Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Hot Springs of the Gratuitous Nymph - Hide Actions

She could feel the cool grit of the footbridge beneath her feet. The gentle mist of the place lolled across the path ahead, a languorous tongue of cloud drifting through the secluded grotto. Moisture dripped from every surface, and the dull churning of the waters lent a dream-like quality to her progress, as if she were chasing some strange figment through her mind.

He was just ahead, she knew. Thief had watched the broad back and dark mane of hair disappearing this way, and something had kindled inside of her. Not knowing why, she had followed. 

“Warlock?” she called. Was there a catch in her voice? Was there too much of breath and anticipation there, like a prisoner long deprived of food, hoping for some small morsel? The sound of water was her only answer. 

Thief ran a hand across her eyes, wiping the damp overhang of her bangs from the middle set. Her tail lashed, an impatient cat motion, but she was not aware of it. She only stared ahead through the mists, walking faster now, a hand upon the slippery rock wall, eager to round the next bend.

“Perhaps we should each take 1d4 hours,” Wizard had suggested. “Let us see what new insight Gather Information might yield.” 

Everyone had agreed. This place was no dungeon, and splitting the party no real risk. Besides, the prize for finding the source of these ‘hand-shaped burns’ was valuable indeed. Lifetime passes to the exclusive Three Gate Springs could sell for at least 1d10 x 100 gp back in town, and Thief was as eager as the rest for the payout. So she’d watched her girlfriend’s narrow frame and sinuous tattoos disappearing towards the cabanas. Cleric’s compact form was slowly puffing up the stairs towards the men’s saunas. And then, as she turned…. 

Something strange had crossed her vision. The downy white mist of the springs had changed, taking on the color of rose petals; a heady scent like some noble lady’s perfume cabinet.... It was as if Thief had been wrapped momentarily in Wizard’s Magic Mouth Matte Lipstick, the Unicorn Crème color that had dyed her blouse collar who knew how many times of late. She inhaled deeply, thought of soft lips and delicate elven hands, and then the moment had passed. She was looking up the path after Warlock, and all other thoughts faded away. 

Her breath came harder now, and Thief realized that she’d broken into a light jog. The damp fabric of her bathing costume strained against the lavender swell of her flesh, and she could feel its weave rubbing gently against her, teasing her. She imagined that the sensation came from Warlocks large and calloused hands; that his arms were wrapped around her shoulders, pressed against the small of her back, holding her close. Thief believed that she hadn't missed a man’s touch, but it had been months now, nearly a year since Wizard’s transformation. The thought of lying beneath the smoothly muscled body of the party swordmage, of breathing in his masculine scent, filled her mind with an all-consuming fire. Pink clouds tinged the edges of her vision, and the tiefling nearly sprinted around the final turning of the path.

He was standing ankle deep in a shallow pool, a sheet of water cascading behind him. There was something strange about his face. A rosy glow — the same delicate hue of her moment in the mists — seemed to emanate from his eyes. 

“Room for one more?” she asked. 

“Totally,” he replied. 

And then she was moving to him, her hands hungry, her suit a forgotten rag in the corner. There was only the warm bulk of him towering above her, the feel of his firm grip upon her hips… lifting her. 

The dull heat of water surged around them. Their panting breaths echoed from the walls of the grotto, low moans heralding the onset of an unexpected  intra-party romance. How long had it been? Minutes? An hour? It felt like no time at all, but she was so close already. Nearly there….

“Thief?” came a voice, entirely too nearby.

What…? Don’t your dare interrupt me now. I’ve imagined this moment since Handbook of Erotic Fantasy #4. 

“Honey? Where are you?” came the voice again

Wait… I know that voice. Wizard? 

“Wizard!” she breathed. It was a moment of clarity, and Thief knew with a rush of certainty that she’d finally made her saving throw. Panic took her then. Warlock seemed not to notice, still fixated, still grunting like some kind of Primate, Ape (Dire).

“Splitting the party was a grave error,” came Wizard’s voice. “Dearest? Are you in here?”

Thief realized that the elven mage — the woman she’d grown to love more than gold or jewels — was standing just behind the concealing ribbons of the waterfall.

“Stealth check!” she cried, glimpses of Wizard flitting through small partings in the mist and falling water. 

“Stealth check?” asked Warlock blearily, his half-elfhood still pulsing within her. He twitched then — just so — and it was enough. Thief could feel herself teetering upon the precipice, and then she was passing irrevocably beyond its edge. A circumstance penalty was building within her. It mounted higher, a cresting wave of pleasure surging up from her belly, into her lungs, passing along the narrow corridor of her throat until she could bear it no longer.

“AH... AAH... STEALTH CHECK... OOO!” she cried, unable to help herself. The moment seemed to go on and on, and she could only pray that Wizard would botch her Perception.