Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Sweet Dreams (Patreon)

She lay in a half doze. It was not yet morning, and the demands of governance still lay somewhere beyond the edge of sunrise. The royal sheets with their royal thread count were a warm and pleasant weight upon the royal thighs. Both were smooth and fragrant. And yet as pleasant and as lilac-scented as these things were, neither were soft as the wild mane that slipped through her dream-self’s fingers.

Elf Princess arched her back. He gripped her wrist.

She let her lips part in ecstasy. He closed them again with a kiss.

She gasped for breath; breathed his name; felt the thrill of true love’s touch. He neighed and snorted and thrust.

Yet through it all, Elf Princess never saw a face. There was always a lock of golden hair, or her own red tresses undone and billowing like a flag, blocking the view. He would turn her just so, and she would let herself be turned. And somehow, between the “backward compatibility” and the trusty “flanking position,” she could catch only the hint of a jawline. Or the flare of one perfectly-sculpted nostril. Each feature as perfect as the marble masterwork of a Legendary proficiency crafter. Yet her mind could not make a visage of the whole.

When at last they were done, laying in the warm afterglow of their love, they spoke of small nothings. Which flavor of oats they might share for breakfast. How many sugar cubes to put in the tea. And as she lay with one arm draped across his broad barrel chest, she thought at last to ask of her lover, “What precisely is your heritage? Did you take versatile?”

Yet no dream lasts forever. And before he could make an answer the sun crested a hill, a cock crowed greeting to the day, and the words died on his lips like so much peanut butter.