Copyright © 2012 by Aya Fukunishi
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2012
A Bangkok Nights Publication
MATING AMELIE
by
Aya Fukunishi
There was no sound in the glade but for the old man's breathing, shallow and slow, as if each inhalation took every ounce of his energy to muster. The surrounding forest chirped and buzzed with the relentless sound of the creatures of the undergrowth, but here was a circle of peace, a respectful silence, as if the forest itself averted its eyes in sadness at the final moments of the great man who had ruled it for so many years.
'Father, is there anything I can do for you? Are you in any pain?' the young man asked, anxiously bent over his father's frail form.
The old man took another breath, struggling to find air for his voice. It came out in a crackling whisper. 'No pain, my son, no pain.' Another breath came, just enough for a few more words. 'Son, there is one thing I ask of you.'
'Anything, father. Name it and it will be yours.'
A faint smile appeared on the old man's face. Such a devoted son. He took another breath, wincing with the strain of it. 'My only regret, my son, is that I didn't live long enough for you to give me a grandchild. Oh, the years I wasted! I should have had children in my youth but I waited too long, and in the blink of an eye I became the dying man you see before you.
'My son, you are the last of our line. Once I am gone you will be alone, and without children of your own there will be no more to follow. My loyal son, you must do me this kindness. You must bear young now, before it's too late. You must restore our family to its former glory. Be fruitful, my boy. Be fruitful.'
A tear fell from the young man's cheek. Had his father forgotten? 'But father, there are none left. We two are the last of our kind. I wish I could grant your request, but it's not possible.'
With effort, the old man smiled. 'But it is, my son, it is! You must take a human mate!'
The young man frowned, confused. 'Father, you told me that humans cannot breed with wolves. You told me only pure werewolves can continue the royal line.'
The old man's breaths came slower now, rattling in his chest. The conversation had used what little strength he had left, and he knew only moments remained before the twilight claimed him. Slowly, his voice little more than a hint on his breath, he whispered. 'There are many things you were told, my son, and not all of them true. A human and a wolf can breed. I saw it with my own eyes. It happened some two decades ago.'
He looked up at his son with tired, rheumy eyes. 'The girl still lives nearby, in the village on the edge of the forest. You must find her, and she must bear your child. I pray there is enough of the wolf in her to keep the blood strong. Her name is Amelie. Find her, my son. Find her.'
The young man nodded, his eyes red and tearful. 'I'll find her, father, and she will give me a child. You have my word.'
He took his father's hand in his, and held tightly as the light died from the old man's eyes. The old man smiled as he slipped away, knowing that his son's word was as hard as oak. The wolves would rule the land once more, and his son would return to his rightful place on the throne. With that final comforting thought he died, his thin, papery hand falling limp.
The very moment he passed the sounds of the forest ceased, and a moment of silence was observed for the death of the king of the werewolves.
Chapter Two
Amelie ran her hands through the knee high grass on the verge of the path, enjoying the cool, invigorating sensation of dew dripping from her fingers. Through the canopy the morning sun shone and dappled the ground in dancing spots of golden light. This was her favorite time of day, when the air was still fresh and crisp from the night but the warming sun took away its harsh edge.
What's more, she loved his time of day as it was the only time she got a moment of privacy, an escape from her mother's small, cramped cottage. Mornings were busy in the village, and her mother worked by the dawn light. Amelie's duties wouldn't begin until noon, and until then she was free to roam the forest collecting wild flowers, safe in the knowledge that nobody would bother her.
This morning it was particularly important she wasn't disturbed. It had been two weeks since her last sin, and for days she had felt that familiar burning hunger building in her once more. She knew she couldn't do it in the cottage; not with its single room, and not when her mother could walk in at any moment to catch her in her shame. The thought of her poor, puritanical mother stumbling upon the horror of her daughter writhing in carnal sin with eyes tightly closed, her mouth wide open with delight and her fingers buried deep within her wet, dripping pussy was too much to bear.
Amelie often thought of committing her sin in the village, of finding a quiet corner within earshot of her brethren, of playing with herself just inches from them without their knowledge. When the hunger became too great to bear she often fantasied about it while performing her tasks, and more than once the thought alone has been enough to bring waves of delicious, incapacitating pleasure to her body, just as powerfully as they came when she used her slender fingers to play with herself. She knew, though, that she would never dare touch herself in the village. She needed to be completely alone, and it was only here in her secret place she could be sure of solitude.
The path meandered through tall trees and thick hedges, with many narrow tracks veering off at angles from the main track. Most tracks close to the village were ill used and overgrown, but Amelie couldn't be sure this wasn't the one day a poacher or trader would take it in his head to follow a trail and catch her in the act, walking down a narrow track to find her on all fours, legs splayed open and face buried in the wet grass, grasping at a firm, hard nipple while she feverishly rubbed her eager pink mound, and gasping with joy unaware that yes played over her flushed skin. No, for this shameful, wicked deed she'd need to be assured of complete privacy.
Her fantasies possessed her as she walked, and only through strong will could she keep her hands from her body. Oh, how she wished she could lay here on the path, naked and waiting to offer herself to the first lucky traveler to pass. She'd urge him silently, holding her legs apart for him, presenting herself as a gift and inviting him to enjoy her body for hours. She'd taste his sweat and hungrily accept his seed before slipping silently from his body and leaving without a word. Lord, the temptation was sweet. It was only the fear the her passing lover would spread word to the villagers that she resisted, but she knew with each passing day the urge grew stronger. One day she would be powerless to fight her desire.
Eventually Amelie reached the spot, and not a moment too soon. Her pussy cried out to her with hunger, and she could only wait so long before its pleas grew too loud. Her secret place could only be seen if one knew where to look, but on close inspection the gap in the brambles was clear. She'd come this way many times in her shame, and could even make out her shallow, faded shoe prints in the soil from her last visit, the only hint that the track through the hedge was passable.
For most people, of course, it wasn't. The sharp brambles closed in tight, and only someone as slender as Amelie could possibly fit through the narrow gap without a painful time of it. She did so now, sliding carefully sideways through the tight gap, reminding herself once again to come up here with a sickle to prune the hedge. Soon even she wouldn't be able to squeeze through without pain.
The brambles gave way
to a small clearing, hemmed in on all sides by thick bushes and covered by the leaves of two thick, old oak trees. Little light reached the ground here, and the soil was bare but for a few dried brown leaves and a small patch of grass. The perfect place for her wickedness.
Amelie knew it to be shameful. Her mother had taught her as a child. The body is for procreation, she'd said, not for pleasure. Only wicked girls touch themselves there. Only the depraved, the immoral and the tools of Satan abuse their bodies for amusement. Her flower, as her mother called it, belonged to her future husband, and to sully it before marriage was a sin before God.
She knew this to be true, and she loved her mother dearly, but she also knew that she, Amelie, had no choice in the matter. She knew that the body issued commands that could not be denied, only delayed. Ever since she'd come of age she'd been gripped by these powerful, undeniable longings, and she often wondered if the other girls in the village felt the hunger as she did. She wondered if they could resist where she failed, or if they all had their own secret places to hide their shame. If only she could ask! Perhaps it would be easier to bear the burden knowing it was not only her who was forced to carry this weight.
Amelie held off as long as she could each time, waiting until it burned like a raging fire deep within her and joyous relief was all she could think of, but she always knew she would eventually have to return here to the glade. She knew this was the only way to quench that wild flame, and she prayed for forgiveness after each of her sins.
She reached into her basket and drew out a blanket, the red one she'd sewn together herself from scraps, and laid it gently on the grass. She sat, checking carefully for bugs nearby, and only when satisfied that the ground was clear did she lay back to look up at the gently swaying oak leaves.
While she knew this to be sinful, in these moments before the act she could only think of the excitement and pleasure to come. She knew it would take a thousand prayers to atone but she decided, quite sensibly she thought, that her atonement should at least be worthwhile. Her prayers would be just as fervent if the act took a minute or an hour, and if she was to suffer the shame to come there was no sense in hurrying the pleasure.
Amelie unbuttoned her white cotton shirt slowly as she watched the leaves, enjoying the touch of the cool air on her skin as the stifling neck high collar splayed open to here hire, smooth stomach. This was her favorite time, these precious moments of anticipation as she felt every sense heightened. Every cool zephyr raised goosebumps on her skin, and she could feel every blade of the moist grass on her hands as she ran her fingers through it. Patches of sunlight broke through the the canopy, and wherever one touched her skin she felt a moment of delicious warmth.
And then she began. Her hand dripped with sweet, glistening dew, and as she brought it over her firm, round breasts she felt cool drops fall to her milk white skin. She gasped, flinching with each splash, and then brought her dripping hand to her left breast to feel the heat of her body warm her fingers.
Beneath her palm she felt her nipple harden, swelling and rising from its island of pink skin. It amazed her that this small, pink nub, a part of her body that at other times was simply there, could so quickly become a source of tremendous pleasure. With a light, feathery touch she could send waves of joy thrilling through her body. It seemed miraculous that such a small thing could offer so much.
She watched her other breast intently as the skin around her nipple puckered and darkened, and the small mound grew erect. Beneath her hand her heart began to thump more quickly in her chest and she could sense her arousal growing with every beat as blood was diverted between her legs. She could feel her pussy swell and grow firm as the perfect, heavenly juices began to flow within her.
In these moments she could never understand why this should be so shameful. Her body reacted to her own touch as if by design; as if this was a good thing, a right thing. It was only later that the shame came flooding in, but during these precious moments she came as close as she ever could to doubting the wisdom of God and her mother. How could the Lord bless her with a body that reacted so readily to her own hands, and then forbid her from touching herself? Why would he give her the power to see Heaven with just a touch, and then scold her for sneaking a glimpse? It didn't seem just.
Amelie's nipples were fully erect now, and her breasts were tender and deliciously sensitive to the slightest touch, the faintest hint of breeze or breath. She reached out to collect more dew from the grass, and shuddered with pleasure as the cool water ran from her fingers and into the crevice between her mounds.
Desperate to prolong this moment before she delved into herself Amelie placed two fingers deep in her mouth, coating them with saliva before returning them to her breasts. She moistened each firm nipple, and lay waiting for a breeze. When it finally came she gasped with delight. Her wet nipples sent a chill through her body, raising goosebumps on her skin and sending her arousal to dizzying heights. She felt as if the forest itself was making love to her, whispering sweet nothings on its breeze.
She raised herself from the blanket and collected yet more dew on her fingers allowing it to drip slowly onto her nipples, and watched the sweet, clear water run slowly from her breasts down to her stomach, turning this way and that as the flow met tiny unseen hairs on her skin. When the water finally reached her navel she giggled at the tickling sensation, and watched as her belly button filled like a tiny cup.
Her breath came quickly now, fluttering with arousal, and the sun warmed her bare skin. The hunger was greater than ever but she was in no mood to rush. Every moment must be savored and remembered, for who knew when she would next get the chance to come out to the clearing and commit this irresistible sin once more? Who knew how long she would have to suffer the torture of waiting, pressing herself against the base of her spinning wheel as it turned and vibrated just to relieve the maddening pressure?
Once again she idly considered simply staying out in the forest. Oh, the fun she'd have! She'd spend her days swimming naked in the streams, touching herself beneath the surface of the cool water as her juices flowed from her and away on the current. She'd climb trees, resting for hours suspended with a thick limb pressed between her thighs, the weight of her body bringing her to orgasm after shuddering orgasm in the canopy.
And, of course, she could trade her body for food and supplies with passing traders. She'd use her sole currency in bargains that would, to her, be entirely one-sided, taking her supplies as well as her satisfaction. It would be perfect to live free from the strictures of the village, to be able to sate her hunger and slake her thirst whenever the mood took her.
She called to mind her favorite fantasy once more. She would lay on her back on the grass of the clearing, dripping wet with her fingers buried deep within her tight, throbbing pussy when a young man would step from the brambles and watch her in silence. At first she would fail to notice him, so invested was she in her own body, but eventually he would move to undress and catch her attention. She would gasp as if shocked and appalled and make to run from the cleaning, but he would chase her down.
He'd be strong, far too strong to resist, and he'd pin her to the ground, tear her clothes roughly from her body and have his way with her for hours on end. He'd fill her over and over again, ignoring her hollow pleas for mercy, returning time after time to force his will upon her. She'd overflow with his seed. Her body would drip with him, hot and wet, and she would not be allowed to clean herself.
Eventually, when his appetite for her was finally satisfied, he'd toss her torn rags over her body and leave her to stumble naked back to the village. Once there she'd feign distress, but in her heart she'd know that now her innocence had been taken - without shame, and through no fault of her own - she'd no longer be confined to the life of a maiden. She'd be free.
Amelie felt that she had become deliciously, sinfully wet as she slid her hand down her smooth stomach, running a finger into the shallow pool filling her belly button, and continued on to the strin
g knot at the front of her skirt. She fumbled with it for a moment, as she always did, before finding purchase with a fingernail and tugging it loose. The knot unraveled, and her hand eagerly slipped beneath the waist.
That first touch was beautiful. The hunger, burning for days and heightened by her darkest, most tempting fantasies, was almost a physical force. She desperately wanted to bury her fingers deep inside. She wanted to fill herself with her fingers, to quickly sate her hunger and feel that gasping, shuddering joy she dreamed of so often, but she knew she must move slowly. She knew the climax would be all the sweeter for the waiting, and she knew the sweet torture of denial would bring about an orgasm that would make her scream so loud the forest would empty of birds. She knew a slow tease towards her climax would leave a memory burning brightly enough to sustain her until the next time.
Her questing fingers slid through her fine, downy hair until they found the small, throbbing mound of her clitoris hidden beneath a fold of skin. She teased the hood aside and sent her other hand beneath her skirt to stroke it, and the moment she touched the tiny, sensitive nub her toes curled all by themselves. She felt her face flush, and the clearing was suddenly too warm despite the morning chill.
The hunger took over now, as it always did. Her intention was always to prolong this for hours, but she knew the hunger would always overrule her. Now her rational mind took a step back and the insatiable hunger stepped into the light. Her fingers moved downwards, tracing the line of the crease where her lips met. When she reached the bottom she felt her wetness and knew that her plentiful juices had already soaked through her skirt to the blanket beneath. She knew she was already dirty, dripping with her naughty, forbidden nectar, and that her skirt would be covered in it for the rest of the day as she went about her duties.
Creampie Dreams: Impregnation Erotica Trilogy Page 1