Bellindua Rasteriel Cinderthorn was, by the admission of her august and noble parents, a rarefied breath of dignity and elegance, from the mouth of the Old One to the sweeping green hills of the Endless Forest itself. A young lady of class and beauty, they'd smile knowingly - at a mere one hundred and ninety, already well-versed in the ancient arts of manners and decorum, a vision of beauty in lace and gold filigree that was made over the course of a thousand years. From her parents' lips would spill a veritable flood of praise and finely-worded admiration, a flow of delicate compliments and refined noblesse.

From Bell's lips, though, currently flowed a wet stream of warm spit, her nose buried in the tangled hair above the human's cock.

Her lace dress had long been sold off in favor of something more sensible - a dash of moon silver scale over something properly sturdy, the simple ties of her shirt dangling off the tavern chair on the other side of the room. It'd been that that had gotten his attention, initially, the inquisitive poke of a very un-wizardly head into her life heralding a cheerful barrage of questions. What was she doing away from the woods, and what was her name, and would she fancy sharing some stew and enough drink to kill a particularly stubborn rock troll. Sure, there had been that offhand comment about wanting to figure a few things out about elves, but he'd seemed respectable enough.

Which may, Bell reflected, have been delightfully wrong, as fingers the size of her wrist furrowed her hair and pulled her down into him, a gentle pressure in the man's hands that said he'd done this a few too many times to be any sort of respectable. Granted, her thighs were chafed with stubble burn all along the inside, but he'd smiled, and closed the door, and then... this. Eventually. For the moment, all the world was the rock of his hips and the taste of him, warm candlewood and sweat, and the shape of him on her tongue. Already, there was that tingle pressed in the warm weight against her chin, a faint wisp of essence gathering and pooling, determinedly beginning the slow climb into explosion.

Life was, it turned out, a good deal more fun without being refined.

It's a simple premise, really - small, swashbuckling elven lass meets a very unwizardly wizard determined to get to the bottom of why elves live so damn long. Add in a dash of rebellion, a hint of getting tossed happily around the tavern all knight, and a little soupçon of romantic adventure, and we've got... well, something that Tolkien would be horrified by, but something a good deal more fun, after all, than being refined.

Kinks: Humor, adventure, sloppy oral, cute elves, creampie-ing said cute elves, what that dwarf on Copper Street grumpily calls buggery, the sexy sort of magic.

Limits: Blood, elves under 180 and humans under 18, wearing a pointy hat, and by Glollin's Beard, no brown wizardry.

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