A Witch at the Ren Faire Turned Me Into a Free Use Slut

The ren faire hits you like heat and honeyed mead the second you step through the gates. Dust, roasted turkey legs, lute-strings, and mead

Then you see the tent.

It's tucked off the main lane, between a fortune-teller and a stall selling wooden swords. The canvas is deep green, stitched with silver thread that catches the sun like dew. A painted sign hangs over the flap, letters looping in a careful hand:

THE SWAP. Enter as you are. Leave as you truly are.

You stop. A woman in a corset laughs somewhere behind you. Someone's tankard sloshes.

The flap is half-open. Cool air breathes out of it, smelling of herbs and something sweeter, like crushed petals. You linger at the threshold, one hand on the canvas, wondering what this is.

You go in.

You duck inside. The heat of the faire falls away. The tent is dim, lantern-lit, racks of fabric along the walls ...velvet, silk, leather, and other things.

A woman sits behind a low table, dark hair in a braid, a smile that knows more than it should. Witch, you decide, or a very committed actress.

"What is this?" you ask. "Costumes?"

She tilts her head. "If you like. Try something on. See if it fits."

You wander the racks. Doublets, corsets, a fox-mask, a knight's tabard, that green elven gown...

She's watching you. Hungry. Patient.

She rises without hurry and lifts the green gown from the rack. The silk pours through her hands like water.

"This one," she says. "My favourite."

You laugh. "On me? I'd look ridiculous. Got anything for a knight? Sword, armour?" You tap your chest.

She doesn't laugh with you. She holds the dress against your shoulders anyway, as if the joke is already lost.

"Knights are common," she murmurs. "This… this fits."

The fabric is cool. Too cool. You step back, still smiling, still sure this is just a costume tent with a theatrical witch.

She pours from a small kettle you didn't see. Steam curls off the cup ...mint, honey, something bitter underneath.

"Drink," she says. "On the house. Choosing is thirsty work."

You take it. It's hot, sweet, then wrong. The sweetness curdles. Heat crawls up your throat and down into your gut. The lanterns smear. Your tongue feels thick.

"Whoa ..." You set the cup down too hard. Tea sloshes. The floor tilts.

Your knees go first.

You catch the table; it skids. A rack of costumes blurs into colour. Sweat breaks across your back. Your stomach lurches. You try to laugh it off and only manage a wet breath.

You hit the rugs on your side. The impact knocks the air out of you. Fingers claw at nothing. Your vision tunnels ...green silk, her boots, the painted sign swimming.

She's leaning over you. That hungry look again, undisguised now, like she's been waiting for you to fall.

Darkness folds in.

Everything goes black.

…

… …

Some time passes

You come back in pieces.

First: the rug under your cheek. Coarse. Dusty. Then a pulse behind your eyes, thick and slow. Your mouth tastes like mint and metal.

You try to push yourself up. Your arms feel wrong ...lighter, narrower. The lanterns are too bright. You blink, once, twice. The tent swims, then steadies.

You're still on the floor.

You inhale. Your chest rises in a way it never has. Heavy. Unfamiliar.

You don't sit up yet. You just lie there, breathing, trying to remember how you got down here ...and why everything feels like it belongs to someone else.

You roll onto your back.

The motion makes it worse. Weight shifts across your chest ...full, heavy, nothing like the flat plane you know. You look down.

Your shirt is still on, but it doesn't fit.

You pull the fabric and feel breasts. Soft, large, spilling against the buttons. Your stomach is narrower. Your hips fill your trousers in a way that makes the waistband sit wrong.

You lift a hand. Smaller. Longer fingers. No hair on the knuckles. You touch your jaw. Smooth. You drag your fingers up into your hair and find it longer, silkier, catching at your ears ...

Your ears.

You feel the point. You feel the other one. A small, stunned sound leaves your throat, higher than it should be.

From somewhere above you, the witch laughs, low and pleased.

"There you are," she says. "My favourite, after all."

You shove yourself up on your elbows. The new weight on your chest swings with you. Your voice comes out wrong ...lighter, sharper.

"What the fuck did you do to me?"

She's sitting on the edge of the table like she's been waiting for the question. She looks you over slowly, from pointed ears to the way your shirt is losing the fight.

"I dressed you," she says. "In the thing that fit."

"This isn't a costume." You grab at your chest, at your face. "Change me back."

Her smile is small. Hungry. "Drink my tea, pick my favourite, then demand the knight's armour? No, darling. You're an elf now."

She hops down, the green gown in her hands, and holds it out.

"Put it on. Or don't. Either way, you're not leaving as you were."

You scramble up too fast. The room lurches. Your centre of gravity is all wrong ...chest first, hips second, legs last. You nearly go down again, catch a rack, and silk slithers off hangers around your wrists.

You weren't in your old clothes anymore.

A tall mirror stands at the back of the tent, gilt frame, slightly warped. You stumble toward it, heart hammering in a smaller ribcage, and then you see yourself.

You stop.

The woman in the glass is you. That is the first, stupid thought. Then: she is not you at all.

She is tall for a woman, still, but stripped of your bulk. A slender waist cinches inward above hips that flare, round and heavy, filling out a skirt so short it barely pretends to be one.

Your breasts are the first thing anyone would see. Full. High. The bodice is little more than structured velvet and a criss-cross of gold lacing that doesn't hide you so much as present you: a deep valley of cleavage, skin flushed, each swell straining against the cups until the inner curves almost kiss.

When you breathe, they rise. When you breathe harder, the laces creak. Your nipples are visible as soft peaks under the thin lining, obvious, indecent.

Your shoulders are bare. A sheer capelet of leaf-patterned chiffon hangs off them, doing nothing. Your arms are long, smooth, feminine.

Your hands look small against your own chest when you lift them, horrified, and that only makes the contrast worse ...delicate fingers sinking into yielding flesh that is, impossibly, yours.

The face.

High cheekbones. A mouth too full, lips parted, a little wet from how hard you've been breathing. Your jaw is gone, replaced by something fine and pretty. Lashes dark. Eyes the same colour you remember, wide with panic, which only makes them look larger, more doll-like.

You turn.

Your ass is round, plush, barely covered. The skirt is a joke from behind. The gold lacing of the bodice meets a low back that dives toward the dimples above your hips. Your legs look endless in the laced boots ...soft leather, high, hugging the calf.

You take one step closer. The elf in the glass does too. Her breasts sway. Her throat works. You watch, helpless, as your own body ...this body ...looks like the faire's dirtiest daydream: a busty woodland thing poured into a costume meant to be stared at.

Your pulse is everywhere. In your ears. In your chest. Lower.

You don't look ridiculous.

You look beautiful.

Your voice cracks. Too high. Too pretty.

"What the fuck did you do?"

She's behind you in the mirror now, a dark shape over your new shoulder, watching the elf breathe.

"Not much," she says. "I only finish what was already there."

You shake your head. Hair slides over bare skin. Your breasts move with it.

"I can only change a person into what they truly want to be." Her fingers hover at your pointed ear, not quite touching.

Your mouth opens. Nothing useful comes out.

"You drank," she murmurs. "You reached for it. You wanted this so loudly I could taste it in the tea."

You stare at the elf in the glass until your eyes burn.

"That's ..." Your throat works. The word lie dies on a mouth that looks like it was made for other things. "I didn't ask for this."

"You didn't have to." She steps closer. In the mirror, her hand settles at your waist, thumb in the groove above your hip, where the silk is tightest. " Want doesn't always use words, love."

Heat crawls up your neck.

"Change me back."

"I can't." Soft. Almost kind. "There's nothing to put back. This is the shape that was waiting. The tea only let it through."

Her other hand rises, slow, and cups the underside of one breast through the velvet, lifting the weight as if to show you it. In the mirror, you watch yourself be held. The elf's lips part. Yours.

"See?" she whispers against the point of your ear. "Even now. You can shout. You can panic. Your body already said yes."

Your hands move before you decide they should.

You start at your throat. Smooth. No Adam's apple. Pulse fluttering fast and shallow. Down. The velvet of the bodice is warm from your skin.

You snatch your hand back like you've been burned.

You're still looking. The elf in the glass is flushed, lips wet, chest heaving. You can feel every inch of her. You are every inch of her.

Behind you, the witch hums, pleased.

"Go on," she says. "It's yours. You might as well learn it."

She doesn't come closer. She leans back against the table, arms folded, as if this is a lecture and not your life.

"It's a new body," she says. "Untouched. It's never orgasmed. Not once. All that hunger with nowhere to go ...years of it, packed into a single afternoon. Everything will feel larger than it ever did in the old one. Sharper. Needier. You may find yourself greedy in ways that embarrass you."

Your face burns. You cross your arms over your chest and only succeed in pushing your breasts up higher.

"I'm not ..."

Her gaze stays on your eyes, not the rest. "I'm telling you the rules of the flesh you're wearing. Relief will come easily, looking like that. People will want to give it to you. You'll want to take it."

You swallow. "I don't like men."

A small nod, like she expected that too.

"The man you were didn't. This body didn't get a vote until now." She tips her head.

She gestures at the flap of the tent, the muffled roar of the faire beyond.

"Go on, then. Walk it off. Or don't. Either way, the tension stays until you spend it."

You don't remember deciding to leave.

The flap is in your hands. Faire-noise hits you like a wall…lutes, laughter, grease, sun. You step through and the heat of the day slaps the bare skin of your chest, your thighs, the points of your ears.

Every step is wrong. Breasts bounce. The skirt rides. Silk between your legs clings, damp, and each stride drags it against you until your breath goes thin.

You tell yourself you're finding a place to think.

People look.

A man with a turkey leg forgets to chew. A woman in a bodice tracks you from throat to hem and smiles like she knows. You keep walking because stopping would mean standing still in this body, in this haze, with nowhere to put your hands that isn't evidence.

The tent is behind you. The witch didn't follow.

You're in the faire now: an elf in a costume that isn't a costume, wet, confused, and so turned on it feels like fever. You don't know where you're going. You only know you can't go back to being unnoticed.

You drift into the crowd because standing still is worse.

You try to walk like a man. Your body refuses. The sway is built in ...chest, ass, the short hem flashing pale thigh with every step. You catch your own reflection in a polished breastplate and look away too late: flushed elf, lips parted, nipples obvious under green velvet.

"Nice costume," a voice says.

You turn. A knight ...real padding, cheap crown, eyes on your cleavage like it's the attraction. Your mouth opens to tell him you're not ... and your new body leans, just a fraction, heat pooling low, greedy and uninvited. You step around him instead, pulse in your throat, in your cunt, everywhere.

You don't know if you're fleeing or hunting. The faire doesn't care. It keeps offering you things to look at, and it keeps looking back.

You cut down a side lane to get away from the staring and only find more of it.

The sun finds you again. So does everything else.

You make it ten steps before a cluster of fairgoers parts around you like you're a parade. Someone wolf-whistles, lazy, almost friendly. You flinch and your ears go hot, the points tingling in a way that has no business feeling like a hand.

You buy nothing. You have no pockets. You have no idea where your old clothes went, your wallet, the man who walked in. You keep moving because motion is the only thing that isn't a decision.

You need water. You need a wall. You need this body to stop asking.

Ahead, a tavern tent yawns open, dark and loud, smelling of ale and spilled sugar. You head for it without thinking. Shade. A drink. Somewhere to sit that isn't the inside of your own skin.

You go in.

The tavern tent is a different heat ...beer, bodies, lamp-oil. Your eyes take a second to adjust. Then everyone else's do the same thing to you.

Conversation dips. Not silent. Just that little hitch. People are staring. You feel it on your skin like hands.

You pick an empty stool at the end of the bar. Sitting is worse. The wood is hard; the skirt is nothing; you perch and the position opens you, silk pulling tight between your legs. You suck in a breath through your teeth.

"What'll it be, milady?" The barkeep is trying not to stare at your chest and failing in slow motion.

"Mead. Please."

He pours. You wrap both hands around the cup. The first swallow is sweet. It doesn't help. Your nipples are still obvious. Your pulse is still between your thighs. Across the tent, two men in cheap chainmail have stopped pretending to talk.

You drink anyway, ears burning.

It's darker than you thought. Smoke hangs in the canvas rafters, sweet and cheap, turning the lamps into smears of gold. Faces come and go in it.

You feel the staring before you catch anyone's eyes. Heat on your throat, your cleavage, the bare line of your thighs on the stool. Men, mostly. That particular weight, hungry and unsubtle.

Your new body doesn't recoil. It lights up. Traitorous. Warm between your legs, as if being watched were a hand.

You look away and find worse.

In the corner, a couple is kissing. Her fingers in his hair. His mouth on her jaw, her throat. Another pair against a post ...slow, filthy, her leg hooked around his hip, his palm high on her ribs. Wet sounds. A gasp swallowed. Nobody cares. The smoke makes it private and not private at all.

You watch too long. Your lips part. Your breasts feel swollen, heavy. You cross your legs and the silk drags and you have to stop, breathing shallow, because the tension she promised is right here, in the dark, in the staring, in the way your body leans toward things the old you would have walked past.

You drink..

The music jumps.

A fiddle saws higher. A drum comes in like a pulse under the floor. Someone whoops. The whole tent seems to lean toward the sound ...louder, faster, bodies starting to move whether they meant to or not.

The smoke thickens in the beat. Couples don't stop kissing; they kiss to it now, mouths messy, hips finding the rhythm. A woman is pulled into a spin and her laugh breaks into something hungrier. The two men in chainmail are closer than they were.

The barkeep says something you don't hear. The fiddle shrieks. The drum doesn't let you think.

Someone knocks your stool. Mead sloshes over your knuckles, sticky-sweet, running down to your wrist. You stand because sitting has become impossible ...

The crowd has become a current. Dancers close in. A stranger's hand brushes your waist, gone before you can decide if you wanted it. Another body slides past, leather and sweat, and your breasts drag across a chest that isn't yours.

You should leave. The flap is right there, daylight, air, the version of you that still pretends this is a costume.

You don't leave.

The drum rolls. The tent stomps. You close your eyes for one beat too long, and when you open them, you are still here, still this, still aching.

The next surge of dancers takes your choice away.

You're in it ...hips knocked, hair in your mouth, a shoulder, a laugh, the wet heat of other people. Your breasts are a problem you can't hide; they bounce with the drum and every bounce earns a glance, a grin...

A man leans in, mouth near your ear, breath beery and warm.

"You dancing, or just putting on a show?"

You don't answer. Your new body answers for you ...leaning, just that fraction again, heat flooding, greedy as promised.

Fuck it. You grab him.

Fingers in cheap chainmail, fistful of tabard, yanking him in before the thought finishes. The need is enormous... Your mouth finds his because your mouth wants something in it. He makes a surprised sound. You swallow it.

He is a man. You don't like men. You do not care. You shove your chest against him just to feel the pressure, the scrape of metal on velvet, your nipples screaming.

"Fuck ..." he starts.

You kiss him harder. Your tongue is in his mouth. Your thigh hikes, skirt gone, silk dragging up, and you grind against his hip like you'll die if you don't. The drum is still going. People are still watching.

His hands land on your waist, then higher, filling with your breasts, and a broken noise leaves you that isn't your old voice at all. You don't tell him to stop.

He gets the message.

His mouth goes hungry. His hands are all over you… squeezing your ass, hitching you higher against him, thumbs shoving under the velvet to find skin, then nipple. You roll your hips, shameless, chasing that thick ridge through his trousers, silk a soaked rag between you.

"Easy," he laughs against your mouth, breathless. "Fuck, you're ..."

You're not easy. You're starving. You need more.

You drag his hand down, past the ridiculous skirt, and press his fingers to the mess of you. The first touch on your clit is a white flash. Your knees go. He holds you up by the waist and rubs, clumsy, perfect, and… what… it’s already happening!

It hits like a cramp and a gift at once ...too much, too fast, your new body seizing around nothing. You cry out from the instant orgasm. You shake. You cling.

It doesn't empty you.

"More," you hear yourself say. "Don't stop."

He doesn't stop.

His fingers stay on you, two of them sliding through the slick, finding the new shape of you ...soft folds, a swollen clit that sparks when he so much as breathes on it. Every stroke is too loud inside your skin. You're oversensitive and still starving, the aftershocks twitching through your thighs while the next wave already gathers.

Then the crowd hits you.

A dancer slams your back. You pitch forward into him, his fingers burying deeper by accident, and a sound rips out of you that is almost a sob. Someone else ricochets off your hip.

You can't tell which touches are his.

His mouth is on your throat. His hand works between your legs, wet, filthy, the silk shoved aside. Around you the faire keeps dancing like you are furniture.

A woman laughs against your shoulder without seeing your face. A man behind you bumps your ass and stays there a beat too long, the heat of him, the press, and your cunt clenches on the fingers already in you as if it can't tell the difference.

"Fuck, you're dripping," he says into your ear, and you feel the words more than hear them.

You come again like that ...standing, crushed, used by the room. The orgasm is messier, rolling, no edge to it, just a long helpless clench while people bounce off your body and the music won't let you fall. Your vision whites. Your ears ring.

You see the eyes.

Half the tent is still dancing. The other half has stopped to watch. Shame spikes ...old, male, certain you're about to be thrown out.

Nobody throws you out.

A few people peel off toward the flap, muttering, laughing, not angry, just not this. The ones who remain don't look away.

Someone at the entrance drops the bar. The lock is a joke of wood and iron. It thunks. The outside faire becomes a rumour.

The air changes.

Near the post, a woman in a bodice has her hand in her partner's breeches. She's stroking him openly now, slow and filthy, his cock thick in her fist while he watches you like you're the reason he got hard. He groans. She doesn't hide it. Another couple picks up where they left off, kissing, grinding, a palm sliding under a skirt.

You're still on his fingers. Still dripping. Still on display.

The remaining crowd closes in ...not attacking, settling, making a room inside the room. Hands on partners. Mouths. The drum never stopped.

You understand, dimly, that you are not in trouble.

You are the entertainment that got permission. And your new body, greedy and shining, has no intention of covering up.

A dangerous thought emerges: You've never sucked a cock.

You've never wanted to. The thought used to sit in you like a closed door ...not disgust, just no, a fact as solid as your old name.

But…

His belt is right there. The shape of him is right there, hard against your hip, twitching when you breathe. The woman by the post is still working her partner in long wet strokes and you can hear it, the slick sound, and your mouth fills like your body has already decided what it's for.

You don't like men. You keep the sentence. It just doesn't reach your knees.

You sink.

The floor is packed dirt and spilled mead. Your breasts spill forward, heavy, indecent, as you go down in the green silk. He looks at you like you've performed a miracle. Maybe you have. Your new hands ...small, pretty ...fumble his laces. He springs free, thick, flushed, smelling like skin and want, and your stomach turns with a hunger that isn't nausea.

You don't know how.

You lean in anyway, lips parting, the first wet drag of your tongue along him shocking and immediate. Salt. Heat. The drum. People watching. A groan from somewhere that might be you.

The old you would have stopped. This you takes him into your mouth.

A cheer goes up.

It rolls through the tent ...whoops, laughter, a slammed tankard.

You have a cock in your mouth.

You choke on the first real push and they love that. Another cheer. A hand –not his– strokes your hair back so the room can see your face, your stretched lips, the shine on your chin.

"That's it, elf," a voice slurs. "Go on."

You do. Wet, messy, inexperienced, drooling around him because you don't know how not to. The man in your mouth groans and the tent groans with him, a low hungry sound under the fiddle.

You should be humiliated.

Instead your cunt clenches on nothing, dripping onto the dirt, while they watch you learn, and cheer you on like this is the main event.

You pull off him with a gasp, a string of spit breaking from your lip.

Air slams into you. You laugh ...high, cracked, hysterical ...because it is too much and because it is the best you have ever felt. The laugh turns into another gasp. Your chin is wet. Your eyes are wet.

You can't stop smiling, stupid, wrecked, pointed ears flushed crimson.

"Holy ..." you wheeze, and laugh again, forehead against his hip like you might fall over. "Fuck. Fuck."

The crowd laughs with you, warm, feral. Someone whoops. His cock bobs in front of your face, shining from your mouth, and you look at it and giggle.

This is better than orgasms.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still laughing, still shaking, and go back down because the best you've ever felt is not enough, and this greedy new body wants the rest.

You stay on your knees and lift your eyes.

You want more.

The ring of them is a feast. Open mouths. Flushed throats. Hands already in someone else's clothes. The woman stroking her partner; a man in a half-unlaced doublet is hard against his breeches, staring at your tits, your wet chin…

You look at all of it like you're starving.

Your tongue flicks your lower lip. Someone in the circle actually swears.

You don't pick yet. You just let them see you wanting them, on your knees in green silk, tits heaving, cunt dripping into the dirt.

You drop your gaze.

Between their legs is a language you never spoke and now you can read it ...tents in breeches, the wet dark of a skirt hiked in a fist, a cock already out and shining, another still trapped and twitching against linen. You look from one to the next like you're choosing a drink.

Your mouth opens. An invitation. A dare. Please, someone, put their cock in here.

Whoever steps forward first, you'll take.

Someone does.

A man in a leather jerkin steps out of the ring like the drum told him to. He's already out ...thick, flushed, a bead at the tip. He doesn't ask. He just sets the head of his cock on your open tongue.

Thank you.

You moan around it, grateful, and take him.

The tent breaks.

Another pair of boots. A cock at your cheek, smearing. You turn, sloppy, and suck that one too, then the first again, then a third that appears because you looked at it.

Hands in your hair. Hands on your breasts, lifting, squeezing, thumbs on your nipples until your eyes roll. A woman drops in front of you, kisses your wet mouth between swallows, then guides you back onto the next shaft like she's helping.

You can't keep up and you don't try. You are a mouth. A chest. A dripping cunt on the dirt. They use you in turns, cheering when you gag, groaning when you get it right.

They get you off the floor.

Hands under your arms, under your ass, hauling you onto the edge of a table.

Tankards scatter. Mead runs. Someone shoves the green skirt to your waist and swears at the state of you ...shiny, swollen, dripping down your thighs.

Two fingers push into you with no ceremony. You clench and come on them anyway, a sharp helpless flutter, mouth still stuffed, spit on your chin.

"Pass her ..."

You're turned. A new angle. A cock at your lips, another between your breasts, the velvet yanked down so they can fuck the valley of you, slick with spit and mead. Your tits bounce around him.

The woman from the post climbs onto the table, straddles your face for a moment, lets you taste her, then laughs and crawls away to kiss her man. The drum never stops. Bodies bump the table. Someone spills ale on your stomach and licks it off your navel, down, down, until a mouth is on your clit while you're still sucking.

You shatter again. Harder. Your legs kick. You almost bite. They hold you through it ...hips, hair, wrists ...and when you come back the hunger is still there, meaner, shining in your eyes.

You reach for the next one yourself.

Greedy. Laughing. Ruined.

The faire's favourite elf, finally dressed for the part.

The thought lands in the middle of it, stupid and clear.

As a man you were never anything special. Average face. Average body. One girlfriend in college, another that lasted a winter. You were the person people were fine with. You knew it. You lived in it.

Now you are the most desirable thing you have ever seen.

A cock slides over your tongue and you take it, dazed, almost tender with the revelation.

Someone says she's perfect and it isn't even to you. It's about you. Like weather. Like a fact.

You laugh around him, helpless, and spread your legs wider, because if this is what being wanted feels like, the old life was a rumour, and you are not going back to being fine.

You don't think in sentences anymore.

The table bites your tailbone. Mead-sticky wood, grit in the grain, the thud of the drum coming up through it into your ass, your cunt, the base of your spine.

Someone's mouth is on you ...hot, wet, unhurried now that they know you'll come from almost nothing. A tongue flattens over your clit and stays there, then flicks, then sucks, and the sound you make is filthy even to you, high and broken, buzzing around the cock stretching your lips.

You taste salt. Skin. The faint iron of how hard he is. He fills your mouth until your jaw aches, until your throat has to decide whether to panic or open. You open. Your nose presses to his belly. Your eyes water.

Every bounce of your chest is a new humiliation you want more of. Heavy. Soft. The laces have given up; the velvet is a belt around your ribs. Your nipples are tight, scraped, licked, pinched. When someone rolls one between finger and thumb you feel it in your clit, a bright wire yanked taut, and your hips jerk up into the mouth that's eating you.

You used to be a man nobody remembered.

Now the whole tent is arranged around the wet of you.

"Look at her," someone says, close. "She's fucking gone."

You are. You feel gone. You also feel every inch: the burn in your knees from earlier, the silk wadded at your waist, the points of your ears on fire when a mouth closes over one and sucks. That shouldn't be so good. It is.

They don't let you rest.

You're turned onto your side, then your back, then hauled to the edge so someone can notch against you, thick and blunt, and push.

The first inch steals your breath. You are tight because you are new, and they groan like you've personally blessed them. He sinks. You take. Your body yields in a long slick slide until his hips kiss yours and you can feel him everywhere, too deep, perfect, the kind of full you didn't know a person could be.

He fucks you to the drum.

Each thrust makes your breasts throw themselves upward and slap back, a lewd heavy rhythm the crowd watches like sport.

Hands steady your waist. Hands spread your thighs. A cock taps your cheek until you turn and suck it, sloppy, grateful, while you're being used. Spit. Sweat. The smell of sex and hay and spilled honey.

You look up through wet lashes and see them seeing you.

You are the most fuckable thing in the world. You can feel it on your skin. You can feel it in the way they wait their turn, in the way a woman leans down and kisses you around a shaft, sharing the taste, in the way your own cunt keeps sucking, greedy, pulling them in.

You moan for the next one before this one has even finished.

Elf. Slut. Favourite.

He finishes in you with a broken curse, hips slamming flush, heat spilling deep. You feel every pulse. Your mouth falls off the cock you were sucking just to say it, wrecked and honest:

"Don't pull out ...fuck ...don't ..."

He doesn't, not until he's done. When he does, the slide out is obscene, thick, a wet sound, and you clench on emptiness like you'll die of it.

Cum leaks down your ass onto the table. You reach between your own legs, two pretty fingers, and push it back in because this body cannot stand to be left open and unfilled.

"Please," you hear yourself say, to no one, to everyone. "Someone. I need ..."

They understand.

A woman gets there first. She climbs over your face, already slick, and sits. Your world becomes her. Heat. Musk. The soft grind of her cunt on your mouth. You don't know how to do this either. You do it anyway… tongue flat, then pointed, chasing the sounds she makes. She fists your hair and rides you, and you moan into her like thanks.

"That's it," she gasps. "Good girl ...oh, she's eager."

A new man takes the space between your thighs. He rubs the head of his cock through the mess of you, up over your clit, down, notching, teasing, until your hips chase him and your voice goes small.

"Put it in. I don't care. Just ...in."

He gives it to you in one long thrust.

Your back arches. Your tits throw themselves toward the lamps. The woman on your face laughs, breathless, and grinds harder, smearing herself over your nose, your chin, your tongue.

The sensations stack until they stop being separate.

Cock stretching you, thick enough that you feel your own lips clinging to him on every out-stroke. The wet slap of his hips. Your clit caught between bodies, rubbed raw and perfect. Her taste filling your mouth. Hands on your nipples, twisting just enough to hurt, just enough to make your cunt seize. The drum. The cheering. A stranger's fingers in your mouth alongside her, stretching your jaw, making you drool.

"More ...more, I can ...more ..."

They rotate you.

You're on your hands and knees on the table now, green skirt a rag at your waist, ass up, tits hanging, swinging with every shove. Someone takes you from behind. Deeper this way. You feel it in your stomach. You gasp, then laugh, then moan, forehead to the wood.

"Fuck, it's so ...it's so much ..."

A cock at your lips again. You open on instinct. You are an entrance. You are a mouth and a cunt and a pair of breasts people keep fucking because they can.

"Don't stop," you whisper, wrecked, smiling, greedy. "Please don't stop. I want all of you."

They don't stop.

You feel it leak before you see it.

When the man behind you eases out, your cunt stays open for a second, stunned, and then a thick warm slide starts ...his cum and the last’s, mixed, spilling from you in a slow filthy ribbon. It runs over your clit, down the inside of one thigh, a cooling tickle that makes you twitch. You try to close your legs and only smear it. The table under you is already wet. You are wetter.

"Don't waste it," someone laughs, and two fingers scoop, push it back into you, then don't bother, let the rest drip. You moan at the loss. You moan at being seen losing it.

The cock in your mouth jerks.

He tries to warn you. You don't let him out. You take him to the root, throat working, and he breaks with a groan you feel in your teeth.

The first pulse hits your tongue ...hot, sudden, too much. The taste is salt and something bitter-sweet, like skin left in the sun, like the back of a throat, like swallowing a secret. It coats you.

The hot cum fills the hollows of your mouth faster than you can drink it. You swallow, cough, swallow again. The second pulse paints the roof of your mouth. The third leaks from the corner of your lips and strings down your chin onto your breast.

You come up gasping, laughing, wrecked.

"Fuck ...it's ...it's in my mouth ..."

You sound delighted. You sound ruined. You lick your teeth and still taste him.

That's when they finish on the rest of you.

One man strokes himself over your chest, tight-fisted, staring at the bounce of you, and spends in thick ropes across your tits. Hot. Heavy. It stripes your cleavage, catches a nipple, slides into the valley and just stays, glossy, dripping off the underside of one breast in a slow bead.

Another grunts and then paints your belly…

You look down at yourself.

You are disgusting.

You are beautiful.

You can see it in the way they stare, stunned, like the faire built an altar and forgot to mention it was you. Flushed elf, pointed ears, lips swollen, lashes wet, body used and shining. The most desirable thing you have ever seen, and it is your own filthy reflection in a dropped tankard.

"Look at me," you whisper, to them, to yourself, to anyone still reading this like they aren't already on their knees too. "Look."

A hand smears the mess on your belly, spreading it, making you glisten. Another cups a come-slick breast and lifts it, showing the room. You arch into it, shameless, dripping from every place they put themselves.

"I'm so ..." You laugh, helpless, a little hysterical. "I'm so fucking dirty. Don't stop. Please. I look ...I look perfect."
Hands turn your head. A woman kisses you, filthy, sharing it, then whispers against your mouth, "Pretty little thing," and two of her fingers find your clit and rub in tight mean circles in your cum drenched pussy.

You don't last.

The orgasm is ugly. It wracks you. Your thighs shake; a sound comes out of you that isn't words. You try anyway:

"I'm ...I'm coming ..."

She doesn't, until you're twitching, laughing, crying a little, reaching for whoever is nearest.

They haul you upright, kneeling on the table now, displayed. Someone stands behind you and holds your wrists at the small of your back.

Someone else wipes a thumb through the come on your chest and feeds it to you. You suck the thumb clean, eyes half-lidded, and look at the ring of them like a challenge.

"Who's next?" you ask, sweet, ruined, honest. "Please, I can take it. I want to take it."

She doesn't ask.

Hands on your hips, a shove, and the world turns ...table against your cheek, ass up, tits crushed into the wet wood, come smearing under you in a warm slick sheet. You make a startled sound that turns into a laugh.

"Wait ...what are you ..."

"Hush." Her voice is fond, filthy. "You've got plenty."

Her fingers gather it. From your cunt, where it's still leaking in thick slow pulses. From your thighs. From the puddle on your belly that she scoops and drags back, over your hip, into the cleft of your ass.

The cum is cooling now, slippery, obscene. She paints you with it. You feel every pass ...the pad of her thumb, the mess, the way she spreads you with her other hand so the tent can see.

Then a finger, blunt, come-slick, pressing where nothing has ever pressed.

The feeling is wrong and exact.

Not like your cunt. Tighter. A bright, concentrated stretch, a burn that isn't pain yet, just new. Your asshole flutters against her, shy, greedy, trying to decide. She waits, rubbing, feeding more of their spend into you as lube, circling until the muscle gives a little and the tip of her finger slips in.

You gasp like you've been dropped in cold water.

"Oh ...oh fuck ...that's ..." Your voice cracks. "That's in my ass ..."

She sinks to the knuckle.

The sensation blooms up your spine, strange and huge, a fullness that makes your empty cunt clench on nothing and drip harder. You can feel the wet of the come inside that tight ring, warm, filthy, making each tiny movement a slick drag.

She fucks the finger slowly. In. Out. The stretch eases, then returns, then eases. Your ears burn. Your nipples scrape the table. You push back without meaning to.

"More," you whisper, shocked at yourself. "It's ...it's weird. It's good. Don't stop. Use it. Use all of it."

She adds a second finger. The burn spikes, sharp, then melts into a thick ache that makes your mouth fall open. Come squishes. You hear it. Everyone hears it. She scissors, gently, opening you, and the feeling is so intimate it makes your eyes sting ...being unmade there, in front of them, with their own mess as the grease.

"Look at you," she murmurs. "Taking it like you were built for this."

"Please," you say, small and hungry. "Please, I can feel it. I want it. Open me up."

She gives you the third.

The stretch goes from bright to full. Your mouth opens on a sound that isn't a word. You feel yourself yield around her, the ring of muscle fluttering, trying to keep her out and suck her in at once.

Cum squishes, hot and filthy, leaking around her fingers every time she moves. She works you open in slow pumps, knuckles kissing that tight entrance, and each in-stroke shoves a shock up into your belly, into your empty cunt, into the base of your spine.

"Fuck ...fuck ...that's so ...I can feel all of it ..."

Your voice is wrecked. Your face is on the table. Your tits are mashed in cooling spend. She crooks her fingers and you jolt like she's found a wire nobody told you about, a deep dirty spark that makes your clit throb against nothing.

"There," she says, pleased. "That's the spot, little elf."

She rubs it. You lose language. Your hips buck. Your hole clenches so hard she laughs, low, and keeps going, fucking your ass with their come until you're dripping from both places, a mess running down to your knees.

"Don't you dare come yet," she murmurs, and her other hand finds your clit anyway ...two fingers, slick, mean circles ...while she keeps you stretched.

You try to obey. You fail.

The orgasm hits from the inside out, wrong and enormous, your ass clamping on her fingers in helpless pulses, your cunt gushing onto the wood, your scream stuffed full. You shake. You laugh. You cry a little. You push back onto her hand like you'll die if she leaves.

This is amazing, but you want a cock in your ass.

"More," you gasp, when you can. "Something bigger. Please. I'm open. I'm ...I'm ready. I want it in my ass. I want to be full."

She eases her fingers out. The emptiness is obscene. You clench on air, leaking, gaping just enough for the tent to see, filthy and disgusting and beautiful, an elf on a table asking to be ruined in a place you didn't have this morning.

A man takes her place. You feel him, thick, come-slick, notch against you.

You say, sweet and shaking:

"Do it. Put it in. Make me take it."

He pushes.

The head of him is blunt, hotter than her fingers, and for a second your body says no ...a bright tight refusal, a burn that makes your hands claw the table. Then the come does its work. You give. He sinks the first inch and you make a sound like you've been run through.

"Wait ...wait ...it's too ...oh my god it's in ..."

He waits. Barely. His hands on your hips are shaking. You can feel him throbbing against that ring of muscle, huge, patient, terrible. You breathe. You push back yourself, greedy even in the stretch, and he slides deeper.

The feeling is enormous.

Not like being fucked in the cunt. This is denser, more precise, a thick occupying presence that makes your whole pelvis feel claimed.

"More," you whisper, wrecked. "I said I could. I can. Don't you dare be gentle now."

He gives you the rest.

Hips kiss your ass. You are full. Stuffed. The table creaks. Your mouth hangs open; spit and leftover spend string from your lip.

He pulls back and the drag is filthy, slick, the come-lube squelching, and when he thrusts in again your tits smear through the mess on the wood and you moan like the faire paid you.

Slow at first, then not. Each stroke punches a little "ah" out of you. Someone rubs your clit.

Someone else feeds you a cock and you suck it sloppy, grateful, eyes rolling, because if your mouth isn't full you might start sobbing from how good the wrongness is.

"I'm so full," you gasp, around the shaft, then again, clearer, almost laughing. "I'm so fucking full. Look at me. Look ...don't stop ..."

He doesn't. He grips your waist and uses you, and you take it, elf ears burning, come dripping from your cunt, ass stretched around a stranger, filthy and disgusting and beautiful, begging for harder like this is what you walked into the tent for all along.

They don't pull him out of you.

A second man climbs onto the table, in front, and you understand before anyone says it. Your cunt is empty, dripping, clenching on air while your ass is already stuffed. He rubs through the mess of you, up over your clit, and notches against your pussy.

"Both?" you ask, high, almost laughing. "You're going to… at the same time?"

"If you can take it."

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Yes!

"I can take it. Put it in. Fill me. I want ...both ..."

He pushes.

The first inch makes your vision white. You are already full. There is no room. He makes room anyway, a slow thick slide into your cunt while the cock in your ass stays buried, and you feel them meet ...a pressure through the thin wall between, two heats, two throbs, you packed so tight you can barely breathe.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. I can feel you both. I can feel you rubbing ...inside me ...fuck … !!!"

They start to move.

Not together at first. The one in your ass pulls back as the one in your cunt sinks, a filthy seesaw that drags every nerve you have. Then they find the drum and thrust in the same time, and you stop being a person. You are a sleeve. You are a wet, shaking, stuffed elf, tits swinging through cooling come, mouth open on a long broken sound.

Double. Stretched. The stretch is everywhere.. ass burning sweet, cunt clinging, clit trapped between bodies, a thumb finding it and rubbing until your thighs jump. You can hear how wet you are, two cocks churning their spend and yours into foam. Each thrust shoves the air out of you. Each withdrawal makes you chase, greedy, ruined.

"Don't you dare pull out," you gasp. "Don't ...I'm so full, I'm so ...harder. Use me. I'm your elf. I'm ...I'm yours ..."

They do.

Faster. Deeper. The table slams the post. The tent cheers.

Someone takes your hair and feeds you a third cock and you suck it because of course you do, drooling, moaning, stuffed at both ends and still hungry.

The man in your ass groans that he's close; the one in your cunt fucks you through it, grinding, and you feel the first of them start to pulse, heat flooding your ass, and then the second follows, spending in your pussy until it squirts out around him in thick filthy pulses.

You come like you're being unmade.

No peak. A collapse. Your whole body seizes on both of them, milking, shaking, a scream around the shaft in your mouth. You soak the table. You leak from everywhere. You laugh when you can breathe, hysterical, beautiful, disgusting.

"Again," you whisper, wrecked, smiling, still full of them. "Don't take them out. I want to stay like this. I want to be this."

A fourth shadow leans over you.

You don't see his face. You see him, thick, flushed, and your mouth opens like a door that's forgotten how to close. He slides in over your tongue, fills your throat, and the last empty place on you is gone. You are taken. Cunt. Ass. Mouth. A closed circuit of heat.

"Mm ..." is all you manage. Not a word. A vibration.

A woman ducks under the mess of you and finds your breast with her mouth. Her tongue is hot, slow, worshipful. She licks a stripe through the cooling come on your nipple, then seals her lips and sucks, gentle, then not.

Behind you, another woman puts her palms on your back.

Not grabbing. Stroking. Long, warm passes from the nape of your neck to the dimples above your ass, over and over, grounding you while you're used.

The trance takes you.

Someone says your ears are twitching. Someone laughs. You don't laugh. You moan, low and continuous, a single sound with no edges.

You think, dimly, please don't ever stop, but it doesn't make it to your mouth. Your mouth is full. Your body is full. Your head is empty except for yes.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. yes. Yessssss.

The woman on your chest sucks. The woman on your back soothes. The men fill you. You float in it, an elf in a trance of ecstasy, filthy and held and perfect, taking everything, giving nothing back but wet helpless sounds, gone, gone, gone.

Growing. Growing. Too much, too much.

It starts behind your clit, a hard bright spike, then detonates through the stuffed places ...cunt clamping on the cock inside it, ass seizing around the other, throat fluttering on the third. Your whole body locks. Your toes point in the boots. You scream into the shaft in your mouth, muffled, wrecked, a sound with no words, and come squirts around the man in your pussy, hot, sudden, splashing his belly, the table, the woman stroking your back.

They don't stop moving.

Thirty seconds of it. Maybe less. The wet slap of hips. The cock in your throat easing back so you can gasp, then pushing in again. The woman licking your nipple in slow circles, soothing, then sucking. The palms on your back, warm, endless. You feel the aftershocks as tiny bites in your clit, in that stretched ring of your ass. You try to say wait and it comes out:

"I can't ...I just ...ah ..."

The second one hits before you've filled your lungs.

Stronger. Meaner. It comes from the ass this time, from that deep dirty spark her fingers found, now crushed under a thrusting cock. Your vision goes white at the edges.

You scream for real ...high, raw, the man in your mouth pulling free just in time so the tent hears you. "Fuck ...fuck ...FUCK ..."

In between: your heart hammering so hard you can see it in your tits. Sweat. The smell of sex. Someone wiping hair out of your face. The woman on your back kissing your spine, once, twice.

"It's too much. It's so good. Don't you dare ..."

Thirty seconds. Again, it’s happening again.

It rolls up from your stuffed belly like a cramp made of light. No warning spike ...just a sudden total seizure. You scream and the scream has pitch, a note, like the fiddle. Your arms give out. Your face smashes against the come-slick wood.

They hold your hips up anyway and keep using you, and that ...being held up while you come ...makes it worse, better, endless. Your pussy spasms in hard rhythmic clamps you can hear, wet, obscene.

They put the cock back in your mouth.

You take it. You don't have a thought left. You suck because your mouth is for that. The woman rubs your back in long strokes.

Thirty seconds of that pressure.

The fourth is bigger than the third.

It starts in your clit ...someone's fingers, the woman's, rubbing tight circles through the soaked mess ...and then your whole pelvis detonates. You come so hard you squirt, a real jet, splashing the man in front of you, the table, the floor. You scream yes and then you scream nothing, just sound. Your eyes roll. Your pointed ears flush dark. The cock in your throat muffles the second half of it and you gag, come, gag, come, a filthy loop, tears on your face, mascara if you had any, just wet.

"Again ...it's going to happen again ...I can feel it ...I can feel it coming ..."

Twenty seconds. Not even thirty.

The fifth slams into the leftover of the fourth.

No valley. No rest. Just a higher cliff. Your body has stopped pretending these are separate events. This one is a scream from the first second. You tear off the cock in your mouth to do it, head thrown back, throat bare, and the tent hears an elf coming like she's dying.

"AH ...AH ...AH ..." in time with the thrusts. Both cocks buried. Both cocks grinding.

Your holes spasm so violently that spend and your own wetness churn out in noisy squirts.

Your tits bounce in the woman's mouth; she moans against you. The hands on your back slide down and spread you wider, showing everyone the stretch, the mess, the way you keep pulsing. This orgasm has teeth. It hurts in the good way. It wrings you. It wrings the years out of you ...every untouched night this body never had, spent in ten filthy seconds.

In between: a kiss on your shoulder. A laugh. Someone saying she's still going.

"I can't stop. I can't stop coming. Help me. Don't stop. Don't stop."

Help. Help. Help!!!

Thirty seconds of being fucked like a toy while you try to remember how to be a person.

The sixth is the strongest yet.

It comes from everywhere. Mouth. Nipples. Ass. Cunt. The rubbing on your back becoming a kind of hypnotic permission. You don't build. You drop. The orgasm is a fall through the floor of yourself.

You scream until your voice shreds. You come in long, ugly, beautiful waves, one on top of the next inside the same climax, a stacked thing, a year leaving you, then another year, then another. Your cunt gushes until it's just clear slick and foam. Your ass milks and milks and milks.

You bite the cock in your mouth without meaning to and he groans and fucks your throat anyway. The woman on your nipple pinches the other one at the same time she sucks and you convulse, a fresh peak inside the peak. You are crying. You are smiling. You are drooling. You are an elf in a trance with years pouring out of her holes.

They keep moving.

Twenty-five seconds. Your clit is a live wire. Every thrust is a threat.

The seventh takes you on a single deep shove, both men in to the hilt at once.

You scream, please! You scream, fuck! You scream a sound that isn't language.

This one is so strong your arms and legs go rigid, a plank of pleasure, then collapse. You squirt again, weaker jet, still filthy.

You gasp,

"It's not stopping. It's not ...nnh ...it's happening ...again ..."

Fifteen seconds of wet grinding, of your own heartbeat, of a thumb on your clit that you would kill to escape and kill to keep.

The eighth is worse.

Worse meaning better. Worse meaning you have nothing left and it takes it anyway. You scream yourself hoarse. No pretty moans. Raw. Your face is a mess of spit and cum and tears. Your tits are red from sucking.

"I'm the elf. I'm the slut. I'm ...ah ...I'm coming ...I'm still coming ..."

They don't let the ninth be a surprise.

They aim for it. Faster. Harder. Fingers on your clit in time with the drum. Mouths on both nipples now ...someone else has joined, two women, one on each breast, sucking together. The hands on your back press you down, hold you, make you take it.

You last twenty seconds of that and then the ninth hits like a wall. You scream with them ...the tent is shouting, groaning, cheering, and your voice is in it, one more instrument. This orgasm is total. No part of you isn't in it.

Years of orgasms tearing out of a body that had never had one…

"Again. It's going to happen again. Don't stop. Please. Please. I'm yours. I'm ..."

And thirty seconds later, it does.

The tenth is the strongest of all of them.

It doesn't feel like an orgasm. It feels like the first nine standing up inside you at once. You scream until you can't.

You come until the word stops meaning anything. You are a shaking, squirting, stuffed, sucked, rubbed, filthy, disgusting, beautiful elf, and the years keep leaving you in pulses, and the men keep fucking you, and the women keep loving on your tits and your back, and you keep coming, and coming, and coming, each one harder, each one louder, each one yours.

You collapse.

The table takes you like a dropped thing. You hit on your side, then your back, legs still open, holes still twitching, still leaking. Air rips in and out of you. It hurts.

Every breath is a knife in a body that has been wrung too many times. Your cunt pulses in sore little bites. Your ass flutters around nothing, gaping, dripping. Your throat is raw from screaming. Your nipples throb. You lie there in the wreckage of yourself, panting in a kind of agony that is still, somehow, pleasure's leftover, and you cannot lift your head.

They pull out of you.

The emptiness makes you whimper. Then they stand around the table, a ring of flushed men, cocks shining with you, fists working, looking down at the elf they unmade.

They finish on you.

The first stripe hits your stomach, hot, heavy. You flinch, then moan.

The second paints your tits, across both peaks, dripping into the valley.

A third catches your throat, your chin, your open panting mouth. Another on your hip. Another on your thighs, near the mess already pouring out of you.

They groan, one after another, spending themselves on your skin like they're signing a flag. Warm ropes. Cooling almost as they land. The smell of it. The weight of it. You are too wrecked to do anything but take the rain.

When they stop, you are glazed.

You look down at yourself. You giggle.

It starts small, a hiccup in the panting, then it breaks open ...high, silly, ruined.

Your hands, shaking, gather it. You rub their come over your breasts, slow, smearing, making yourself shine. Over your belly. Into your navel. Down between your legs, mixing it with what's leaking out of you, pushing it over your sore clit until you twitch and giggle harder.

"I'm disgusting," you whisper, delighted, spreading it over your throat, your cheeks, the points of your ears. "Look at me. I'm so ...hah ...I'm so dirty."

You paint yourself like a cake. You lick a finger. Salt. Bitter. You giggle again, panting, aching, beautiful, an elf in a puddle of them, rubbing it in like lotion, like proof, like you never want to be clean.

You keep rubbing.

The giggle turns into a moan, then back into a giggle.

Someone swears under their breath. A woman fans herself. The men who just spent on you are still standing there, dazed, watching you use their mess as lotion. The woman who had her hands on your back sits on the edge of the table and strokes your hair, gentle, like you're a horse that's been run too hard.

"Easy, darling."

"I want to stay like this. I want them to see. I'm so sore. I'm so ...hah ...I'm so full of it. It's running out of me."

It is. You feel it leak from your cunt in a warm pulse, from your ass in a slower filthier trickle, and you catch it with your palm and rub that in too, over your hip, over the short ruined skirt, as if you can wear them.

You try to sit up. Your arms shake. Your tits swing, glazed, heavy. The room tilts. You make it to your elbows, panting in that sweet agony, and you giggle again because you can see yourself in a dropped tankard: elf, slut, iced in white, eyes bright, mouth swollen, the most desirable thing you've ever seen, and it is you, and you cannot stop laughing, and you cannot stop touching, and you do not want a towel.

"Don't clean me," you tell the tent, sweet, filthy, smiling. "Leave it. I earned this.."

Nobody brings a towel.

They help you off the table instead ...hands under your arms, under your sticky ass, setting you on your feet like you might break. Your knees buckle. Come runs down the insides of both thighs in slow warm lines and pools in your boots. You giggle at that, breathless, and catch yourself on someone's chest.

"I've got it. I've ...nnh ...I've got it."

You don't. You stand there swaying, glazed, the green silk a ruined belt around your waist, tits bare and shining, belly striped, throat marked, hair stuck to your cheeks. The woman who rubbed your back tugs the skirt down so it covers almost nothing. The fabric darkens instantly. You look like you lost a fight with a feast.

Someone lifts the bar on the flap.

Night air hits you. Cooler. It tightens your nipples, dries the edges of the mess, makes you shiver and laugh. The faire is still going ...torches, lutes, drunk singing, people who did not just watch you get unmade. You take one step toward that noise, then another. Your gait is wrecked: thighs wet, holes sore, breasts bouncing, every stride a filthy little slip of skin on skin.

A man coming in stops dead. His tankard tilts. You meet his eyes, come on your chin, and smile like a secret.

"Evening," you say, high and sweet and used, and you walk past him into the lane.

Heads turn. Of course they do. You are an elf in a costume that isn't, painted in other people, dripping as you go, giggling when a drop leaves your breast and hits the dirt. You don't cover yourself. You don't hurry. You wear it the way you wanted to ...proof, glaze, trophy ...while the tavern behind you spills laughter and the lock hangs open, and you are, for the first time in either life, exactly as seen as you feel.
You don't go back to the tent.

You find it anyway.

The green canvas is still there, silver thread catching torchlight. The flap is tied now. No witch on the threshold. Only the painted sign, swinging a little in the night air: Enter as you are. Leave as you wish.

You stand under it in your ruined silk, shining, sore, smiling at nothing. The faire moves around you ...lovers, drunks, a late joust horn somewhere far off. A woman in a flower crown looks at you, looks again, and raises her cup. You raise nothing. You just let her look.

The old body is a story you were told. The man with one or two girlfriends, the one who laughed at a dress, the one who asked for a knight. He drank the tea. He got what he wanted. You can still feel him, faintly, like a name you've outgrown.

You walk on.

Past the lists. Past the honey stall, shut. Past couples in the dark who don't have to hide now that the hour has arrived. Come dries on your skin in the cooling air, a crackle, a secret. Your ears twitch at every laugh. Your body aches in the places they opened. You press a hand to your own chest, to the weight of you, and you don't flinch.

At the gate, a guard starts to speak, then doesn't. You step through into the field beyond the faire, grass wet, sky huge, and for a moment you are only an elf in the dark, filthy and beautiful and finished.

You laugh once, quiet, and keep walking.

You don't need to be changed back.

You already left as you wished.