Sticks and Stone (3 page)

Dermot had been accused of plenty of personality faults
by his competitors or the press, but no one had ever called him timid. He
lifted a hand and touched the dryad’s cheek.

Her silvery laugh cascaded over him, along with
a confetti
of leaves and seed pods that fell from the
branches above. She stepped forward, passing from tree to human form so
smoothly that she seemed to simply appear before him.

Her white skin gleamed in the reflected lantern light,
like a moving, living statue.
A naked statue.

She had a slim, slight build, what he’d previously
called “willowy.” Inanely, he wondered if “
elmy
” was
a word, since she obviously lived in a
wych
elm, not
a willow.

The dryad had wild brown hair, reminding him of an out
of control chia pet, framing a face that could have been carved by
Michelangelo. In a less jaded age, men might have been reduced to tears by the
sight of such beauty. Even Dermot, who had known his share of beautiful woman
and recipients of the plastic surgeon’s art, felt an urge to fall to his knees
before her and beg to be allowed to worship her.

His gaze traveled from the dangerous perfection of her
face, to the safety of her delicate breasts. They swept up in graceful symmetry
to her pointed nipples, already tight and hard with arousal.

He swallowed, flexing his fingers as he imagined playing
with those nipples. His cock surged with anticipation as he pictured his mouth
closing over one of the dryad’s breasts, while he tugged and fondled the other.

He wanted to go to her now, to begin loving her
immediately, but knew that a creature of such perfection would never allow the
coarse touch of a human lover. It was enough to admire her, and imagine
himself
loving her.

He let his gaze drift lower, admiring her trim, flat
abdomen, then lower still.

Dermot blinked. Her body was completely hairless. Her
legs joined smoothly, like two branches meeting at a fork. A pang of frustrated
desire shot from the back of his throat to his groin, as he realized she might
not even be capable of making love in the human way.

As if she knew what he was thinking, the dryad swept one
hand across her smooth abdomen,
then
beckoned him
forward.

Dermot swallowed. His cock, already primed by his
memories of Tamara and his admiration of the dryad’s body, surged to full
readiness, jutting forward like a mighty oak. Throwing his jacket aside into
the wall of trees surrounding them, he revealed the bulging eagerness of his
cock. He pointed to his tented slacks, then to her, and raised one eyebrow. The
dryad nodded.

Hardly daring to believe his luck, Dermot undid his belt
and dropped his pants and drawers, ruthlessly kicking the fine Armani into the
fallen leaves and other debris ringing the dryad’s tree. Lifting her arms above
her head, she wordlessly offered him her body.

He stepped forward, the tip of his cock just touching
the flat plane of her stomach, and skimmed his hands over her hips. His eyes
told him he caressed a woman’s body, but his fingers said they glided over the
smooth contours of polished wood.

The dryad stepped closer, trapping his cock between
their bodies. Dermot drew in a shaky breath, as his hard cock pulsed against
her equally hard flesh. She wound her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips
to his.
Warm, living lips, as hard and demanding as he might
dream.

He slid his hands higher, over her smoothly polished
skin, and cupped her breasts. They fit perfectly in his hands, the hard, tight
nipples nestling in the center of his palms.

Her head tilted back as she sighed like leaves in the
wind, urging him to further exploration. He rotated his palms over her nipples,
wringing a low, rustling moan from her.

Dermot was momentarily thrown by the way her breasts
remained stationary, with no bounce or jiggle to them. But the dryad seemed to
like having him play with them, just like a human woman would, so he continued.

Lowering his head, he replaced one hand with his mouth.
Her breast was smooth and solid beneath his lips and tongue, more like a carved
statue than a living woman. But her shuddering sighs were growing in volume and
intensity, now sounding like storm-tossed branches, so he ignored the strange
sensation. He circled the hard peak of her nipple twice with his tongue,
then
started to suck on her breast. His other hand tugged
her opposite nipple in time with his mouth.

She swayed backward, drawing Dermot after her, until she
bumped into the solid trunk of her tree. Pressing his head against her breast
with one hand, she arched toward him, urging him to draw her breast deeper into
his mouth.

He tried to suck harder, but his lips slid off her rigid
breast. So instead, he bit down on her nipple, using that as an anchor.

She whispered something in Gaelic, and sweetness filled
his mouth. He swallowed reflexively,
then
realized he
was drinking the legendary ambrosia of the gods. The fluid, thin and sweet like
watered down maple syrup, poured from her breast. He bit down harder on her
nipple, sucking her sweetness, eager to swallow every last drop. He could feel
the ambrosia coursing through him, heating him and hardening him, making him
the proper mate for an immortal faerie.

He pumped his hips, stroking the oaken length of his
cock along her stomach. She lifted one leg over his hip, urging him to plant
his cock in her fertile valley.

Dermot slid his free hand down, between her legs, and
felt for her opening. It was there, right where it should be, as rigid and
unmoving as her breasts.

He circled one finger around the smooth curve of her
opening, gauging its size. It would be a tight fit for his cock, but pleasantly
so. Sliding in and out of her rigid ring would feel similar to a human lover’s
encircling thumb and forefinger, stroking his cock from the base to the head
and back again until the teasing pressure drove him mad and he exploded in her
hands.

Dermot slipped two fingers inside the dryad, testing her
readiness. Her inner space was snug, not much bigger than the opening, and
coated with a thick, slightly sticky fluid.

He swallowed another mouthful of ambrosia from her
breast, and hungrily tongued her nipple, wondering if she would allow him to
feast on her other nectar after he’d satisfied her with his cock the first
time, before he took her with his cock a second time and finally came himself.

Removing his fingers, he guided the head of his cock to
her opening,
then
slowly slid inside. The hard ring of
her opening caressed the rigid length of his cock, and her wet, sticky walls
held him in a deep embrace.

She sighed, a soft exhalation of rustling leaves, as he
groaned. He’d never felt anything so good. She was the perfect woman. She might
even make him come the first time, although he hoped not. He wanted to prolong
this pleasure as long as possible.

He slid mostly out of her, her rigid ring stroking the
length of his cock all the way to the head, then thrust deeply into her waiting
wetness, her opening stroking him down to his balls.

Dermot lifted his mouth from her breast, throwing his
head back and groaning. “Oh, God, that’s good.”

The dryad moaned something in Gaelic, and stroked his
shirted back with her stick-like fingers. Her hands roamed downward and cupped
his ass.

Dermot sucked in a quick breath, hope swelling in his
heart. It was too much to ask for, to expect that this beautiful, ethereal
creature would—

Smack.

The dryad slapped his ass, the openhanded blow striking
his bare skin as if she was beating him with a whisk broom.

Dermot gasped as she hit him on the other side. Then she
found her rhythm, her stick-like fingers slapping his ass again and again,
a
rain of fire on his tender flesh.

He began moving with her, each blow on his ass driving
his cock through her hardened ring, sheathing his full length in her sticky
depths.

“Oh, God, yes,” he begged. “I’ve been a bad, bad boy.
Hit me again.”

The dryad complied, her branching fingers caning his ass
until the skin burned and he was floating, flying, transported by the pain to a
place of such unutterable beauty he knew he must have reached the faerie realm.

A different kind of pain, deep in his scrotum, wrenched
Dermot back to the forest.

He was no longer moving with the dryad’s beating. In
fact, he was no longer moving at all.

Something warm and wet flowed down the back of his legs,
each stroke of the dryad’s hands adding another trickle. She’d whipped his ass
until he bled, and showed no sign of stopping.

He started to pull out of her, until the agony in his
scrotum stopped him. Blind panic consumed him. He was stuck!

He reached between their bodies, feeling where they were
joined. Either he’d swollen or she’d shrunk, but there was no way his cock was
sliding through her ring.

“Wait.
Stop!”

She continued beating him, and Dermot grabbed her arms
to make her stop. The dryad growled, at least that’s what he thought the noise
of clattering, lashing branches translated to. Her face was distorted by fury,
and he wondered how he’d ever seen it as beautiful. Terrifying and alien, yes,
but it wasn’t remotely beautiful now.

She fought him, her hands clawing and whipping at his
chest and back, tearing the fine cotton of his dress shirt. Finally, in
desperation, he let go of one of her arms and punched her, a swift right cross
to the jaw.

“
Ow
!”

It was like slugging a tree.

Dermot cradled his injured hand beneath his other arm,
whimpering. It felt like he’d broken all four fingers.

The dryad began lashing his ass again, all semblance of
erotic play gone. Each blow made his vision swim in a wash of red pain. If he’d
been capable of it, he’d have fallen to his knees.

He stopped trying to resist, his mind floating in a
hellish parody of his earlier ecstasy. Idly, he wondered why his state of
abject terror hadn’t reduced his cock to the size of his thumb. Then he
wondered what the tabloids would make of the manner of his death when his body
was found. He’d wanted to accomplish so much with his life. He’d made a good
beginning, started a number of new projects and initiatives within the company
and accumulated a sizable reservoir of personal favors among the rich and
powerful while building his share of the family fortune. But none of that
mattered. Instead he’d be remembered as
a blight
upon
the family name, the Stone who died in the bizarre Irish sex scandal.

A Gaelic shout pierced the fog of his pain, causing the
dryad to redouble her efforts to beat the life out of him. The shout was
repeated, followed by an angry confrontation between a cloaked woman and the
dryad. The golden-haired woman held up her fist, bright blue light radiating
from between her clenched fingers. She shouted again, and the dryad held up one
arm to shield her eyes.

The ring around Dermot’s cock loosened fractionally.

Crying with relief, he jerked his cock free. He turned
to run from the dryad, but his legs gave out and he collapsed on the ground,
sprawling in the wet mud. The abandoned Coleman lantern still burned where he’d
left it, casting its dim radiance in a small circle around it. In its light,
Dermot could clearly see the sticky black mud for what it was—his blood mixed
with the dirt of the forest floor.

He looked up, just in time to see the dryad fleeing back
into her tree. The woman who had saved him hung the glowing blue crystal from
one of the branches,
then
turned to face him.

“Help me,” Dermot croaked. Then the last of his strength
deserted him, and he sprawled face down in the bloody mud.

Eileen pushed back the hood of her cloak and surveyed
the scene. She’d managed to intervene before the dryad had killed the man, but
it had been a close thing. He was sprawled face down in the mud made from his
own blood, his shirt slashed to tatters, and his otherwise fine looking ass
scored with bloody welts. He’d tried to fight at the end, rather than being
completely under the dryad’s spell. Eileen hoped he’d continue to be a fighter,
because he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

She gazed at the pool of bloody mud and shook her head.
“Fertile ground, indeed. Come springtime, we’ll see how many new dryads your
foolishness has seeded.”

She picked up his discarded pants,
then
bent to pull him to his feet. The man groaned, and staggered upright. Wrapping
his arm around her shoulders to help support him, she led him to her cottage.

“It’s a good thing for you I found you when I did.
Dryads plant their seedlings in mud formed from the decayed leaves of their
tree and the blood of their human mate. It’s the rare man who survives the
encounter.”

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “That was never mentioned
in the legends.”