Under the Tail and Other Stories
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 9
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 9 - Hello, everybody! This is Dragonpig. I'm going to be writing a collection of stories within the anthropomorphic, or furry, genre. Some will be short stories, some will be novel-length, and others will fall somewhere in between. Yes, some of these stories will be quite explicit, while others won't be. I'm going to keep this series going until I either get bored or find that people just aren't interested in it. I'd really enjoy hearing your opinions and thoughts on my writing. Have a good one!
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Consensual Romantic Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Fairy Tale Humor Vignettes War Zoophilia Science Fiction Aliens Alternate History Space Furry Sharing Incest Mother Son Brother Sister DomSub FemaleDom Light Bond Harem Polygamy/Polyamory White Male White Female Anal Sex Analingus Bestiality Exhibitionism Fisting Flatulence Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Safe Sex Squirting Water Sports Big Breasts Public Sex Nudism
*The Dungeon Master and the Banshee*
Tommy’s ma’s sitting room smelled like a brewery and an ashtray had got into a fight. Four lads were sprawled across the furniture like discarded coats, cans in hand, while the telly muttered in the corner.
“Ma! For fuck’s sake! Put on some clothes. My friends are here,” Tommy yelled toward the kitchen.
His mother’s voice sliced back like a knife. “Don’t you Ma me, ya useless shower! Sitting on your arses all day, drinking, smoking, planning to cause more trouble. Yer father would be ashamed!”
The lads chuckled. Mikey took a drag and grinned. “Who do you think taught us? She’s not wrong though. We were about to head out and raise some hell.”
Dec cracked another can. “Speaking of hell, that old bat next door rang the guards again last night. Said our music was ‘disturbing the peace.’ I swear, one of these days I’m gonna lose it with her.”
“She’s always on our backs,” Tommy agreed. “Yelling, complaining, calling the cops on every party. I wish the miserable old hag would just mind her own fucking business.”
The front door opened. In shuffled Weird Hank, Dec’s younger brother, all in black, carrying his battered Player’s Handbook like always. The lads tolerated him. He was family, after all, and he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
“Alright, Hank?” Mikey smirked. “Come to bless us with your dice wisdom?”
Hank gave a small nod and perched on the edge of a chair. “Just finished a new campaign outline. What are ye up to?”
Dec’s eyes lit up with mischief. He pulled out a crumpled gaming magazine and flipped it open to a glossy photo: a set of obsidian dice with glowing rune engravings.
“Tell you what, little brother. You do us a favour and those dice are yours. Proper custom job. My girlfriend’s dad’s company makes them.”
Hank’s eyes widened. “What favour?”
Tommy leaned forward, grinning. “The old bitch next door. Go over there and make her stop. Tell her to lay off the noise complaints, the yelling, all of it. You pull that off, the dice are yours.”
The room exploded with laughter.
“Ah Jaysus, this’ll be good,” Mikey wheezed. “Send the dungeon master in. She’ll eat him alive.”
Hank stared at the picture of the dice for a long moment, then stood up.
“ ... Alright. I’ll do it.”
The lads howled as he walked out. They crowded to the window, watching him knock on Mrs. Ní Bhriain’s door. It creaked open. He stepped inside.
Hank felt the change the second he crossed the threshold. The house looked ordinary—faded wallpaper, old photos, a ticking clock—but the details felt off. A Celtic iron bell on the hall table. A spiral-carved stone on the mantel. The faint scent of peat and herbs that didn’t belong in modern Dublin.
The old woman closed the door, eyes sharp. “Well? What do you want, lad?”
“Mrs...?”
“Siobhán Ní Bhriain,” she said curtly. “And I know who you are. One of the troublemakers’ kin.”
Hank nodded. “My brother and his mates, they’re loud. The music, the shouting, the drinking. I get why you’re upset. But you always seem upset. Like it’s more than just them.”
She sighed and shuffled into the kitchen, putting the kettle on and setting out a plate of chocolate biscuits.
“They’re troublemakers, the lot of them. I’ve lived here for a long time,” her voice softened. “They have no respect for their elders.”
Hank’s gaze landed on the small tapestry: a spectral woman on a cliff, mouth open in an eternal scream. The pieces clicked. Banshee.
He swallowed. “Mrs. Ní Bhriain, who are you, really?”
She froze, then turned slowly. “That’s a dangerous question, boy. Why do you ask?”
“Because I read too much,” he said quietly. “And nothing in this house belongs in a normal terrace.”
For a long moment she studied him. Then she chuckled, dry, rusty, amused.
“You’re a strange one. Polite, though. Sit. Have a biscuit.” She joined him at the table, still grumbling about the lads, but her demeanour seemed a fraction lighter.
Hank ate one, then looked her in the eye.
“Maybe I can help you out.”
“With what?”
“With whatever’s really bothering you.”
Mrs. Siobhán Ní Bhriain stared at him. A slow, dangerous little smile crept across her ageless face.
“ ... Can you, lad.”
What followed was not something Hank had ever read about in any rulebook.
He dropped to his knees in her small, tidy bedroom. The cranky old woman hiked up her skirt with eagerness, one hand gripping his brown hair as he buried his face between her thighs. She tasted womanly and dangerous. Within moments, a wail tore out of her, no longer a death omen, but pure, shattering ecstasy. It rose and broke and rose again, shaking the walls.
Back in Tommy’s family sitting room, the lads froze.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that?” Mikey whispered.
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