in various combinations. They laughed and giggled. They touched each other in the most unholy of places as they danced by one another. They drank wine from a large gourd, passing it from creature to creature as they danced. Wine sloshed over the edge more than once. Eventually they passed it to Father Francis. He was about to take a drink, but he looked into the bowl and saw his own soul already half devoured. It was lying there at the bottom, weak and passive, waiting to be consumed.

  He woke up in a fit. Sheets wet, shivering, heart pounding.

  The sun was just below the horizon, the black was fading from the sky, replaced with touches of purple and red in the east. He looked at his window. What could have run through his church?

  “Sanctuary!” He didn’t know why the word formed in his mind. Was someone seeking sanctuary, someone who was so scared that they dared not even enter a church. Did he frighten him or her away? Who? Who would be in such desperate need of sanctuary? He felt the blood rush out his face as he realized what he was contemplating. Someone who would be accused of being a witch!

  As soon as the sun was bright enough he looked through the church to see what actually happened. The cold light of day didn’t dispel his suspicions. He saw footprints. They clearly belonged to a child, or if not a child, then a person slight of stature. The bare footed prints ran in from the front door. According to the tracks of mud, he or she ran around the church, then around the altar a few times stopping in front of the crucifix. Then the footprints proceeded out through his chambers. He untied the ropes holding the front doors together only to see that the damage was indeed inflicted by a swipe of a massive claw. How could such a delicate creature have made such a violent blow to the solid wooden doors?

  Father Francis set Mrs. Henkel, the cleaning lady, to work to wash away any sign of footprints. Then he showed Mr. Trobber, his handy man, the gash in the door.

  “Is there anything you can do quickly to cover this up”

  “Shouldn’t this be shown to the magistrate?” the old man questioned.

  The magistrate, Father Francis ponders. The mobs can only be blamed to a point. It was the magistrate who was directing them from afar. An evil vindictive man, he was. His advances upon young maidens were well known. He was always the butt of rumors and bad jokes—behind his back. The girls rejected him one after the other. Now he was getting his revenge. Witches all of them, he would cry.

  “No, don’t mention this to the magistrate, nor anyone.”

  “But, Father—”

  “Manfred,” he said the man’s name in the same tone as if saying no. “ There is enough hysteria in our village already.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  His sermon, later that morning, was a disaster. His lines were meek and short of the mark. The rowdier men heckled him from the back. He feared that he had sealed the fate of many more young girls by his incompetence.

  He brooded all afternoon, locking himself into his chambers. Mrs. Henkel knocked on the door to remind him of his Sunday dinner engagement. Then later she reminded him that he was late. Then after the sun went down she told him she sent a message to the Mullers canceling his appointment. Then she brought him a cold thigh of chicken with bread. She left if by the door when he would not let her bring it in. The afternoon turned into evening. The shadows grew longer and the room grew darker as the sun made its way across the west. His already dark mood grew even more ominous. He knelt and prayed for forgiveness for his inadequacies and weaknesses.

  Father Francis woke to sounds on the slate tiled roof. Footsteps. No one can get up onto the roof without setting up staging with a series of ladders put up in sequence. Yet there it was, sounds of feet, running west to east. Someone was up there. He heard someone slip and the clatter of noise as they slid down. Then he heard the leaves of the nearest oak rustle as if someone had jumped over from the roof to the tree. He got up. He scrambled to light his lantern and run outside. He looked to see which tree made the noise. Judging from the echoes from inside, it would be the one right outside his window. He held the lantern behind his head. He looked to see any shape up in the tree. Nothing. But wait, someone was up there, someone clinging to a branch, crying.

  “Who’s there?” Father Francis called out with as much command as he could muster. The light from the lantern served only to accentuate the shadows.

  His answer came in the sound of branches breaking and someone or something falling. She landed a few feet in front of him, contorted in pain. She was not only bruised from the fall, but her body was cut as she fell through the branches. She must also have scrapes from sliding off the roof. He didn’t know how she jumped from the roof to the tree, nor how she got up on the roof in the first place. She lay splayed in a bed of leaves, shaking from the fall. She was small and thin, hardly more than a girl, and by the flickering light of his torch, he saw she was naked.

  “Don’t try to move, my little one,” he said bending down to her. She put her hands up, as if to protect herself from him. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but no words came forth.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in as calm a voice as he could. “You’ve taken a nasty fall. I’ll take you in where I can tend to your wounds.” She tried to scream or cry, but only a hiss came out. “I’ll take you into a church. No one will hurt you there.” She seemed to calm down. Father Francis wasn’t even sure if she understood him. He bent down, and as tenderly as he could he picked her up. She was light, so light it scared him. She was naked. Her skin was tender. Her body was hot, as if she was running a fever.

  Then Father Francis almost dropped her when he felt her tail rub against his leg. He forced his mind to remain rational and not fall into the witch hysteria. If this creature doesn’t need sanctuary, then who among us does? With a new found conviction he carried her into the church. On his way in, he tried to imagine what that tail of hers really looked like. He took her directly to his chambers and into his bed. It was unmade. Father Francis had lost track of when the sheets were last washed or when the straw was changed. The creature didn’t mind. He laid her on her side, not knowing how to position her tail, between her legs, up, down, or some other way. He covered her naked body with his blanket. She pulled the cover up to her neck and looked back at him with huge round black eyes. He put the lantern on his writing table. That’s when he saw her beautiful round face. Her eye brows curled up, as elves are often drawn in pictures. Her little ears ended in dainty points. Her short hair was of the most fiery red, almost like the clays from the river bank.

  “Can you speak?” Father Francis asked.

  She looked at him.

  “Can you understand me?”

  Her dark eyes swallowed him as she looked inquisitively at him. It was very easy to get lost in her. She didn’t answer.

  “I’m going to get some water to clean those bruises. I’ll also light a fire. Why don’t I brew you a herbal infusion. You rest in the meantime.”

  He brought in some wood, thankfully already chopped by Manfred, and started a fire in the kitchen. He put a small cauldron of water to boil. First for tea, then for the wash. By the time the tea of roots and herbs was prepared, she was fast asleep. She slept so peacefully, he decided not to wake her. He thought for a moment and decided to check her bruises. He lifted the sheet from her body. He looked upon her and saw that she was more than a child and not yet a woman. And with the tail, not even human. She had a small slim body, yet it wasn’t from starvation, consumption, or disease. It was firm and muscular. A look he seldom saw in women. Her breast were small, as if they were still developing. Yet her nipples stood firm and erect on a pair of rosy pin
k areola. He forgot why he was examining her. He had the strongest temptation to touch them. A feeling welled up from within his loins and soon filled his gut. “No, this is not why I became a priest,” he told himself, turning his head away. For a moment he thought of all the bishops and cardinals with their courtesans, and other village priests with their mistresses. He wondered why he never pursued a local girl for himself. Then he remembered his vows. “Father in Heaven, grant me the strength I need, and purge these impure thoughts from my mind.”

  As if his prayers were heard, his will power redoubled. He was then able to continue his examination. She was cut all across her torso and arms from the branches as she fell down from the tree. He dared not touch her to see if bones were broken from the fall. He continued his examination down her body. He arrived at her pubis. It took all the power he could muster to avert his eyes. She had no hair to hide her womanhood. She had turned onto her back as she slept and her legs were slightly apart. He had a perfect view of her, as if she was posing for him. Then there was the delicate little slit which led to her inner treasures—

  “Stop it!” he cursed himself. “God help me!”

  He covered her up again. He could no longer continue this examination. He presumed her legs were in no worse shape than her upper body. He dared not violate her by cleaning her bruises without her consent. He wondered if he should sit awake by her bedside in case her condition would worsen. Then he looked at how peacefully she slept, and decided against it.

  The temptation would have been too strong.

  He slept on the kitchen floor. Before falling asleep he considered touching himself. He found he was too tired and worn for that. And, if he did, what would he think about? Her? That sin would be just as bad as if he had taken her as she slept. He felt a tear streak down his face before he lost himself to sleep.

  She came to him at night. At first he saw her moon-cast shadow. Then her delicate legs from the vantage point of the kitchen floor. Then as she walked into the room he saw her tail trailing behind her. It was full and alive, and it was beautiful. There was no doubt that it was an integral part of her. Its end troubled him. It looked like an arrow head covered with delicate pink skin. It reminded him too much of a daemon’s tail he had seen in a wood cut imprint.

  He looked up, he saw her thighs and loins above him. Then he looking further up, to her hips and navel. Her nipples, playful and erect, they taunted him so. Finally he looked to her pixie face. She smiled her sassy smile down at him. The moonlight illuminated her pointy little ears. They stood out against her burning red hair. Even the dark of night couldn’t tame her hair.

  She slid down onto him. With one deft, seamless move, she was lying beside him under his covers. She touched his skin. Then she lay on top of him. He felt the whole of her body. Her loins were on fire. He felt the moisture from between her legs as his now stiff member lay nestled between her thighs ever so close to her delta.

  “It’s been so long,” he started to apologize as he pushed between her thighs and against her pussy. “It’s been years. I haven’t—”

  She pushed her fingers against his lips. “Shhhh,” she mouthed, but made no sound.

  “Even before I became a priest and took celibacy vows—I never had a way with the girls, I—I—”

  Again, the silent “Shhhh.”

  She positioned herself over him and quickly guided him into her. She was so small, but oh so wet. He slid right into her. He felt how tight she was, and how hot. It felt like he filled up her entire body cavity. She squirmed and gyrated with joy.

  “It’s been so long. So, so long since....” He started crying uncontrollably. She kissed away his tears. She gave him the pleasures of the body which he had pushed aside and shunned all his life. It felt so good to have a woman’s body against his. She lay against him as she rubbed herself up and down along his body. Her nipples ground against his chest. “So, so long. You can’t imagine how long it’s been.” He felt the tears cascade down his cheeks. Tears of joy. Or were they tears of regret? She kissed him on the cheek, licking up his tears. He tried to imagine what their salty taste would be like to her. Then the walls of her pussy tightened up against his hard cock and she grabbed two fistfuls of his chest hairs as she began her climax.

  “I’m going to orgasm!” he thought as she tightened her inner walls around him. He could not control himself. “Oh no, I can’t!” Then he felt himself coming, felt the hot gush of his semen fill her. He grabbed her bottom and ground her against him even tighter.

  He opened his eyes. He was lying on the kitchen floor, alone. His hand was holding onto his member, now growing small. His fingers were covered with ejaculate. So was his night gown and the spare blanket. Silence thundered through the church as he lay there with the goo all over his hands.

  “It was so real,” he muttered as he realized it was just a dream. He felt tears run down his cheek. He got up. He wiped his hands on a rag and rinsed them with some left over water from the cauldron. The water was now lukewarm. He also scrubbed the semen out of his nightgown and blanket. Mrs. Henkel would give him strange looks when she came to do his washing if he didn’t take care of this matter now. “It seemed so real,” he repeated to himself.

  He should have been relieved for not having lain with the girl. That would have been an unforgivable sin on his part. Instead, he felt a cold emptiness within his soul. He slipped back under his blanket and got a few more hours of sleep that night. Those, too, were fitful and restless.

  He didn’t let Mrs. Henkel into his chambers the next morning. He gave her some weak excuse about papers that shouldn’t be disturbed. With a suspicious eye she accepted his laundry as he handed it out to her. But, nonetheless, she left.

  Closing the door he turned to the girl. She was gone. That is, she wasn’t in bed. The window was still locked. After a little looking, he found her peering down at him from on top of his wardrobe. She climbed down into his awaiting arms when she heard the cleaning lady leave the church. He felt her body rub against his as he let her to the ground. “The dream felt so real.” He pondered in silence as he let his body feel her as she grazed past him on her way down.

  She stroked his face as she climbed off him. Then she took a seat by his writing table, because it seemed like that is what he wanted of her. She looked up at him with those deep yet silent eyes, seeming to wait for his direction.

  “Your bruises,” he stopped staring at her body. “Let me re-heat that infusion for you. Oh, and Mrs. Henkel left some breakfast for me. I think you need it more than I.” He put the plate of bacon and eggs in front of her. Along with that, there was three hearty slices of bread and a cup of fresh milk. “Here, eat this while I start the fire.” But as soon as the plate was put in front of her face she devoured the whole thing. She ate all three eggs, the huge portion of bacon, and swallowed the milk in one gulp. Then she licked the grease off the plate, and licked her fingers clean too. All this in a matter of seconds.

  “You must have been starving! I’ll find something more for you as soon as I get the fire started.”

  There was a ham curing in the kitchen along with half a loaf of day old bread. There was no other food. Mrs. Henkel usually brought food for him at meal time so there was no need for him to bother with storing much himself. He cut the ham into slices and placed it onto a plate along with the crusty bread. He brought it to her but didn’t stay to watch her eat it. When he came back with the infusion, she had eaten her fill. There was one slice of ham left so he was sure she was sated. He gave her a cup of the brew to drink. She hesitated at first, but drank it when she saw that is what he wanted of her.

  “That’s right, drink. It’s good for you.”

  He felt self-conscious about touching her naked body. Yet she felt no shame in return. He had her stand up. He got onto his knees. He was at the level of her breasts. Oh, those breasts again. He longed to kiss them. His lips tingled. Again like sparkling wine. He had a feeling that she would allow him a kiss. She would allow him
any pleasure. He dipped a cloth into the pot of simmering herbs. He gently touched the wet cloth against her cuts. She gasped as it stung but she did not pull away or offer protest.

  As he worked he had her turn bit by bit until he finished her entire torso. Then he repeated the process on her legs. He found himself going over her entire body again—to wash the dirt off her. He washed her delicate nipples in the process. He even allowed his hand to graze against them more than once. She breathed deep in pleasure as he touched her there, but again she didn’t protest, nor did she make advances on him. She was entirely his to do with as he pleased.

  Then came the awkward moment. Should he wash her vulva? He thought that leaving it out would send just a strong a signal as if he would take advantage of her and do what he did in his dream. He decided to continue like the man-of-science and the man-of-God he was. Very gently he rubbed the freshly wet cloth against her mons. She took a deep breath. She stepped to open her legs for him. He heard her breathing rapidly. Dare he part her lips and wash her there? He felt the cloth slip in and touch against her labia. She started gyrating in pleasure. Before he knew it she planted her hands on top of his head and pushed him in towards her.

  “No.” He pulled back. “This—this isn’t right. I have taken a vow. I—I cannot.”

  He moved to her legs, he washed them quickly. This felt awkward, his movements now were clumsy. He could feel how disappointed she had become. Disappointed and confused.

  As soon as he finished, he quickly stood up and gathered the plates, wash cloth, and pot of brew. She looked at him, her eyes speaking volumes: “How did I disappoint you, sir?” Those huge round eyes with their melancholic gaze said. And how he longed to dive in and drown in them. “What shall I do to make you happy, sir?” Her eyes kept talking to him. He ran out, the cup and a kitchen knife falling from his hand as he hurried. Their reverberating clatter echoed around the stone kitchen.