Topology of Knots

by Stinky Boot

Copyright© 2013 by Stinky Boot

Fantasy Sex Story: A bachelor mathematician with a taste for erotic fantasy inadvertently calls fairies to his garden, and is rewarded. Mild caution in effect.

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   Fiction   Paranormal   Size   .

"Topology of Knots" by Stinky Boot

Dr. Greg Danton relaxed on the patio lounger, savoring the moment. He was a devout believer in not working on Sundays.

His note for JKTR, an amusing trifle, was ready a week before deadline; he'd give it to UPS when they made their stop in the morning.

One of the subjects of his note, which he'd modeled in flax, with its central opening suitably enlarged, now surrounded his garden gate. He couldn't see it from his chair, but its presence almost glowed in his mind. He swore the garden itself looked better through it. The giant knot was an instantiation of a lovely idea inspired by two related figures in an antique collection of Celtic art. That artist seemed to have missed others in what turned out to be a set generated by the same group operations. It pleased him to fill the gaps, but even more to have found that the set was cyclic, that repeating the same operations over and over eventually returned you to the starting point.

He wondered if anyone would get the gate's little joke. He'd reluctantly used the original drawing in the paper; in print, the gate's arrangement was just too obvious.

He sipped the wine he'd laid down a year ago. He'd uncorked the first bottle to celebrate the completion of the paper and the gate.

A comic book, an erotic high fantasy epic, lay loosely in his hand, cover bent back. Hell with the collectors, he just wanted to read the damn thing. He really liked this artist.

And maybe jack off. His thin cotton robe was open, his cock loosely erect in his hand.

He waved away an enormous moth with the comic. It danced clear, then fluttered right back in front of him. He focused.

It was no moth; it was a girl, no more than six inches tall, with green wings and bobbed red hair.

A fairy, in fact. He smothered his warning skepticism. There was a fairy in his garden! She liked him! Don't scare her off!

He dropped comic and cock, smiling in admiration. Her body was slender, with a smooth crease between her legs. Her wings weren't attached merely at her shoulders, but instead ran from the sides of her neck down to her thighs. They were neither birdlike or insectoid, but might have been grown from iridescent jellyfish.

He held out his hand and she perched on it, standing in the crook of thumb and forefinger.

On impulse, he picked up his wineglass and tipped it for her. She hovered over the glass, gripping the rim to steady herself as she sipped through a long, tubular tongue.

When she finished, he set the glass down and held his hand out again. She began humping his thumb in obvious delight. He stroked her hair, her back, her bottom.

She slipped down and swung away from him, hanging off his finger like a swimmer at the edge of a pool. He crooked his ring finger to give her a place to stand. Her tiny, adorable cunny beckoned. Bracing her with his thumb against the back of her calves, he lifted her to his mouth and pressed his tongue into her sweetness.

Not enough. He plucked her up by her wings, tilted his head back, and let her straddle his tongue. As she climaxed, there was a tiny burst of irresistible perfume, a barely perceptible spritz of insanely intoxicating salty wine.

She wriggled loose to flutter back up and nestle in his hair. She was singing, at the barest edge of his hearing range, like a musical mosquito.

Another fairy appeared, hovering over the wineglass on the table. He topped it off, almost to the rim. After sipping at it, she rewarded him with a kiss, her tongue tickling his lips most delightfully. His pleasure was all out of proportion to her size.

Then she fluttered down to his ramrod cock. She wrapped her arms and legs around it, rubbing herself against it, kissing and licking the tip.

Two more fairies took their sip at the wineglass and settled on his chest, each rubbing her cunny against his sharply erect nipples.

Fairies surrounded him, fluttering, touching, licking, rubbing, kissing. They played with his hair, tickled his ears, nestled in his navel, jostled his balls. He was laughing, deliciously helpless. Fairies drank the tears from his cheeks and he licked their cunnies, their bellies, their boobies.

Six of them formed a rotating torus of fairy cunt that slid up and down his cock. Their tongues ran in the notch behind his cock head, then teased the very tip, delightfully stinging inside the opening before rising almost too far to reach, then sinking back down.

He was so enthralled, trying to see exactly how they wove arms and legs and wings together, he couldn't quite come. His delicious agony left him in helpless, sobbing giggles.

He could hear them laughing in sympathy, their jollity too high pitched for human ears, but filling his mind nevertheless.

They unlinked for a final, upward surge, hugging his entire length until they peeled away at the top. The rest swarmed in at the base, rose up the shaft, and fountained away, a tornado of eldritch cooze. All of the fairies gathered in a ranked cloud before him, and turned away from him to watch something come in through the gate.

She was one of their own, but twice their size. Her red hair was a ginger nimbus, flowing in the wake of her rippling green wings. Her body was extravagantly concealed and revealed by wings and hair. Her hips and bottom begged his caress. Her breasts were full, with slightly upturned nipples, swaying just enough with her movements to enchant. They promised milky soma to a suckling mortal.

He was in the presence of a Queen, he realized. Her court helped him slip off the lounger, tugging his robe from his shoulders. Naked, he knelt before Her, pressing his face to the flagstones. She touched the back of his head, and Her ladies tugged his hair, signaling him to rise. He held the wine glass out to Her, and She sipped at it, honest sips, he could hear it bubbling between Her lips.

When She was done, She allowed him to clasp Her about the waist, and bring Her to his lips for the kiss. Hers was not the barely perceptible brush strokes of Her ladies, but a true joining. She nibbled at him. When She pressed Her tongue into his mouth, it tasted of his wine, of honey, of sweet spice, and sex.

He lifted Her to kiss Her nipples, his tongue pressing each one. She shivered and arched in pleasure as Her milk flowed into his mouth, rich as brandied cream.

The flock of ladies guided his hands down, to allow Her to nestle on his tip.

Her cunny was not smooth, but furred with delicate strawberry blonde velvet. He rubbed Her back and forth over his tip, spreading his juices and Hers there. The living maypole dance had gotten his shaft thoroughly slick, but now the flock refreshed it, kissing it, his hand, and his Queen.

Then they pulled back, in a wave like a curtain parting. He looked his Queen in the eye, and She nodded.

He pressed Her down over his cock. Waves of intense pleasure flowed into his balls, his bladder, his anus, his belly, his heart and lungs, his brain. She should have split, his cock filling her to bursting, but instead She just expanded, keeping Her perfect proportions. Her breasts popped out a little more.

Her entire body embraced him, rippling up and down his shaft, milking him. He could hear, actually hear, the sweet song of Her pleasure, a solo violin in the silent symphony of lust and delight filling his mind from Her court.

His thumbs rubbed Her breasts, barely touching the nipples, then bearing down. She twisted in cat-like luxury, writhing around his shaft.

The court attacked his nipples, his lips, his ears, his balls, his thighs, even his feet.

He opened his mouth for a fairy tugging at his lips. She slipped halfway in, feet first, and he played his tongue against her scrumptious nethers. Two more fairies had their shoulders under his chin, urging him to eat. Their sister's flesh tasted like a minty lemonade gumdrop.

The milk of his Queen and the flesh of Her court were, he decided, all the sustenance he would ever need.

A great firework of sex exploded in his brain. He felt like gallons of fluid were jetting forth into his tiny Lover.

The last he remembered, he thought he could see the eye of his cock peeking out of Her open mouth with every stroke. As he'd withdraw, he could feel Her mouth close on it, squeezing it with a vise of lust. Her eyes were full of satisfaction and possession. He belonged to Her. He was content to die to please Her, he decided, and pumped his Queen up and down on his cock as his life pumped into Her.

The Oberon knocked at the front door. A bronwyn opened it, shading her eyes against the setting sun. She was about four feet tall, her ivory skin clothed in only her cascade of champagne hair and a few teasing tatters of brown and lincoln green. A dagger hung from her waist in a scabbard of birch bark.

She bowed.


"Is the mortal still ... mortal?"

She nodded her appreciation at the Oberon's immediate concern for something so far beneath him.

"Yes, Milord. However," she ventured, "Will you not tend to the Welcome, first?"

He suppressed his eagerness; he'd barely been able to enter from the front, the Welcome called so strongly. It lessened to the ignorable salute of an over-enthused herald as he came over the threshold.

"It can wait longer than the mortal, can it not?"

"Yes, Milord. Thank you." She had chosen her Oberon wisely; many would have gone directly to what they would consider proper Fae business.

For a mortal's dead hovel, the house was astonishingly pleasant, filled with light. Potted plants luxuriated in their slavery. A piercing nag grew as he passed a scriptorium of some sort, judging by the clutter of tomes and parchments, and the glossy white wall filled with ugly if brightly colored symbols and diagrams. He almost turned to investigate, but...

"Milord? I agree that's unpleasant, but I think not dangerous. The real problem is at the back gate."

They stepped out to a courtyard through a door made of a single, enormous sheet of perfect glass that slid aside. How had that been done? No whisper of Work, much less Craft or Art, attached to it.

The bronwyn's mortal was lying naked in a couch strung on a skeleton of dull gray metal, tears on his cheeks, drool on his chin.

A mab lay smoking on the stones. Her fairies were scattered about, a few still twitching.

"Well done."

"She wasn't much more than twat when I arrived, with no fight in her. All I had to do was not let the fairies bite."

That hadn't been hard; they were little more than fingers on the mab's hands. They had also feared the bronwyn's blade.

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