In the shadowed heart of Wychwood, where ancient trees twisted skyward like the gnarled hands of forgotten gods, Francesca, moved with the silent grace of a predator. The Warrior Princess of Wychwood, a striking figure, tall and lithe, her leather skirt clinging to her hips, its ragged hem brushing her thighs as she navigated the moss-draped roots. Beneath it, leather knickers molded to her form, a practical yet intimate shield against the wilds. A brass breastplate, intricately etched with curling vines, hugged her torso, glinting faintly in the dim light that pierced the forest’s thick canopy. Her broadsword hung strapped across her back, its weight a familiar comfort as she patrolled the realm she’d sworn to protect.
Wychwood was no ordinary forest. It thrummed with magic, its air heavy with the scent of pine, damp earth, and the faint musk of unseen creatures. The trees, their bark scarred by time, whispered secrets in a language older than humankind, their branches interlocking to form a ceiling that swallowed the sun. Here, myth and reality danced a perilous waltz, and Francesca, raised among its mysteries, knew its rhythms well. Today, the forest felt alive with restless energy, urging her deeper into its embrace.
As she approached a clearing she often used as a vantage point, a sound snagged her attention, soft, rhythmic moans interwoven with the rustling of leaves. Her pulse quickened, curiosity warring with duty. She crept forward, her boots sinking into the loamy soil, and parted the thorny branches of a blackthorn bush. What she saw stole the breath from her lungs.
In the center of the clearing, bathed in a shaft of rare sunlight, a Woodwode and a Wood Nymph were entwined in a lover’s embrace. The Woodwode was a creature of primal majesty, his form a fusion of man and forest. His skin, rough as oak bark, rippled with muscle beneath a texture that seemed carved from the trees themselves. Leaves and twigs sprouted from his hair, a living crown that shivered with each movement, and his eyes burned with an emerald fire, ancient and untamed. He towered over the nymph, his hands, large, calloused, yet gentle, cradling her as though she were both treasure and tempest.
The Wood Nymph was his ethereal counterpoint, a vision of otherworldly grace. Her skin shimmered with a soft, pearlescent glow, as if lit from within by moonlight trapped beneath her flesh. Her hair cascaded in waves of vibrant color, violet petals fading to golden blooms, then wilting to crimson before blooming anew, a cycle of life mirroring her every breath. Slender and supple, she moved with a fluidity that defied mortal constraints, her eyes closed in rapture as she surrendered to the Woodwode’s touch.
Their union was a dance of nature, raw and reverent. The Woodwode knelt in the moss, his knees sinking into the earth as he drew the nymph into his lap. She straddled him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her hands tracing the ridges of his bark-like chest. He entered her with a slow, deliberate thrust, and her head tipped back, a cascade of flowers spilling from her hair to scatter across the ground. Her moan was a melody, high and keening, blending with the low, resonant groan that rumbled from his throat.
Francesca watched, rooted to the spot, her heart pounding against her ribs. The air grew thick with the scent of sap and crushed petals, mingling with the musk of their arousal. The Woodwode’s hands roamed the nymph’s body, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing nipples that glowed like tiny stars, then sliding down to grip her hips. She rocked against him, her movements fluid yet urgent, each thrust met with a counterpoint that spoke of deep, instinctual harmony. His cock, thick and veined like a tree root, glistened as it plunged into her, her slickness catching the light in fleeting, iridescent flashes.
Heat bloomed in Francesca’s core, an ache that spread like wildfire through her veins. She shifted, her thighs pressing together beneath her skirt, and her hand slipped beneath the leather, finding the damp within her knickers. Her fingers brushed her clit, tentative at first, then bolder, circling in time with the couple’s rhythm. She bit her lip, stifling a gasp as she imagined herself in the nymph’s place, the Woodwode’s rough hands on her skin, his cock filling her with that same relentless force. The fantasy sent a shiver racing down her spine, her breath hitching as pleasure coiled tighter within her.
The Woodwode quickened his pace, his thrusts growing deeper, more insistent. The nymph’s cries sharpened, her body arching as she clawed at his shoulders, leaving trails of sap where her nails dug in. Flowers burst from her hair in a riot of color, petals raining down to carpet the moss. Francesca’s fingers moved faster, her arousal soaking her fingers, but the sensation remained frustratingly hollow. She pressed harder, chasing release, yet the sight before her demanded more than her own touch could provide.
In the clearing, the lovers neared their peak. The Woodwode’s hands tightened on the nymph’s hips, lifting her slightly before slamming her down onto him, his growl reverberating through the trees. She screamed, a sound of pure ecstasy, her body convulsing as her climax claimed her. Flowers withered and bloomed in rapid succession, a storm of petals swirling around them. He followed moments later, his head thrown back, leaves trembling as he roared his release, his cock pulsing deep inside her. They stilled, locked together, their breaths ragged in the sudden silence, the forest seeming to hold its breath in awe.
Francesca withdrew her hand, trembling, her body taut with unspent desire. The ache within her was a living thing, gnawing at her resolve. She needed more, something real, something visceral. Adjusting her knickers, she stood, casting one last glance at the lovers as they collapsed into the moss, entwined and sated. Her destination crystallized in her mind: Sir Richard’s workshop. He alone could quench the fire they’d ignited.
She turned from the clearing, her boots crunching leaves as she forged a path toward the canal. The forest grew denser here, shadows lengthening as the canopy thickened, but her senses remained sharp. As she neared the stone bridge spanning the waterway, a cluster of guttural voices halted her steps. She ducked behind a twisted yew, peering out to see a gang of trolls huddled near the water’s edge.
They were a brutish lot, five in number, their warty skin glistening with slime, yellowed tusks protruding from sneering mouths. Their eyes glinted with malice, and their hands clutched crude weapons: a rusted axe, a splintered club, a length of chain. Francesca strained to catch their words, her grip tightening on her sword’s hilt.
“Tonight’s the night,” one growled, his voice like gravel underfoot. “We hit the smith’s place. Take his brass, his tools, take everything.”
Another chuckled, a sound that grated like stone on stone. “He’s alone, no match for us. We’ll gut him if he squeals.”
Rage flared in Francesca’s chest, hot and bright. Sir Richard was more than a craftsman; he was a guardian of Wychwood’s spirit, his forge a beacon of safety. She wouldn’t let these filth defile it. Drawing her broadsword with a whisper of steel, she stepped into view, her stance radiating menace.
The trolls whirled, surprise morphing into snarls. “Who’re you?” the leader barked, hefting his axe.
“Your reckoning,” Francesca said, her voice ice-cold. “Leave now, or I’ll make you wish you had.”
They laughed, a cacophony of derision. “Five against one, girlie,” the chain-wielder sneered. “You’re dead meat.”
Her lips curled into a feral smile. “Prove it.”
She lunged, blade flashing as the trolls charged. The leader swung his axe, but she ducked, the weapon whistling over her head. She drove her sword’s pommel into his gut, doubling him over, then spun to parry the club aimed at her skull. The impact jarred her arms, but she pivoted, slashing the flat of her blade across the troll’s temple. He crumpled, out cold.
The chain-wielder lashed out, the links whistling toward her legs. She leapt, the chain grazing her boot, and landed with a thrust that caught his wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon. A kick to his knee sent him howling to the ground. The remaining two rushed her together, one with a dagger, the other bare-fisted. She sidestepped the blade, grabbing the dagger-wielder’s arm and twisting until it snapped, his scream echoing as she flung him into his companion. A final blow to each head silenced them.
Breathing hard, sweat beading on her brow, Francesca surveyed the fallen trolls. None were dead, she’d used restraint, honoring Wychwood’s balance, but they wouldn’t trouble anyone soon. She fetched hemp ropes from her satchel, binding their wrists and ankles with practiced knots. “Stay down,” she muttered, stepping over their groaning forms.
Her muscles ached, her body slick with exertion, but the fire in her belly still burned. She pressed on, the canal’s lock gates looming ahead, and with them, Sir Richard’s workshop. Smoke curled from its chimney, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal a siren’s call.
She pushed open the oak door, heat slamming into her like a physical force. The forge roared at the room’s center, its glow casting flickering shadows across stone walls. Sir Richard stood at his anvil, a titan of sinew and sweat. His linen shirt clung to his broad chest, translucent with perspiration, revealing the dark hair beneath. A leather apron shielded his torso, but below, he wore only a thong, no trousers, his muscular legs bare and glistening. His hammer struck brass with relentless precision, each blow a testament to his mastery.
She cleared her throat, and he paused, turning to face her. His gray eyes, sharp as storm clouds, locked onto hers, roaming her form with unabashed appraisal, her sweat-slicked skin, the taut leather skirt, the brass breastplate contoured over her breasts. A slow smile curved his lips, both knowing and hungry.
“Princess Francesca, Wychwood’s Warrior” he rumbled, his voice deep enough to rattle her bones. “What brings you here?”
She stepped closer, her boots clicking on stone. “I need brass,” she said, her tone steady despite the huskiness creeping in. “A guard for… a sensitive place.”
His brow lifted, intrigue sparking in his gaze. He set the hammer down, wiping his hands on a rag, and closed the distance between them. “Sensitive, eh?” His eyes flicked to her groin, then back to her face. “I’ll need to measure you proper.”
Her pulse raced as she unbuckled her skirt, letting it fall. The leather knickers followed, leaving her bare from the waist down. The workshop’s heat kissed her skin, intensifying the ache within her. Sir Richard sank to his knees, his face level with her hips, and his hands hovered above her mound, hesitating as if to prolong the tension.
Then he touched her, fingers tracing her contours with a craftsman’s care, measuring width, depth, shape. Sparks shot through her, her breath catching as he lingered, caressing now, his touch igniting her further. “You’re wet,” he observed, voice low and rough.
“Watching a Woodwode and nymph,” she admitted, cheeks flushing. “It… it, stirred me.”
He chuckled, a dark, velvety sound. “I reckon it did.” He rose, fetching a brass sheet from a shelf, his shirt stretching tight across his back. Returning, he knelt again, a tool scratching her outline into the metal. His other hand rested on her thigh, thumb circling her skin, driving her mad.
Her fingers found his thong, untying it with a tug. It fell, revealing his cock, thick, long, hardening under her gaze. He didn’t flinch, his focus on the brass, but his eyes gleamed with want. She grasped him, stroking slowly, marveling at his heat.
He set the brass aside, cupping her pussy fully in his work roughened hand. “Need the exact shape,” he growled, fingers slipping inside her. She gasped, lifting a leg over his shoulder, opening to him. He thrust deeper, curling his fingers, and she cried out, her hand tightening on his cock.
Their mouths crashed together, a hungry clash of lips and tongues. She guided him to her entrance, rubbing his tip against her until he groaned. His hands gripped her hips, and he thrust, filling her completely. She moaned, legs wrapping around him as he lifted her, pinning her against the workbench.
He moved with purpose, shallow teases, then deep plunges, each stroke pushing her closer to the edge. Her fingers found her clit, circling frantically, and she came with a scream, her body clenching around him. He didn’t stop, driving her to another peak before spinning her around.
Bent over the anvil, she spread her legs as he teased her clit with his cock, sparking another orgasm. He slammed into her, hands untying her breastplate to cup her breasts, pinching her nipples. Pleasure-pain surged, and she felt him tense, his thrusts growing erratic.
“Together,” she gasped, and he nodded. With a final, deep thrust, he came, his release triggering hers. They shuddered as one, waves of ecstasy crashing over them, until they stilled, panting in the forge’s glow.
He withdrew, steadying her as she swayed. “Guard’ll be ready by dawn,” he said, voice soft with promise.
She dressed, smiling faintly. “Thank you.” Stepping into the night, she knew this was just the beginning, a bond forged in Wychwood’s fire, destined to endure.
OxonWoods Man 