Dympna of the Sí, is hungry. Her lover has gone west to meet the setting sun and to mourn her, she has taken no nourishment for seven full moons, one for every three years they were together.

Even the fae of the otherworld must feed, and for her to feed she must take a special lover. She casts her net far and wide, and soon she smiles. She has found a poet, and this one has a penis. When did she last taste a fine, fat, meaty cock?

***

Dermot Fitzgibbon looks around the room and sighs. Surgical instruments and yards of bloody gauze are randomly strewn about. Pools of blood are congealing on the floor. It's a sickening sight, but far from the worst he's seen

He is just past hour nine of an eight-hour shift, and he's bone tired. But it's Friday, and the moon is full. Soon there could well be another battle to save another victim, and it is his job to make ready the emergency department's trauma room. It must be cleaned and thoroughly disinfected and quickly. Even so, he takes a moment to wonder if the poor man survived.

'How do you know it's a man?' The room is silent, and the woman's voice is an echo in his mind. Later he will wonder why her voiceless question did not surprise him, but at this moment, it seems natural.

'It's usually a safe bet. Did he make it?'

'He's in intensive care.'

'How's he doing?'

'He'll live.' Dermot stops working and closes his eyes. 'Are you praying?' Her words carry a mix of amusement and contempt.

He says nothing until he finishes the short prayer, and then, 'Forgiveness matters.'

'You interest me, cleaner. What's your name?'

'Dermot. What's yours?'

'Do you really want to know? I want to be your Leannán Sí.'

This surprises him. 'A Celtic vampire?'

He feels her amusement. 'Shall we put that thrice-damned lie to the test? Write a poem for me.'

'I do some writing, but I'm no poet.'

Gentle warmth flows through him. 'I would like you to write a poem for me.'

'I don't think I can.' The rising heat is now more seductive. She is exploring all of him at once. Her invisible tongue duels with his, flicks his ear, and licks his nipples. At the same time, her warm cushiony breasts are on both his face and his cock. As it swells and hardens, she takes it all the way into her mouth while still stroking it with a firm hand. A slender finger probes his ass. It's a first for him, and the sudden pulsing, intense pleasure shocks him. His throbbing, oozing cock is swollen beyond its full girth and length. 'You are a vampire,' he gasps.

'Not at all, darling, a vampire would compel you. I'm asking nicely.' Before he can say another word, she turns up the heat, and his whole body is burning. Breathing is tight, but he doesn't care. There is no way he can hold back his orgasm, but she keeps him teetering on the edge of the little death. 'Please write a poem for me.'

'All right! I'll try it.'

Sudden release—his whole body erupts like a volcano, and little electric shocks zap every fibre of his being. It goes on and on until his pleasure becomes almost unbearable pain. His vision blurs and then darkens, and his knees turn to water. He collapses and falls face-first onto a large puddle of blood. He passes out when he tries to get up. He has no idea how long he's been unconscious when he recovers, but he's alert and energetic.

'Thank you, darling. I'll be in touch.' He calls after her, but she is gone. There is a poem to be written, but it must wait until the job at hand is done and done well. He clambers to his feet, but there is nothing left to do. The room is spotless, and there is no blood on his face or stain on his shirt.

***

Dympna stands by the ER's nursing station. She's of average height, but that's the only ordinary thing about her. She has a complexion as pure and pale as snow, her eyes are piercing blue, and her full lips are blood-red. Her black hair falls to her waist, the snug fit of her pure white linen robe is perfect for her well-proportioned figure, and a belt of pure gold cinches it at her waist. By rights, her stunning beauty and voluptuous breasts should be the centre of attention, but she has imposed a geis on the whole room that allows no one to see her.

Even as Dermot approaches, she casts a lustful eye at the nurse womaning the desk. Alas, as lovely as the slim blonde is, there is no poetry in her.

'All done, Elaine, and ready for inspection.'

'That was fast!' He shrugs. 'I'm busy, so I'll take your word for it.' She turns away without wishing him a good night, and Dermot leaves for home.

Dympna also slips into the dying light, but she does not follow him. It's enough that her poet is ready to take pen in hand.

***

Dermot last ate twelve hours ago, but he ignores his hunger. He opens his laptop and sits staring at the screen. All the way home, dozens of brilliant poetic fragments ran through his head, but now that he's ready to write, they have crumbled to dust. He sits for several hours and makes more false starts than he can count. Well into the wee hours he gives up, has a light snack, and goes to bed.

His is not a dreamless sleep. He dreams that he is a woman waiting on her lover on an enormous bed in a large, opulent room. The door opens, and his beautiful and wondrously breasted fairy lover enters. Her skin is ghostly pale, her hair is long and black, and her eyes are a piercing blue. She wears nothing but a black bra and matching panties, but she might as well be nude. The little bits covering small parts of her are translucent.

She crosses the room with slow, seductive steps. The calm assurance of her sinuous strides matches the confidence of her smile. As she approaches the bed, his breasts swell, his nipples stiffen, and the juice of his pussy moistens his thighs.  

The Sí pulls the sheet off him and kneels on the bed. Her eyes drink in his nudity for long seconds before she lowers herself into his arms. Lips brush lips ever so lightly, and her bra-clad breasts caress his. His encircling arms pull her closer and hold her tighter, and now breasts crush breasts. They pause just long enough for his slender, delicate fingers to unhook her bra, and now nipples kiss nipples. Lips swell and meet in heightened urgency, and probing tongues tease. Now hands and fingers caress swollen breasts and pinch nipples sharply, and then they massage pussies and slap buttocks. He rolls her onto her back and kneels between her thighs. He leans down to take her breast in his mouth and circle her areola with his tongue before flicking her nipple with it. She moans and pushes him toward her crotch. He takes his time and plants long, slow kisses on her torso until his mouth is on her panties. He blows gently through the flimsy material and flicks his tongue hard on her clit. He goes lower and makes slow, sensual love to her inner thighs with his lips and tongue while gently massaging her vulva through her silk panties.

Her need is urgent, and her temperature is rising. She traps his head and neck between her thighs and pulls him back onto her crotch. He kisses her through her silk and tongues her vulva from bottom to top, where his pursed lips and tongue tease and thrill her swollen clit.  

Her hips grind her vulva and clit against his face until she shudders into orgasm. Her thighs relax, and he strips her of her panties. Again he goes down on his visitor to smear her ejaculate on his lips, chin, and cheeks. Strong hands grip him and pull him into her arms, then roll him onto his back and pin him to the bed. Laughing, she licks his face clean of her cum. Their cunts  grind hard and fast on their interlocking thighs, and soon their writhing leads to pussy and clit kissing pussy and clit. Fingers again pinch nipples and tongues probe lips for a playful mouth to mouth duel. Nipples are licked and kissed again and again until breaths mingle with moans and come ever louder and faster. Their lovemaking soars to new heights as their interlocked thighs once more grind urgently against wet and swollen pussies. Bodies writhe and shift, and now they lie face to pussy, kissing and teasing each other's inner and outer lips and massaging their way up to their lover's clits. Puckered lips and flicking tongues soon bring both to another climax.  

The power of this final orgasm jerks him awake. It's not just his cock. Every fibre of his being is in the throes of violent pleasure. It's hard to breathe, and it seems there will be no end to the creamy fluid spurting from the tip of his penis. When it stops, he's too weak to move, so he relaxes into a state of euphoria. It's a good few minutes before he can get out of bed.

He needs a shower but skips it. He needs breakfast but goes back to his laptop. Again all his efforts are futile. Shortly after noon, his hunger finally wins out, and he moves to the pub. He sits in a quiet corner staring at his laptop. He orders bangers and beans, a pint of stout, a double whiskey, and then another pint. Nothing helps. Every start is more futile than the last.

He doesn't see her until she drops a notebook and pencil on the table. 'Try those,' she says, 'instead of that thing without a soul.'

He looks up with wide, startled eyes, and then his jaw drops. It the Sí, the woman of his dream. 'Are you ...?'

'My name is Dympna, and I want to be your Leannán Sí, and, my darling Dermot, I am delighted to meet you in person.' She places her pint of ale on the table and sits. 'Show me your poem.'

'It's not done yet. I've barely started.'

'Show me.' He shrugs and hands her his laptop. 'Did you enjoy your dream?' she asks as she glances through his work. 'Did you enjoy being a woman making love with a woman?'

His heart pounds, and his face burns. 'I've you to thank for that?'

She laughs. 'Yes, it was my little gift. Well? How was it?'

He shrugs. 'Nice, I guess.' She cocks her head and raises an eyebrow. 'Sorry. It was fucking amazing. Thank you.'

She nods. 'If I like your work, there will be more to come, much more. I will be your muse and your lover. I will inspire you and pleasure you, and, in return, you will write poems for me. Doesn't that sound delightful?'

Panic seizes him, and fear freezes him in his seat. He can neither breathe nor speak, but his mind is racing. A poem for a fuck is one thing, but a lifetime of poems? That sounds too much like slavery.  

She glances at him and frowns. 'Are you all right?'

'You are a fucking vampire!'

She snorts in derision. 'You're afraid I'm going to offer poetic inspiration in return for your love and devotion. You will live a life of intense creativity but burn out at a very young age. I will abandon you, and you will wither in obscurity and die a sad and lonely death. "Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung" as the saying goes. Is that it?' He nods. 'Utter rubbish. It's what you'd expect from a succubus, and I find that most offensive.'

'All the same, I'd rather not.'

'Listen. I feed on poetry. It keeps me alive. Why would I stand by and watch a brilliant food source die? What sense does that make?'

'None, I guess. But it doesn't matter anyway. I'm hopeless as a poet.'

She closes his laptop and looks at him, still frowning. 'You're putting trivia ahead of substance. Your focus is on rhythm and rhyme instead of myth, magic, and metaphor. Get over that, and you'll be brilliant.' He is surprised but says nothing. 'I'm not giving up on you. I love you for more than your poetry. You prayed for someone you never met. For that alone, I will cherish you for as long as I live. Think it over.'  

'I'll think about it.' He doesn't look up or say goodbye as she leaves. He sits for a few minutes staring at his pint. Then he sighs deeply, drains the glass and calls Fr David Nowak. It takes a few minutes to convince his friend and confessor that he's not joking.

'Dermot, what the hell do you expect from me? I'm Polish. What do I know about Irish what-you-may-call-ems?'

'I'm in deep trouble, Dave. I'm crazy for this woman, but she scares the fuckin' shit out of me. You have to think of something.'

'All I can do is try to find someone who knows more than we do. Hang in there.'

His phone rings a few minutes later from a number he doesn't recognize. 'Hello?'

'Is that Dermot?' a woman asks.

'It is.'

'I'm Karen Goldman. I'm, a humanities professor and I know a fair bit about mythology. The Polish prick says you need my help.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Don't worry. We go way back, and I like alliteration. I'm still trying to get the bugger to fuck me again. What does Davey boy think I can do for you?' She listens as he talks. 'A fairy lover? You're fuckin' kidding me.'

'This is serious.'

'Could be. Let's find out how much trouble you're in. We're going to play a game, and it goes like this. You're a traffic light, but your orange bulb is blown, so you only have green and red. Got it?'

'Yes.'  

'I'm going to lay out some situations, and you say "green" for "go" and "red" for "stop". Got it?'

'Yes.'

'There are no wrong answers, and only one rule - no hesitations.'

'Okay.'

'You're sitting by yourself at the bar. A beautiful woman sits beside you and puts the moves on you. Then she says "let's fuck." Red or green?'

'Green.'

'Then she says her husband's at home so you'll have to take her to your place.'

'Green.'

'What if she wants to go to her place for a threesome with her and her wife?'

'Green.'

'Cool. What if the woman wants a threesome with you and her bisexual husband?'
'Um ... er ...'

'That's a red. Finally, she's fifty-something years old, with a filthy mind and expensive boobs.'

He laughs. 'Double green.'

'You're not at all what I expected. Davey said you're a choirboy.'

'He's my confessor. I only tell him things I'm sorry about.'

She chuckled. 'Good one! Anyhow, the few humans who crash and burn on the Sí are really uptight about sex. It's dirty, disgusting, guilt-ridden, and something nice people only do it for less than 2 minutes once a month in the dark and never, ever talk about. You don't even come close to that profile. You're golden.'

Relief surged through him. 'That's great news. How can I thank you?'

'What else? Introduce me. She might like women.'

'Actually, she does!'

'I'll text you my co-ords. Introduce me, and we'll screw a few nights away.'  

As soon as they'd said their goodbyes, he picks up the pencil, opens the notebook and starts writing. A river of words flows effortlessly onto the page. He reads it over, makes a few changes and then writes his second draft. The next day, he re-reads it, deletes a few words and writes his third and final draft. Now, at last, he is satisfied.

***

They lie together, side by side and wrapped in each other's arms. Dympna nibbles his ear as he toys with her breast and nipple. His cock is between her thighs and gently stroking the length of her beautiful and well-lubed pussy.

'Can I read it again?'

'Not yet,' but he says it with a twinkle in his eye.

She pushes him onto his back, leaves his side to kneel on the floor, then grips his legs and pulls him toward her. He drapes his legs over her shoulders as she reaches for his cock. Her hand, strong enough to effortlessly manoeuvre his 70-kilos around their bed, is softer than silk. She expertly strokes him to a full erection while ever so gently taking his balls into her mouth. When his cock can kiss his belly-button, she kisses it from sack to tip and back, then laves it with her tongue, again both up and down. Her lips now massage his full length and wrap his swollen crown with their moist warmth, gently at first, and then more firmly. The tip of her tongue flicks over its passageway. He moans. He tries to push further into her mouth, and she lets him, but only far enough to give her tongue enough room to massage his throbbing crown against the roof of her mouth. His moans are louder now, and she takes in more of him. Her tongue relaxes, her lips tighten, and her finger probes his anus. Her head bobs up and down, working the top third of him, and driving him closer and closer to his climax. He holds out as long as he can, but soon she has him gasping, squirming, and shuddering. Pressure builds, and he suddenly cums into her mouth. She doesn't relent. She keeps sucking until she's milked him dry. She swallows and joins him on the bed.

'Now?'

He hands her the poem and kneels on the floor. Her thighs part and he pulls her pussy to his mouth. It's blushing, moist and swollen, and the beauty of it delights him. Her full bush carries her scent and her taste, and he relishes both. He runs his face over her silken curls, delighting in the soft tactile feel on his skin. His hands reach for her breasts and ever so gently trace random patterns on her fair skin. He flattens his tongue and laps her whole vulva slowly and firmly from bottom to top. Once there, he circles and teases her erect clitoris with the tip of his tongue, touching it only with the very lightest of licks before running his tongue back down the full length and width of her sex. As he slides his tongue back up, he uses it to tease open her outer lips to his prolonged, murmuring kisses, and to do the same for their shy inner sisters. Slowly, deliberately, and thoroughly his tongue and lips pleasure every last millimetre of her delicious vulva. Copious juices flow, but, engrossed in his poem, she doesn't seem to notice. He's not offended, his full focus is on her slightly salty taste and warm, musky scent. If he could, he would spend every hour of every day on his knees worshipping at the gate to her temple of love. When he again reaches her clit, he gives it his all, kissing and sucking with his lips and flicking hard and fast with his tongue. She shudders and gasps, and copious pussy juice smears his face. He slides onto the bed beside her and suckles at her breast while idly fingering her most beautiful cunt.

Again they relax in each other's arms. 'I like your poem better every time I read it. It's wonderful.'

'I'm glad.'

'Do you see me that way? As your dominatrix? I'll tie you to the bed and whip you if that's what you want.'

'That's like being thrown into the pool at the deep end. Could we work up to that maybe?'

'Let's start with a little breath play, shall we?'

'Sure. Why not?'

She rolls him onto his back and sits straddling his stomach. 'Feel my tits.' He reaches a hand up to caress her. 'Both hands, slave!' He does, and she responds like greased lightning. She takes hold of his wrists and pulls one of his arms across his chest and pins it there with her body. As she does, she pushes his other arm back over his head and then wraps both her arms around his head and neck and pins his arm to the side of his face.

'You need wrestling lessons. I am really going to enjoy teaching you.' She slides higher up his torso and lowers her breasts onto his face. They're soft, warm plushy, and, what's more important, they are breasts, and even more importantly, they are her breasts.

The pleasure rush she's triggered almost fades when he realizes that they are also airtight. He can't breathe, but his cock doesn't care. Swelling and oozing is its answer to her dominance. It helps that it's caught between the soles of her dainty feet and, once again, it's kissing his belly button. He loves the feel of her plush, soft breasts on his skin, but less than a minute later panic sets in. He writhes and grunts. He can neither breathe nor break out of her pin, but she lifts her breasts to let him take a breath. 'Don't panic, darling. Just tap me on the shoulder when you need air.' Again she lowers her breasts to cover his nose and mouth, and her feet continue rolling his cock between their soles. He's calmer now and notices that the less he breathes, the more intense the pleasure her feet give his cock. It crows sooner than he would like, and it leaves him feeling weaker than dishwater.

***

He naps with a smile on his face. She lies beside him, watching his steady breathing and when he wakes up, she asks him to read his poem aloud.

He's pleased and doesn't try to hide it. 'I don't have to read it. It's called "Her Splendid Bed". Here goes.
'Bound with silken ties
on Her splendid bed
lies groaning Odysseus
while the long-legged
and wondrously breasted Calypso
stands over him
wielding  her wicked pleasure-whip,
then lies gentle beside him
to feed him pomegranate kisses
on Her Splendid Bed.'

She sighs. 'I love it.' They lie together in silence for most of that lazy Sunday afternoon. 'Why don't you want to wrestle with me?' she asks as they dress for a walk in the park.  

'What? I'd love to, as long as it's playful and sexy.' He is buttoning his shirt.

'So what's the problem?' Her hands are on her hips. Her panties are already on, but her bra is still in her hand. 'Why can't I teach you a few things? It won't help much. I'll still get you every time. Does the idea of being beaten by a little woman like me intimidate you?'

'Not at all.' He pauses. 'The opposite. I want you to beat me. Thoroughly. It excites me. The idea of you taking me down, pinning me, tying me up in knots and making me submit to you turns me on like you wouldn't believe. I want you to own my sorry ass and kick it into the middle of next week. The last thing I want a level playing field.'

'Well spoken. We'll start with some basic judo.'

'But ...' She interrupts him with a powerful hip-toss. She attacks in a blur, and instantly her arm is under his and across his back. Her butt thrusts into his groin, and a leg sweeps his feet out from under him. He leaves the floor, and for a split second, his full weight is on her lower back, and then he comes down hard and flat on his back on their mattress.

She looks down at him grinning. 'Did you like that? Would you like me to toss you around a bit more? I can throw you about a hundred different ways.'

'That was out-fucking-standing. Yes! More, please!'

'And I'd love to flip you a few dozen times a day, but we won't always have a mattress handy. Hitting a marble floor or even grass can do some damage if you don't know how to land. I'm not going to throw you again until I've taught you your break-falls.'

'You've talked me into it. When can we start?'

'As soon as you've written another poem for me.'

He shakes his head ruefully, and her triumphant smile speaks volumes. She joins him on the bed, and they wrestle. In a very few seconds, she has him in a cross-body armbar with her cunt a perfect fulcrum for his upper arm. He's now her living sex doll. She works the hold with enough vigour to give herself yet another orgasm.

There's a bit of stress on his elbow, but the pain is a fraction of the damage she could easily do, and the longer she rides him, the happier his throbbing cock. A happy cock is a happy Dermot. He knows the best is yet to come.