Adult Fantasy Fiction: The Secret Sex Lives of Elves Chapter 1.1
"...Yes, Sean is not a gentleman. He’s an obnoxious, misogynistic, self-centred prick."
I am publishing this book on Steemit one thousand words at a time, a few times per week. Scroll down for the latest chapter.
What this book is about:
Everything you think you know about elves is wrong, wrong, wrong. You. Have. No. Idea! What you think you know: There are elves for Christmas. Elves for cobblers. Little winged Irish fairy elves. Short Shakespearean meddlers. Pretty, sanctimonious stuck up Tolkien types. Yes, even some dark Norse dwarves got pegged with the label. All incorrect. Flawed. Totally stupid.
This story is about how a handful of real elves and a few pathetic less-than-average humans deal with the fall of civilization. And yes, in the telling of this story, some secrets of the sex lives of elves are revealed. Hubba hubba.
WARNING: This book contains adult themes and content!
[You can more easily follow my book at wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/134804459-the-secret-sex-lives-of-elves ]
Chapter 1.1: The Peculiar End of Life Experience of Sean Hasker
Today Sean Hasker woke up in his custom-made ultra-king-sized bed to find Miranda had left early. As penitence, she had gotten him a gift. Finally, it had arrived. NASA’s fastest jetpack ever! But Sean didn’t know it yet. She had left it by the mansion’s front door where he’d find it a little later.
Despite his long night of boozing, he felt refreshed. Miranda had given him an excellent workout in the sack as well, but as the young twin Japanese women dressed in skimpy sailor suit school uniforms gave him his morning Ashiatsu massage, he realized he’d be good for another round.
How old were they? Nineteen at best? Sean, ever the perv, pictured them both contorted in every possible way with him right in the middle of it all, to the hilt.
Yes, Sean is not a gentleman. He’s an obnoxious, misogynistic, self-centred prick. Though outwardly his behaviour has improved considerably of late, his internal dialogue continues to be quite nasty. Prior to his betterment, everyone, frankly, had mostly given up on him - except for a few purely utilitarian reasons like “He owes me money”, “I think I’m pregnant”, or “He’ll tell on me otherwise.”
Well, not Miranda. For some reason, the world’s possibly most beautiful woman just couldn’t put him down. And, being an elf, you’d think she’d know better.
Well, perhaps she did. Give her credit. She is, after all, 2,500 years old.
Sean couldn’t bear to betray Miranda. He spent all his pent-up lust just on her. She was the skip in his heart. The sweet apple of his pie. The stiff in his prick.
Yes, Sean’s young. He’s twenty-six. And Miranda is a thoroughly sensual being. Don’t blame his penis for doing one of the things it was designed for. You can chastise Sean for paying it much attention, but there isn’t a man with a drop of heterosexuality who would not be drawn to Miranda. And if Miranda at all reciprocated… oh my. Your strict, God-fearing puritanical great-grandpa would be trying to rub up her leg if she gave him that smile.
With the massage done he took a luxurious bath in a tub large enough to be considered a small swimming pool. The taps were gold. The stone expensive Italian marble. The sound of gently flowing water was of peace itself. It was a perfect temperature. Every muscle of his felt unbelievably relaxed. He was veal. He floated effortlessly on his back looking through the skylight at the blue heavens and tops of oak and elm trees. A small puffy cloud looking like a puppy drifted by. The yellow sun he was basking in didn’t hurt his eyes or burn his fair skin. He was graced with perfect solace. And there he would have stayed, but he knew other fulfilling events awaited.
He emerged from his bath. The cooler air was comfortable, not cold. While drying under the heat lamps, he sipped an expensive single malt brought to him by the twins. It warmed his mouth and throat without any sharpness. “Ah,” he thought. “Must be a Hicks 15. A little smoky, a bit peppery.” He looked at himself in the wraparound mirror. He had never been in such great shape! He looked strong and potent. Taller, even. Certainly slimmer than ever. His disjointed nose and cauliflower ear had long since been painlessly fixed by Miranda’s doctors. He was now a white Aryan masterpiece. Blond hair, blue eyes, muscle ridges all over. And a powerful hooded cock, strongly hinting at having a gargantuan nature even while flaccid. Sean was proud. Sean was happy. He was finally the man he always knew he was.
The twins came in and dressed him in a robe. They dried the bottoms of his feet and placed his slippers on. He left the expansive bathroom and took the back stairs down to the kitchen. The girls seemed to vanish as he did so. They would return when needed, without his asking. He didn’t think it odd. He also didn’t think it unusual the bathroom had no toilet. In fact, the mansion had none.
Indeed, had he thought to check, he would discover that he lacked an anus. Who should need to shit in paradise?
As he reached the main floor, he could smell the steak and eggs cooking. And the coffee and toast. To the kitchen he eagerly went. On the way, he passed the room holding his extensive gun collection. He paused, gave into an impulse, and went back. He grabbed a small handgun (a Walther PPK - I’m Hasker. Sean Hasker.) from the dozens on the wall and slipped it into his robe. He made his way to the kitchen. There, his food was ready for him on the dark slate table.
“Good-Morning, Mr.-H.,” said Rosie, the robot maid.
Rosie appeared to be anything but functional. Her nose was a light bulb. Her eyes red glowing reflectors. Her mouth a crimson LED-rimmed small dark maw set into a block-shaped head. It flashed the rhythm of her syllables when she talked. A single antenna protruded from the top of her head. Her body was an aluminum box with a big hatch in front. Over the top of that were some buttons, dials and gauges fulfilling some indecipherable purpose. Her hands were large, crude pinchers. She travelled around precariously balanced on one small wheel. Yet, she cooked gourmet, cleaned to perfection and somehow managed stairs.
“Heya, Rosie! Where’s Miranda?”
“The-Mistress-went-to-work. She-didn’t-want-to-wake-you-after-your-hard- night. She-said-you-were-a-sensual-delight-last-night. Would-you-like- another-single-malt?”
“With my coffee, you bag of rusty bolts? Nah. Give me the news,” he said, as he dipped his buttered ketchuped soldier toast sticks into an ever-warm soft-boiled egg. Erect bread into wet yolk.
A three-dimensional image appeared before him of an anchorman.
“Another terrorist attack against America has been thwarted, reports the Pentagon. The radical Islamists tried to take over the Chicago Stock Exchange but were massacred by gunfire from at least twenty red-blooded patriotic Americans exercising their constitutional right to carry concealed weapons, proving yet again that there’s no need for government.
“The President of the United States took to the podium to congratulate his fellow citizens, noting that no bystanders were injured. He promised to avenge the attack by nuking another good target, like Tehran or Stockholm.”
“In other news, the Prime Minister of Canada has named another person to the Senate. His name is Sean Hasker of Richmond Hill, Ontario…”
“Ya, Baby!” Sean cried, jumping from his chair and firing his gun into the ceiling. “Who da man? Who da man? Me, that’s who!”
The streaming broadcast faded from Sean’s perception as he pictured the adoration of all he would receive when he arrived on The Hill. Oh, the women, the fame, the corruption! Sean Hasker was a somebody! No longer some drunk warehouse worker. A real power broker.
Take that, Dad. You wretched bag of beer vomit!
-- End of chapter 1-1 --
The next chapter is here.
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