Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I turn away. Whatever I’ve witnessed is intimate, and not for me to spy on. But my stomach sours for reasons I can’t name and don’t wish to examine. Perhaps I feel an ownership over Luthian owing to our deal, an ownership that’s inappropriate and illogical. Our arrangement will consume my life; is it unfair of me to wish it would consume his, as well?
“Merry morning!”
I turn sharply at the words and the sound of the doors opening. The voice is far too cheerful to belong to the old servant. It belongs to a faery who flutters in with the toes of her pastel blue slippers skimming the richly stained wood floor.
“Sorry to have startled you,” the faery says, and I detect the elegant accent of the Springlands. “I thought you were expecting me.”
I shake my head, too dumbstruck by her beauty to use my voice. She has wings of intricate lace and pale blue hair mixed with string and yarn and ribbons in a thick pouf. A fascinator styled like a tiny sewing basket sits cocked to the side of her head. Her gown, a wide, panniered mountain of pearlescent gossamer rising to a satin bodice with a scandalously low scooping neckline, matches her hair. I am overwhelmed by her beauty, her nearly-transparent skin that glows like the surface of a pearl, her broad smile showing even whiter teeth, the beauty mark in the shape of a heart at the corner of her lower lip.
She looks like a doll.
“Well, leave it to the old witch to not announce me.” Lace wings whirring, the faery moves across the room and plucks the fascinator from her hair. She drops it to the floor, and it springs open, ejecting a dressmaker’s mannequin, trifold mirror with gilt edges, bolts of fabric and spools of thread that scatter across the floor. “I’m Sarta. Luthian summoned me to…help him with your transformation.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my nightgown; the crimson stain from the night before is gone. “Well, I don’t have any clothes. So, I’m glad to see you.”
The faery laughs like wind chimes.
“I’ve never been to a dressmaker,” I admit haltingly. “My mother made my dresses. She was a faery, like you. She used her magic and…”
My throat sticks shut as if to protect me from more words, more memory. Isn’t my mother the reason I’m here? Why should remembrance of her be so difficult?
“Luthian told me all about her,” Sarta says with a tinkling laugh. “That she was beautiful. Powerful. Very like her daughter.”
I flush at the comparison. “I’m afraid he over-praised me. I am not so very much like my mother. She was a conduit for the springtime. I’m a human. I have no magic.”
“Ah, but your magic…” She waves a finger in a circle in the air, about the height of my midsection. The circle grows smaller and she fixes her gaze on my thighs. “You humans have a different kind of magic.”
I look down and understand with another furious blush. “You mean…”
“Human pussy, I’m told, feels incredible.” Sarta lifts an eyebrow before turning toward her supplies. “You need a full wardrobe, then?”
“This is all I have,” I say, lifting my arms.
“Then we shall start with underthings and work our way out from there.” Sarta pushes back the sleeves of her gown and shakes a terrifyingly long needle into her hand. It rests between her thumb and forefinger, perfectly balanced as she bobs it in the air, lost in thought. “We’ll need measurements.”
With a wave of her needle wand, my nightgown deftly unsews itself, falling into unfinished parts on the floor. I stand before her completely naked, my skin immediately puckering into goose flesh.
“You need stockings, of course.” She waves the wand again. White silk stockings, tied just above my knees with garter ribbons, materialize on my legs. Kneeling before me, she places a hand on my calf and smooths her palm up, to where my bare skin meets the silk. “How do these feel?”
“Luxurious,” I say, my gaze captivated by the sight of her long, slender fingers stroking my leg.
“Perhaps you’d like them better if they were tied a bit lower?” Before I can answer, she unties the ribbon and swiftly rolls the stocking down, her fingertips grazing my skin. She clucks her tongue. “No. Higher, I think.”
I gasp as she pushes the silk up and smooths over the inside of my thigh. When she leans in to tie the garter, her cheek brushes my mound. And when she looks up at me, a coy glance from her sideways turned face, I know it’s intentional.
“Ah,” I say with a wry smile. “My ‘transformation.’ Not just my wardrobe.”
“My attempt at tact. Though, I prefer a more direct…” She walks her fingers slowly up my inner thigh as she talks, her breath stirring the downy curls at my center. “Approach.”