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The Nymph’s Pleasure House: Rosalie’s Cave - Part I free porn video
Solitary and one with the forest; such was the life of a wolf girl.
Ever since she had come of age, Rosalie had been living alone in a cave in the forest. She rested during the day and hunted at night. She did not miss her parents nor did she think of her siblings; wolves moved in packs — however wolf girls were a different breed.
It was said that centuries ago, a werewolf and a human woman eloped and had two children: a boy and a girl. These two children were the Original Sin; the offspring of the members of two races that should have never mated. These two children did not have a pair of human ears, but instead had a wolf ears growing out from the top of their heads. And right above their buttocks, a thick and silky tail bloomed.
Children of the devil. Creatures of sin.
Many terms had been used to describe those who had the mixed blood of a human and a werewolf. They were universally despised by all the creatures; minotaurs, elves, nymphs, and dwarves had all banished them from their territories. Human villagers and townsfolk would light their torches and aim arrows at any wolf girl who dared to come closer to their farmlands.
And so it was that Rosalie — and all the other children of such mixed blood — had retreated deep into the forest where no one could disturb them. She knew that she was unwelcome and she would be hunted if she left this little patch of forest — to the North an ancient incubus tribe commanded the area and to the South-East, the mighty city of commerce, often referred to as the Capital, commanded authority.
It would be a lie to say that Rosalie did not sometimes detest her parents for bringing her into this world; rejected by every one she met, she had no place and was at the mercy of what she could find in the forest. And yet, every morning when she woke up and walked to the entrance of her cave, she felt joy in every beat of her heart as the fresh morning air filled her lungs. The birds chirped as though they were talking to her — for birds did not discriminate — the rays of sunlight leaked through the roof of leaves and the morning dew glistened on the grass blades and bushes.
The first order of the day was to always groom her hair and her tail. Her long and straight chestnut hair was kept in an orderly fashion — clean and neat as though she were expecting visitors. She paid special attention to her tail; its lustrous golden color gleamed in the sunlight and she licked and combed it until all the hairs were sorted out and her tail appeared as smooth as the delicate hair of a noblewoman.
And even though she hadn’t been disturbed in many years, her senses were still as sharp as that of any wolf. Her ears constantly searched for careless sounds potential prey might make — a drowsy deer in the morning or a panicked rabbit.
She hands stopped. Her tail was left on her thigh.
Something in the forest had moved. She had spent so much time in this forest that she knew the placement of every rock and leaf. Nothing and no one could pass by this area without her noticing. Something slumped against a tree and kicked a pebble into a tiny stream. There was the faintest sound of something desperately breathing.
She wrinkled her nose. She smelt blood. Her stomach growled.
Immediately, Rosalie sat up. If there was blood, then it meant that her prey was already wounded; and if it was wounded, then it would make the hunt so much easier. No wolf ever said no to an easy meal.
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Light on her feet, Rosalie sprinted through the forest, towards the source of the sound. She could hear groaning; it was an animal groan.
She dodged the trees without slowing down the least. She jumped over dead tree trunks and avoided throned bushes. She ignored the deers and rabbits who had not noticed her as she ran in near complete silence.
When she arrived at the source of the sound, she expected to see a wounded deer or perhaps a mountain lion or a bear. But what she saw instead was a human.
A man lay on the ground with a pool of blood around him. His stomach had been slashed open and she could see his guts seeing the light of the day for the first time. His chest heaved up and down, still clinging onto life.
Rosalie stepped closer, ready to give this poor man a merciful death. She stopped.
This wasn’t a human. She narrowed her eyes and saw that his ears were long and sharp — an elf.
No, he wasn’t an elf either. Rosalie took another step. “Ah,” she sounded. Judging by the handsome features of his clawed face, this wounded male was an incubus — creatures known for their extensive skill in seducing and pleasuring women.
She scratched her chin. He should have died from such horrible wounds a long time ago — and yet his eyes glimmered with a stubborn hope that some miracle might happen. He focused whatever magic had remaining to his wounds, trying his best to slow down the bleeding.
How admirable, Rosalie thought. She had always imagined incubuses to be soft and feeble boys, unable to survive outside the comforts of a bedroom — and yet this incubus desperately refused to give himself to death.
“You are a lucky man,” she said and stepped next to him.
With an uncanny strength, she heaved him up and carried him on her shoulder, making sure that his guts didn’t spill out.
Then she carried him to her cave.
Ever since she had come of age, Rosalie had been living alone in a cave in the forest. She rested during the day and hunted at night. She did not miss her parents nor did she think of her siblings; wolves moved in packs — however wolf girls were a different breed.
It was said that centuries ago, a werewolf and a human woman eloped and had two children: a boy and a girl. These two children were the Original Sin; the offspring of the members of two races that should have never mated. These two children did not have a pair of human ears, but instead had a wolf ears growing out from the top of their heads. And right above their buttocks, a thick and silky tail bloomed.
Children of the devil. Creatures of sin.
Many terms had been used to describe those who had the mixed blood of a human and a werewolf. They were universally despised by all the creatures; minotaurs, elves, nymphs, and dwarves had all banished them from their territories. Human villagers and townsfolk would light their torches and aim arrows at any wolf girl who dared to come closer to their farmlands.
And so it was that Rosalie — and all the other children of such mixed blood — had retreated deep into the forest where no one could disturb them. She knew that she was unwelcome and she would be hunted if she left this little patch of forest — to the North an ancient incubus tribe commanded the area and to the South-East, the mighty city of commerce, often referred to as the Capital, commanded authority.
It would be a lie to say that Rosalie did not sometimes detest her parents for bringing her into this world; rejected by every one she met, she had no place and was at the mercy of what she could find in the forest. And yet, every morning when she woke up and walked to the entrance of her cave, she felt joy in every beat of her heart as the fresh morning air filled her lungs. The birds chirped as though they were talking to her — for birds did not discriminate — the rays of sunlight leaked through the roof of leaves and the morning dew glistened on the grass blades and bushes.
The first order of the day was to always groom her hair and her tail. Her long and straight chestnut hair was kept in an orderly fashion — clean and neat as though she were expecting visitors. She paid special attention to her tail; its lustrous golden color gleamed in the sunlight and she licked and combed it until all the hairs were sorted out and her tail appeared as smooth as the delicate hair of a noblewoman.
And even though she hadn’t been disturbed in many years, her senses were still as sharp as that of any wolf. Her ears constantly searched for careless sounds potential prey might make — a drowsy deer in the morning or a panicked rabbit.
She hands stopped. Her tail was left on her thigh.
Something in the forest had moved. She had spent so much time in this forest that she knew the placement of every rock and leaf. Nothing and no one could pass by this area without her noticing. Something slumped against a tree and kicked a pebble into a tiny stream. There was the faintest sound of something desperately breathing.
She wrinkled her nose. She smelt blood. Her stomach growled.
Immediately, Rosalie sat up. If there was blood, then it meant that her prey was already wounded; and if it was wounded, then it would make the hunt so much easier. No wolf ever said no to an easy meal.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Light on her feet, Rosalie sprinted through the forest, towards the source of the sound. She could hear groaning; it was an animal groan.
She dodged the trees without slowing down the least. She jumped over dead tree trunks and avoided throned bushes. She ignored the deers and rabbits who had not noticed her as she ran in near complete silence.
When she arrived at the source of the sound, she expected to see a wounded deer or perhaps a mountain lion or a bear. But what she saw instead was a human.
A man lay on the ground with a pool of blood around him. His stomach had been slashed open and she could see his guts seeing the light of the day for the first time. His chest heaved up and down, still clinging onto life.
Rosalie stepped closer, ready to give this poor man a merciful death. She stopped.
This wasn’t a human. She narrowed her eyes and saw that his ears were long and sharp — an elf.
No, he wasn’t an elf either. Rosalie took another step. “Ah,” she sounded. Judging by the handsome features of his clawed face, this wounded male was an incubus — creatures known for their extensive skill in seducing and pleasuring women.
She scratched her chin. He should have died from such horrible wounds a long time ago — and yet his eyes glimmered with a stubborn hope that some miracle might happen. He focused whatever magic had remaining to his wounds, trying his best to slow down the bleeding.
How admirable, Rosalie thought. She had always imagined incubuses to be soft and feeble boys, unable to survive outside the comforts of a bedroom — and yet this incubus desperately refused to give himself to death.
“You are a lucky man,” she said and stepped next to him.
With an uncanny strength, she heaved him up and carried him on her shoulder, making sure that his guts didn’t spill out.
Then she carried him to her cave.
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