Beneath the Faerie Moon

Chapter 4: The Ritual of Unwrapping

The Hall of Shattered Ice stole the breath from her lungs.

It opened wide before her, a cathedral of gleaming cold. Spires of sculpted frost rose to a ceiling of floating crystals that caught moonlight in a hundred dazzling shades. The air itself glittered. Fae, Nymphs, dryads and other creatures of all shapes, sizes, and impossible beauty filled the balconies, lounged on frost-laced cushions, and reclined in thrones carved from tree roots and bone.

They were naked, or nearly so. Some were adorned only in jewelry, silver vines twining down thighs, rings that glowed when touched, bangles that hummed when brushed against skin. Others touched each other openly, fingers drifting, mouths grazing, arousal accepted like breath.

She was led forward by two silent attendants, her bare feet slipping slightly on the frost-glass floor.

And then she saw him.

The Winter Prince sat upon a throne grown from jagged ice, its back flaring like frozen wings. He wore no crown, he didn’t need one. The silver-white fall of his hair spilled over his shoulders like moonlight, and his pale skin shimmered faintly, like he’d been kissed by stars. His eyes found her instantly.

She froze under his gaze.

The air around him seemed to pull toward his stillness. And though he said nothing, though he barely moved, he saw everything. Every twitch of her thighs. Every shiver. Every inch of bare skin the magical gown failed to hide.

And the gown responded to him.

Her n*****s tightened. The fabric slid away a little, baring them to the cold. The court murmured, gasps, chuckles, sharp inhales of approval.

Heat bloomed between her thighs. Her arousal, unwanted but unavoidable, made the gown fade a little there, too.

She felt exposed. Utterly vulnerable.

She had not been announced. She had been presented. As the Winter Prince’s guest.

Now, she stood on a platform of moonstone, the center of a spiral of attention. Every gaze was a hand. Every whisper pressed against her skin.

Then, a voice, smooth as velvet dipped in mockery, coiled through the hall.

“My, my. She blushes like a mortal… and yet walks like she’s already been tasted.”

The fae who stepped into view glided rather than walked. She was tall, impossibly willowy, her skin aglow with a soft, golden sheen. Her dress, if it could be called that, was a winding wreath of blooming vines, petals that opened and closed as she moved, revealing flashes of breast, thigh, curve.

Her hair fell in silken waves of spring-green, crowned with thorns that glimmered like dew-laced gems.

And her smile?

Predatory.

“Who is she?” Maris whispered, too softly for anyone to hear.The woman circled her slowly, her gaze sweeping up and down Maris’s trembling form.

“She’s new,” the fae said, to no one in particular. “Ripe. Raw.” She paused in front of Maris, eyes narrowing. “And untested.”

Maris opened her mouth to speak, to question, to demand, but the woman pressed a single finger to her lips.

“Tsk. No speaking unless spoken to, little guest. This is the Presentation.”

A thread of silver magic slipped between Maris’s legs.She gasped. The court purred in approval.

“Shall we begin?” the woman asked, not waiting for an answer.

Maris swallowed.

“We begin with Truth or Touch.”

The rules were simple: answer with honesty, or surrender to the touch of the court.

A ring of fae formed around her, eager, gleaming. They moved like liquid art, every step exaggerated, every smile loaded with mischief. Someone clapped. Someone else moaned, lazily, in anticipation.

The Ritual of Unwrapping began with touch.

Not hands, threads.

Strands of living magic unspooled from the high arches of the hall, glowing softly as they wrapped around Maris’s arms and ankles, lifting her onto a low platform at the heart of the room. She was suspended, floating just off the ground, her limbs gently spread, her body opened like a flower in bloom.

Gasps rippled through the court.

“Do you feel it?” the woman purred, stepping closer. “The spell reads you. It listens to your breath. It tastes your tension.”

A thread slid along Maris’s collarbone, down between her breasts, curling around one n****e. Another coiled over her inner thigh, whispering against the slick heat there. When she flinched, they tightened.

When she relaxed, they stroked.

Each reaction taught the spell how to please her or punish her.

“Tell me, mortal,” the woman said, brushing her lips close to Maris’s ear, “do you fantasize about the Prince?”

Maris clenched her jaw. “I don’t know him.”

Punishment.

A thread pressed hard against her c**t, not enough to bring her over, but enough to burn.

She cried out. The court shivered with delight.

“Liar,” the woman whispered.

The threads worked mercilessly.

Every denial drew sharper touches. Every gasp pulled her closer to the edge. Her breath came in ragged moans. Her body rocked against the bindings, begging without words.

The prince was watching. But his gaze… it burned.

The woman tilted her head. “Have you ever begged to be f****d?” Maris hesitated.

Yes, she thought. Just last night. On that balcony. Blindfolded, legs trembling, lips parted—

“I…” Her voice faltered.

“Lie,” someone whispered.

A ribbon of heat traced up her inner thigh.

Before she could react, warm hands...no not hands, brushed her hips. Illusions, enchantments, barely-there touches from a dozen angles. One circled her breast, teasing her n****e until it peaked visibly through the opalescent fabric. The gown dimmed in response.

A ripple of laughter.

Next question.

“Would you let the Prince take you in front of us?” Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched.

“I—”

“Lie,” came the chorus again.

This time, the touch was more assertive. A phantom kiss pressed to the back of her neck. A tongue, cold and wet, slid between her legs. The threads released her. She gasped, falling to one knee. Her cunt pulsed, aching for more, but nothing came. They denied her at the edge.

Again and again.

Each lie, each unspoken truth, pulled her deeper into the center of attention. Her gown now shimmered only faintly at her hips. Her n*****s were bare, wet from fae mouths she couldn’t see. Her breath came in moans.

Still, the Winter Prince watched.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But his gaze never left her.

“Enough questions,” said the spring-like woman. “Let us bless the unicorn.”

The crowd parted.

A creature emerged, luminous, majestic, undeniably male. The unicorn’s mane flowed like moonwater, and its eyes burned with primal heat. Between its legs, an impressive erection shimmered with enchantment. Runes glowed along its flanks.

“He will not touch you,” the woman whispered. “But he will feel you. And you, him.”

Two fae approached Maris and lifted her gently, reverently, into place, straddling the creature’s back.

The moment her bare s*x touched the unicorn’s fur, pleasure bloomed through her like wildfire. Her back arched. Her hands clawed at its mane. Magic pulsed against her c**t in rhythm with the creature’s breath. She moaned, high, helpless, broken and open.

A dome of moonlight formed around her, refracting her pleasure into the sky above like waves of several colors, green and pink and deep, burning violet. The court cheered. Some touched themselves. Others wept at the beauty of it.

She wanted to climax. Gods, she needed it. She rocked against the creature, panting, wild with it, but each wave rolled her to the edge and left her there.

The spell was holding her just short of bliss, like there was an enchantment of denial woven into the very air.

Then someone touched her shoulder. It was not magic, not illusion. It felt like flesh.

Someone's fingers. Her head snapped around. It was a fae lord, antlers coiled like ivy, lips full, c**k out and eager. He reached again, toward her breast.