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  Moon Love

  Copyright © 2015 by Hester St. Jean

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-842-1

  Cover art by Syneca Featherstone

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  Dedication

  My Seattle sisters in writing

  Moon Love

  By

  Hester St. Jean

  A Beyond Fairytales

  Adaptation of Grimms’ “The Moon”

  Chapter One

  Lust and Light

  This is the story of how I learned to love. My brother and I had come down to the surface to explore the world of Merelings when the cosmic brawl broke out. You may have heard of it. Titans and Olympians, each side determined to obliterate the other in spite of their family ties, or perhaps even because of them. When the first thunderbolt tore the sky, I climbed a young oak tree and pulled a cloud around myself to hide my light. Instinct told me to avoid taking sides. My brother hurried back to his chariot parked at the edge of the sky, urging me to follow, but I cowered, clinging to the tree branch. Then came the boulders, a frightful noise. The earth shuddered and shook from the violent combat; the sky itself moaned and sobbed. In Mereling terms, the carnage continued for a decade, during which I huddled and my brother tried in vain to call me out. He would not leave me there alone; I would not expose myself to the fury of our parents and grandparents to dare join him. My brother was calling to me from his far horizon when it happened: a great rending of the fabric, so sudden and awful, and then a crack and a scream. I could see my twin look down from his distant chariot. Then we both turned eyes upward and looked at the sky just in time to see it slam shut.

  Oh, yes, I can tell you a story worth your coin, old man. And I’m full aware you will profit from it. This suits me well. I’ve lost my fondness for long conversation so am happy to speak it just one more time in its entirety. If you make a fortune on it, I will be content. If you find no one to pay you to tell it, well, it’s the risk a bard like you takes, isn’t it?

  I think you will find, though, it is a tale worth telling. An important tale, first of bawdiness then of theft and betrayal. Yet it will lead, I promise you, to the conclusion you say your audiences crave.

  Tell them this, Ancient One. Once upon a time, I ruled the night sky, and do again. My brother the sun and I were born of love. Not all can make such a claim, whether Immortal or Mereling. But because we dallied, curious about this land of Merelings, preferring play here over the weighty and tedious violence of the goings on among the Immortals, we came to be lodged in this place of Life and Death.

  Someday, perhaps we will find our way home. If we should someday wish to return. Or some night. In either case, if we do, it will leave the world where we take turns bestowing light in near total darkness, with only the stars to see in the sky.

  And while I ached for many long eons to see the land from whence I came once more, I’ve come to know peace, and yes, happiness ever after—or as close to it as any Mereling can measure—in my current circumstances.

  Stay a while, friend. Settle your bones on my favorite beach here under my light, stoke your pipe, and listen to my tale.

  When the door of the heavens shut on us, we found we were stuck, my twin and I, on opposite sides of the sky. I made my home by day in a hut built into the side of a hill, a cave of comfort for my sleeping hours, for I’ve always slept by day. By night, while my brother slept, I lived in an old oak tree in a land called Hedon—a place of laughter and pleasure taking. Every evening I climbed up the boards nailed to the trunk of the oak tree and settled into the crook of the lowest bough. I liked having my back to the branches. It gave me a perch from which to view the young people of the town, and them an opportunity to study me, a study they undertook quite frequently. I glowed, vibrant and round, and my beauty compelled the attention not only of the young men and women, but everyone who raised eyes to the night sky from the youngest child to the most ancient and infirm.

  We all had appetites, and I made my living in that time and place in a way which satisfied my own. My sexual hungers tended toward the excessive—for I was, as I’ve said, and still am an Immortal. I sold my hungers, and while I slaked my thirst for sex, my lust sated that of my customers. Each of them declared his, and occasionally her, happiness to pay for the pleasure of my company.

  The mayor of our village, Old Fishbreath, acted as my business partner. He wasn’t much taller than you, perhaps an inch or so past your four feet, though he carried himself a bit more jauntily, if you don’t mind my saying so, which gave him a semblance of uprightness. Rather than your greens and reds, he dressed in brown and blue, which accentuated his one blue eye, one brown. This detail has nothing to do with my narrative, except I find it interesting and thus include it.

  He had been nearby on the day the sky closed, had seen the dismay on my face when I realized I’d been left in this land of Merelings. He was a Mereling, and, at first, I welcomed his company and protection, assuming he would be useful as a negotiator, a go-between, a consultant on the ways of my mortal customers. His breath stank, hence my private name for him, but his accounting could only be called impeccable. He kept me supplied with fine oils to keep my skin bright and other such items I needed to maintain my health and beauty. He sat at the base of the tree, and when a customer came by, he’d get the coin first then allow the person to climb up to join me. At the end of the night, when dawn sifted in on the horizon and my brother stretched his arms and rose to do his day’s rounds, Fishbreath would give me my half share. He kept an eye out for me, making sure I climbed down safely each morning and got to my daytime hideout without incident. It proved to be an unnecessary ritual. Everyone appreciated my talents and respected my work. My earnings afforded me a sufficient level of comfort. Life had a predictable rhythm to it. I slept by day, entertained by nigh
t. When I wasn’t busy entertaining, I watched the creatures of the night: great owls, tiny mice, fireflies, bats. All creatures were beautiful in my eyes.

  I saw in my clients, too, great beauty. I explored possibilities with their bodies like a baby in its crib finds its feet: mildly amazed at my discoveries, able to pass long hours fascinated by them. They sighed and laughed and gave their bodies to delights. We drank fine ales and feasted on fare prepared and presented by our best cooks, passed up to us by Fishbreath. We rubbed oils on one another and teased with tongues and feathers. I particularly loved sweet custards and creamy cheeses, which I slathered on my customers and licked off again. I grew round and buxom from the practice, and they appreciated it. My softness comforted some and excited others. Many others. Such an innocent time and place! Seemingly uncorrupted, seemingly incorruptible.

  But I suppose no place stays the same. In this you must know I speak a truth, traveler of worlds that you are. You look like you’ve seen many wonders, Ancient One, and someday I’d like to hear of them. I’ll warrant you’ve done your share of moving through the night, too. I’ll look for you sometime when I’m in full form and listen in on your tales. It’s always a pleasure to hear of other times and places, of other beings and their own stories.

  What do you ask? How did it change? Yes, you prompt me well. I’m straying from my own story. My apologies. I shall make every effort not to do that again. So, listen, Ancient One. Here it is.

  I thought I could trust Old Fishbreath. Placing such trust in him would turn out to be a mistake of significant proportion and would be my first lesson in the ways Merelings and Immortals differ.

  They came one day from a land without light at night, four of them, friends. A land where no one sold pleasure and no one found it. A dour land without Immortal presence to keep the stars company and light the way for lovers. Fishbreath took coin from each of them, and each got his money’s worth.

  The oldest of them stood tall and thin, with a grimace of a smile. His lips pulled tight, like he had just tasted something tongue curling. His eyes darted this way and that, giving him the look of a man being pursued by enemies, and his brow furrowed like he suspected someone had cheated him but he couldn’t yet prove it. I rubbed his shoulders, his back, his tired feet. Very slowly, his tight muscles relaxed and his gaze steadied, holding on me. He leaned toward me, finally, and still frowning, climbed aboard. He rode me full of fury, growling and pounding, but collapsed into sobs when he climaxed.

  I stroked his hair, damp from exertion, and, slowly, he pulled himself together, relaxed a bit more, and stretched his arms above his head. I put my finger to the sweat of his armpit and tasted its bitterness. I traced a line from his nipple to his groin and watched him swell again. This time, I rode him, reflecting his energy back, letting him feel aggression, anger, presumption. When he reached for my wrists, I barked at him, “No! Don’t touch me!”

  His glower turned to astonishment; his determinedly narrowed eyes widened. The look on his face told me no woman had ever dared be anything but his victim, but confirmed I had him now. No matter who else he would take for pleasure, no one would dare command him the way I just had. When he was spent, he climbed down, and the second climbed up to take his place.

  He struck me as a sour man with a suspicious nature. He pouted and glowered. What had his companion done, he asked. How had I pleasured him?

  “Why do you care what he did?” I teased. “What matters to me is what you do.” I placed a dollop of hard sugar in his mouth and then licked him from head to toe while he tasted the contradiction to his personality. His breath quickened.

  “What will it be?” I whispered in his ear. “What will you do to me?”

  I reached between his legs and confirmed the effect of my methods. I bent to brush my lips lightly on the tip of his now-throbbing cock. Then I lay back, limp, languid, responsive. When he entered me, I whimpered, and he, to his credit, went slowly, deeply. Thrusting, grinding. I offered him my wrists, and he took them. The gratitude on his face softened his grasp, and we both finished satisfied. By the time he climbed down, I knew I had convinced him it was he I favored.

  Lest you accuse me, old man, of being insincere or disingenuous, I remind you of my Immortal appetite. I am my father’s daughter, after all. The fact Merelings are so easily manipulated does not mean I neither enjoyed myself nor cared for each of them in my own way. So keep your judgment of me in reserve, and when I have no more to tell you then you may decide whether I am foul or worthy.

  The third had a bit of a paunch, a loud, raucous voice, and a salty sense of humor. He told ribald jokes at which he laughed too readily. I smiled at them, of course, but soon placed my lips on his to quiet him then pulling back, kept a finger lightly on his lips while I looked at him somberly, seriously.

  “Shhh,” I said. “You don’t need to turn everything into a joke.”

  My words aroused him. My words and my fingers found the shape of his shoulders, ran the length of his arms to his wrists then back again to his chest, down to gently stroke the flesh of his belly. He rose to the occasion, his thick cock standing past the mound of his paunch. I put my index finger to his breastbone and pushed him onto his back then climbed atop, and I rode him till I milked him. It took but a few minutes, but I stayed with him inside me, squeezing and grinding until he hardened again, and came again. I rolled off and smiled at him.

  “Now you must go. It’s the young one’s turn.”

  “How can I leave?” He grabbed my hand and pressed it to his lips then took my fingers into his mouth and sucked each one in turn, like a hungry babe at the breast.

  “Yet you must,” I chided. “If you want more time with me, you will have to arrange it with the mayor.” He sighed and grabbed my breasts. I gently pried his hands from me. “Rules,” I told him, “are rules.”

  He backed down the slat ladder, his hungry eyes on me till the oak leaves obscured his view.

  The youngest. Ah, the youngest. Of the four, he alone had a touch of sweetness to him. He brought a bouquet of baby’s breath with him, thrusting the tiny white blooms into my hands with boyish awkwardness. When I asked him what he liked, he told me to turn around. I felt his tongue running the length of my spine, down and back up again, his teeth nibbling my ear lobes, his penis rubbing my buttocks, growing hard, probing, entering me. He pulled me to him, pushed me away again, pulled me back, while his fingers reached around and found the details of my nipples, the bud of my clit. I arched my back, pressing to meet his thrust and, finally, with a howl of pleasure, he let loose his cum. As his cock slipped out, he turned me back to face him.

  “Now,” he said, “It’s your turn. What would you like?” It took me by surprise.

  The male Mereling is often more likely focused on his own needs. Well, now that I mention it, male Immortals are even more focused on their own needs than are Merelings. And I must confess female Immortals can be rather self-centered, too. At any rate, it can be noted that this attention to what I actually enjoyed stood out among the boorish behaviors of his colleagues.

  Think you my judgment is harsh? Let me ask you this then. When you are with a partner in delight, do you think first of how to please your partner or do you focus immediately on what feels good to you? I know you are an Ancient, and at some point in your long sojourn you have to have known carnal pleasure, whether or not you sniff nether parts of another now. You are no dolt, old man. You were once younger and held your own secrets rather than spilling those of others for profit.

  I see by your smile I have hit the mark. And I take by your silence you agree with me. The fourth of these friends was proving himself an unusual man. His question gave me pause. What do I like?

  “It depends,” I told him. “My hungers are great and full satiety comes rarely to me.”

  He listened, and his simply doing so in itself made my honeypot fill. I spread my legs, and he kissed the button between them, flicking his tongue and thrusting it inside me. He reached for my b
reasts, and I arched my back, grinding into his mouth. I grabbed his hair, finally, to pull him up so I could look him in the eye.

  “I want,” I half whispered half moaned to him, “I want everything.”

  We entered into a delightful game of mirror, fingering one another, kissing, tickling; he entered me and we rode each other, face to face. Before long, my brother’s presence on the horizon ended our frolicking. The time had come for my visitor to leave my nest, time for my brother to commence lighting the daytime sky, and time for me to retire to my cave hut for the day.

  It had been a wondrous night, ending so deliciously with the sweet one.

  For six nights, they bought all my time, and I spent it with them happily. For me, an Immortal, the week passed quickly and simply as one of great physical pleasure. I looked forward to the fun, yes, but I scarcely thought of any of them during the day. They, however, were becoming fixated. The fifth night, each of them said something, which, in retrospect, I should have paid better attention to.

  Each in his own way spoke of needing me. Of never wanting to let me go. Of being unable to live without me. I heard hyperbole, when I should have recognized the threat embedded in such overwrought declarations.

  The sixth night, something in the air I could not quite define made me ill at ease. Each communicated tension in his lust making. Each evidenced an edge in his speech. The youngest still seemed most at ease with me, and, as he had on other nights, took time to pleasure me even while I pleasured him. Still, he would prove to be one of The Four, which is what I came to call them in my mind.

  Four with the instincts of thieves and the morals of lamprey eels. I would come to feel thus about them for longer than I care to remember.

  I began to climb down from my oak perch that final night just as my brother began his chariot ride to bring the light of a new day to the world. The Four were all waiting, and Old Fishbreath had disappeared, nowhere to be seen. I called for him, but he did not answer. I scurried back up to my oak-branch perch, but the paunchy one grabbed at my heels. He caught me, pulled a rope around me. The rough coil bit into my skin. I kicked and cursed, wrapped my arms around a branch, held tight. He called to the others, and the three of them added their hands to the effort. With one unified, wrenching yank, they broke my grasp on the tree and hauled me down to the ground.