Solid mythril armor, hand tailored especially for Sir Winston Boldwell by the royal armor smith as a gift from her royal eminency, Sir Boldwell's pride and joy. His most cherished possession, the perfect fir, with a royal blue shimmer that complemented his own deep blue eyes, not a day went buy he didn't polish it to a fine sheen, often two or three times a day. With such a fine piece of armor for a breastplate, he didn't dare wear it with leg plates or a helm, as nothing he could afford came close to matching with it, and he didn't want to demean his most prized possession. Besides, he was quite proud of his golden blonde hair and strong, masculine jawline, with barely a trace of stubble to cover is fine skin. The simple light chain mail full body suit that most knights wear under their armor was a good enough for his protection anyway, what with his magnificent breastplate protecting him, he deduced. One would have difficulty discerning which he was more vain about, his beloved armor or his manly good looks. Women he bedded, however, would tell you it was that armor he loved more, for he would sleep the night with them, but never were they to touch his armor. Was he a good lover, well, let's just say that if he handled the women like he handled his armor his one night stands would have been remembered as the most magical night of their lives, and not as the most lamented night followed by back pains the morning after. Such poetic justice, then, that it is how his tale concluded.
Saving the faerie from the bumbling wizard's alcolyte had been a simple task for the self righteous knight, which the knight proudly admitted to gracious faerie after she promised to fulfill him one wish for saving her. When she insisted that it was a big deal, how he could have been hurt, or even killed, that led Sir Boldwell into a day of bragging about himself and his accomplishments, over dramaticizing and exaggerating throughout most of them. Still, though the faerie was a bit put off by his attitude, she graciously kept her word about granting him his wish, a night filled with illicit passion and pleasure that would leave him smiling for days. And that it was, for all of the five minutes it lasted, and as the knight drifted into blissful slumber, a smile still across his face, the faerie, quite unsatisfied with his performance, was left to her own devices to satisfy the raging fire that burned so fiercely within her loins.
With her plans for the night spoiled by the knights lack of stamina, and the loud snoring coming from the oaf, she set her focus on the shiny, beautiful breastplate that the knight had worn. It really was magnificent craftsmenship, such that it would even put a dwarf to shame, and it's beauty and the faint magical aura caused by the mythril delighted the faerie so much. She rubbed her hands over it's polished surface, pushed her breasts against it, and even nuzzled her face against the cold metal. It was at about this time that the Knight woke up, and to say he was aghast at what he saw would be an understatement. Grabbing his armor from the awestruck faerie, he backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling to the floor, spewing a slough of obsenities at the winded girl. Sheer outrage was what he showed the faerie, even threatening to turn her over to the wizard whose apprentice he had feld for her earlier that day.
Now, to show anything but appreciation after bedding a fae is a huge insult, but to go out and strike her after his poor excuse for a performance was just intolerable. Rising up from the floor, the faerie silenced Sir Boldwell with a series of magic chants, paralyzing his body where he stood. As the confused knight struggled to continue his verbal assault, the faerie seized this opperitunity, and lifting the man above her head with unnatural strength, she stuffed him head first into her widening maw. Several hard gulps later, and the bewildered and now terrified knight found strength return to his limbs, and struggled to extricate himself from her gullet. Screaming, cursing, and even demanding to be released, he kicked and pounded at her squishy walls, which responded in an instant with a tight squeeze, pushing digestive fluid around with a wet squelching sound and causing the faerie to let out a dainty burp, which she quickly pardoned with a giggle. Laying down on her soft bed, rubbing her rotund tummy, she spoke of how she hoped he would be a better meal than he was a lover, which of course was responded with another series of delicious struggles.
Hours went by, her stomach grinding and undulating against the wiggling captive within, filling the room with the sound of wet gurgles, glorps, groans, and blorps. The knights features were a lot less charming at this point, in fact, some might say grotesque, his skin melting and covered with abscesses, chunks of bone and muscle exposed here and there. Pulling what was left of his torso from the collective goop, he gave one last plea to the faerie, in fact, his only plea, and even apoligized. With that, the faerie gave a dark chuckle and roughly patted her gourged tummy. If he had only apoligized in the first place, she told him, and not waited until his body was shedding chunks and covered up to his chin with warm goop, maybe she would have, but now it was to little, to late. What was left of his body couldn't survive long, anyway, and she felt no need to expend such energy to regenerate it. His vision finally blurring, he shouted out that she owed him, the prideful oaf, for saving her life, which she duly noted that she had repayed him in full with her earlier performance, one that left no regret about losing him as a lover. Besides, she was starting to get these annoying back pains, and it wasn't from her overextended belly. With that said, she rolled to her side and drifted to sleep, drowning him in a sea of digestive fluids and flesh chunks.
A few weeks later, a caravan of merchants found his the breastplate unceramoniously placed atop a large, chunky pile of feces, and cleaned it up and brought it to market. Although his fate was never truly learned, the palace knew he would never discard his beloved armor, and assumed the worst, that he had been killed. With his unflattering reputation towards women, he was never truly missed, and his name would be void from the annals of history if not for two curious terms coined in the faerie language many years later; boldwell, which is used to define an ungrateful, unsatisfying lover; and sirwinston, a crude term for the act of being excreted in a dishonorable fashion. So, if a faerie calls you a boldwell and says you have a sirwinston in the future, you had better show her some love and appreciation, or you may find yourself a neglected pile of manure cultivating the forest floor sometime soon.
A Special thanks to Eka, whose forum I post this on and find comfort from the days woes; to Amanda, whose love and support inspired me to write this story (I love you my sweet!); to Sarah the bunnygirl, whose kindness, praise, and fanship towards my work gave me reason to write this tale; to Phantelle, whose clever fairy story delighted my mind in ways words can't describe; to Throku, Karbo, Duamutef, Taito, Frakass and anyone else I forgot to mention along with them, whose works and idea's fed my creative mind and tickled my *ahem* fantasies; and to you, the reader, for reading this story that I have created for your viewing pleasure. Also, an additional special thanks to Lost Boy, who has an awesome archive and I hope to soon have host this piece along with Eka's Portal. I hope you have enjoyed my story, and comments are welcome, especially declarations of fandom of my work, for I have only three at the moment. (yes, I said fandom, to be a fan of my work, not femdom, you horny perverts *laughs) Again, thank you to all who supported me