Elves aren’t the only sexy ones, you know. In these modern post-Hobbit days, it is high time we culture acknowledged one simple truth: dwarves can, in fact, be smokin’ hot. From the deep, rich and remote places of the world come legends of these fascinating beings: earthen men and women, fae kings, great metal workers and miners, mighty warriors, they are compact but virile mythological figures.
In Hard as Stone, editor Julie Cox brings together erotic stories of brawny builders and earthy smiths in which love can be robust, hearty, hardworking, bearded, and short… or not, as size is relative. And it’s not the size of the hammer that matters, but how it’s used… and perhaps how beautiful the sex toy is that one can craft with it.
Many of the stories in this volume also pick up on the notion that dwarven societal gender and biological sex characteristics may not be divided along the same lines as humans, and gay, lesbian, and genderqueer themes are amply represented in these stories. All the stories are magical, whether they touch on the modern world or delve deep into the realms of high fantasy. Some are bawdy, some are darker in tone–all are sizzling with sexuality.
Includes the stories:
Stolen Days by TS Porter
Rainbows in Hollywood by Lacie M. Jeffers
Ash and Elm by Bess Lyre
Wizard’s Staff by Julie Cox
Cave Dwellers by Alanna McFall
To Those Who Move Mountains by Jason Carpenter
Don’t Screw the Messenger by Jessica McHugh
Of Greed and Eager Things by Edda Grenade
Read on for a hot excerpt from Wizard’s Staff…
Next to Borabi, I was short. Not that I was tall next to most other people, either, but Borabi’s long limbs were a dramatic contrast to my stocky build. He was lithe and graceful until he was startled, then those limbs went flailing everywhere like a colt’s. When that happened, I laughed, and he scowled. Most of the time it was the other way around.
Like now. He writhed beneath me, a squirming mess of an elf, his breath hitching as he tried to stop himself from laughing. I held the paintbrush away from him and cuffed his pointed ear.
“Stop moving,” I said. “These runes are very precise. I don’t want to open a portal to some demonic realm because you’re ticklish.”
“I can’t help it, Shale,” he lied.
He could help it very well. He had unbelievable control, when he chose to exercise it. I leaned close over him, dabbing a spot of cornflower blue paint on his delicate nose. “Hold still, or I will stop touching you.”
His pretty hazel eyes fluttered wide and his body stilled beneath me.
“There now,” I crooned, “that’s better.” I drew the paint in thin lines across his body, weaving a spell with interlocking runes, the language of dwarves and of magic. I traced the curve of his bicep with a rune for the sorceress I needed to contact. His other arm was wreathed in the symbols of magical power, symbols for me to draw upon, like sinking a well into the ground beneath us to pull up the magic of the earth. I was dwarven; my magic was the power of stone and wells and mines and old language. I’d covered his chest in the runes of our families, the significant runes of our lives, the collective language that described our lives, apart and together. In naming them, I named us. We were the sum of our stories—literally, in the case of runic magic. Those had been easy; I’d painted those a thousand times.
I slid down his half-nude body, careful not to smudge the runes. I knelt between his legs and undid the lacing on his pants. He grinned at me, and I gave him a warning look: don’t move. He bit his lip and obeyed. We’d been together long enough I could command him by raising an eyebrow, curling a lip, crooking a finger. Of course, he disobeyed half the time, all mischief and playfulness, so that I would have to engage him and correct him. Neither of us would have it any other way.
He was half hard already as I pulled his pants down and away. He purred little groans and moans as I stroked the paintbrush up the underside of his cock, the cool slickness of the paint contrasting the heat of his skin and the callouses of my hand. He was long and slender, whereas I was short and thick. Just like we were everywhere else. His balls were hairless; a pale patch of straight, silky-soft hair fringed his crotch, as blonde as he was everywhere else. The paint eased the friction as I ran my hand up and down his cock, the head emerging from his foreskin as he stiffened.
I lowered my mouth to his cock and slid it between my lips. I felt the blood swell his cock in my mouth, growing more turgid every moment. He tasted salty and distinctly elven, like rain and grass and the damp forest floor. The paint was sweet, and as familiar a taste as his skin. He rocked his hips, wanting more, trying to fuck my mouth. I rasped my tongue against the underside of his cock, right where he liked it. That got him to stop moving, though he grew distinctly louder, and the rest of him began to squirm again.
My own cock was hard now, and my body begged for friction. I sat up and undid my own pants. I raised his narrow hips and pressed between his thighs, grasping us both in one thick-fingered hand.
“Shale,” he whispered, letting his head fall back. I loved the shape of my name in his mouth. He made it sound like something beautiful and ephemeral, instead of a flaky rock.
“Oh my stars, you’re so gorgeous,” I rasped, watching him writhe in pleasure. “Sometimes I’m astounded you picked me. How’d I get so lucky?”
“S’not luck,” he said with a lecherous smirk. “It was dogged persistence. On my part. Or have you forgotten me howling outside your window like a fox in heat?”
“I don’t think anyone who heard it ever forgot that,” I said. God he felt good, and the memory of him professing his adoration for me so many years ago got me going all the more. I could stroke us off in moments; I knew exactly how to hold us together, how fast to go, how hard to squeeze. I knew the steps to this dance so well. But we weren’t at that kind of ball.
He made a pitiful little noise of disappointment as I drew away from him, wiped the paint from his cock, and reloaded the paint brush. He jerked ever so slightly when I spiraled the blue paint over his balls, up his cock. It was cold against his now fever-hot skin, and he wilted a little. I dabbed a bit on the pad of my finger and slid it against his ass, pleasuring him that way, to get him back to full rigidity. I needed him as hard as he could get for this part, but I couldn’t touch his cock anymore, not with the paint spiral on him. I slid a finger inside him; he unclenched, and I read the concentration on his suddenly serious face as he willed himself to relax. I added more paint, slicking my fingers; I applied a generous smear to my own cock, and he bit his lower lip, spread his legs wider.
“C’mon, Shale,” he said. “I can take it.”
“Whether you can or not is not the question,” I said. “I need you to stay completely rigid, and that means I will not skirt the edge between pleasure and pain, or think of my own pleasure first. I must only inflict pleasure upon you this time, love.”
“Poor me,” he said. He let his head fall back as I pushed two fingers into him. My short, thick digits together were as large as an elf’s cock, and Borabi slid ever so slightly back and forth on the stone floor, fucking himself on my hand. I put my other hand on his hip and held him, or tried to.
“I don’t want to scratch up that pretty back,” I said to him. I scissored my fingers, stretching him, then turned my hand, pushed as far in as I could, and began stroking that little spot in front that made his every muscle twitch with exquisite pleasure. I went slowly, gently, not wanting to bring him too soon and ground out the spell I’d written upon him. He moaned, his syllables incomprehensible. He tried to take his cock in hand and I swatted it away.
“I want to come,” he whined.
“And you will. But not yet. I need you first.”
He flattened his knees to the side. “Will you enter me at least?”
I removed my fingers, smiled, and leaned over him, the head of my paint-wet cock pressed against his ass. “Tell me what you want. Explicit, detailed, or I’ll not fuck you at all. I can finished the spell without either of us actually coming.”
“Don’t you dare,” he snarled.
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