Fantasy Western 소설 & 이야기

After she had showered she found the clothes Lucas had left for her and stood looking at them with a frown on her pretty face, 'Dear God, what century did these people live in? She thought with a wry smile holding up the calf-length gypsy skirt, it was a rich purple colour shot through with silver thread and the matching long-sleeved bolero jacket looked like it had come out of the distant past. She was unaware of the simple life the Werewolves lived, they did not follow fashion and rarely even watched the TV, they worked hard and played hard but for the most part technology passed

One look at his face told me everything I needed to know. “Western border. Smoke. Three outposts down. And—” he hesitated “—they’re using magic.” The word dropped like a stone in my chest. Magic. Not just wolves. Not just claws and teeth and brute force. They were playing dirty now. I was halfway to the staircase when the first explosion rocked the eastern edge of the territory. The entire pack house shuddered. Cracks split along the stone walls. Windows shattered in a shriek of glass. Screams followed—high-pitched, panicked, familiar.

The fantasy took over completely—Father Chris’s voice in my ear, his breath hot against my neck, his fingers replacing mine, thicker, surer, pressing that spot that made stars explode behind my eyes. I pictured him saying “louder” again while he fingered me in that candlelit room. I pictured him watching me come apart on his hand and still not giving me his cock. Not yet. The thought of being denied again pushed me over the edge. My thighs clamped around my wrist. My whole body seized, shaking so hard the water churned like a storm. I came with his name on my lips—Chris, not Father—muffled against my own arm so the neighbors wouldn’t hear.

I muttered, pulling away to look out the porthole. Outside the Great Western Woods loomed. These trees were huge and ancient. Their roots were thick like dragon scales weaving through the mud. The air here was heavy with the smell of soil damp moss and a strange vibrating hum. Helios and the Sea-Singer had already gone ahead. As Celestials they couldn't stay on a mortal ship. They moved through the ley lines two pillars of gold and sapphire light tracing the tremors that had begun to split the Western continent. The Western Province was ruled by the Stone-Fist Pack. They were an isolated clan of mountain-dwellers. They didn't use skiffs or magic; they used muscle and heavy iron mined from th

“If you go through these manuscripts, you will see how similar most of the magic arts are. Doxante magic is unique, made form scratch and it is not a copy of any mediocre magic.” “Wow.” She was shocked and her eyes widened as she flipped through the files. “Yes and that is what makes the Doxante magic honorary. “ “I will continue the legacy, trust me.” “You better do, every body is counting on you to make things better and you are the first female Doxante too, so the pressure is high.” “Are the other Doxante’s still alive?” “Which ones? I only met the one before m and I guess he is somewhere in a southern state, trying to make a good life.”

“Nice try, but stay on topic. Give me more, what’s the green light say about the American Dream?” I sighed, flipping open the book to a dog-eared page. “It’s all about wanting something you can’t have. Gatsby’s obsessed with this perfect version of Daisy, but it’s a fantasy. The light’s like… hope, but it’s also a trap, because it’s always out of reach.” Meredith nodded, her expression impressed. “Not bad. Now, let’s look at this passage…” She slid the book toward me, pointing to a highlighted section.

“Fuck… you’re going to regret it, Cilia. Every insult. Every look. Every time you made me feel small.” I couldn’t hold back anymore. With a low, guttural groan I came hard, thick ropes of cum shooting across my stomach and chest. My cock pulsed in my fist, spilling again and again while the fantasy played behind my eyes. I kept stroking through it, milking every drop, thighs shaking. When it finally faded, I lay there breathing hard, cum cooling on my skin. The rage was still there, quieter now but deeper, settling but ready. She had no idea what was coming.

As I glanced around the library, my fingers traced the spine of each book my hands touched. "Help me, Teresa," "With what? What book?" "A book about the West," "Well if it's about the West. What better way to know about it other than from a person who lives there? I'm a Westerner," I shook my head. "No, you don't understand," "What do I don't understand? You're being difficult, Amethyst," I came to a sudden halt, causing Teresa to nearly bump into me from behind. "I'm discussing a narrative from a distinct viewpoint—a perspective recounting tales from the West, not your own," I clarified.

He had to admit this place wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He let his gaze wander around the shop, taking in things he hadn't really noticed yesterday. The artwork on the walls, for instance. Yesterday, they had been blurs of color. Today, he realized they were great examples of contemporary Western art. The style was very distinctive and arresting. Someone had lovingly painted a magnificent stallion, a small herd of horses galloping across a pasture, a tired cowboy at the end of a long day, and other similar scenes. Whoever this was might have come from Montana like he had, because the essence of the cowboy had been captured perfectly.

The obscene amounts of money he threw at me every week. My pussy clenched violently around nothing. I was so close to coming, shame and shock and raw lust twisting together into something I couldn’t name. My nipples were rock hard. My thighs shook as I ground down harder on the pillow, imagining it was his lap, his thick cock buried inside me while he called me by my real name. I stared at the chat, at his username glowing there like a dirty secret. Big D. Dickson. My stepfather. The man I’d been fantasizing about for months was the same man who sat across from me at breakfast and asked me about my college classes with that calm, measured voice.