The Erotic Fairy Tales of Angus the Huntsman

By Morgan Synatra

Angus the huntsman, retired from the giant wars of the fantasy land of Anonwyn, roams the countryside looking for work banishing evil creatures. He encounters giants, dragons, witches, and other magical creatures in his travels across the kingdom. Included are erotic re-tellings of famous fairy tales, such as Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel, Hansel and Gretel, Rumpelstiltskin, Jack and the Beanstalk, Thumbelina, and more. The stories are at times funny, often dark, and illustrate his growth from a drunken, misogynistic whoremonger to a noble with family and responsibilities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan Synatra
• Release date: Jun 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227971029

Morgan Synatra

Morgan Synatra writes erotic short stories in the genres of dystopian sci fi, Master/slave, hucow (human cow), and sissy transformation. These stories are intended for adults over the age of 18. Morgan also loves a steamy erotic romance story with powerful, handsome heroes, evil barons, and women who like their men hard and deep. You can contact Morgan at [e-mail] Or visit Morgan's web site at https://morgansynatra.wixsite.com/morgansynatra-com

Book preview

The Erotic Fairy Tales of Angus the Huntsman

Chapter 1: The Black-Toothed Tavern Wench

Iopened my eyes to drops of rain falling through a hole in the thatched roof onto my forehead. Not remembering where I was, I sat up to look around, then felt the pain of last night’s drink thundering in my head. An empty bottle of grog lay on its side next to the bed on the well-worn planks of the farmhouse floor.

Where there is an empty bottle of grog, there is usually a woman. I turned and looked at the beast lying next to me, snoring like a pig. She turned with a heavy snort, her fat, bovine udders flopping to the sides of her chest, with last night’s seed dried in white flakes on the hairy black patch of fur between her thick thighs. Wishing not to wake her and having to deal with the inevitable clinginess of a woman freshly fucked, I snuck out of the bed and put on my clothes. I grabbed my kit and went outside and into the barn into a dark, rainy day, saddled my horse, and rode out across a field of stunted corn.

Anonwyn, the kingdom of my birth, is an enchanted land, full of dark forests, snow-capped mountains, and soggy barrens of scrubby oaks and pines. Various magical creatures live here, many co-existing with humans. One such creature is the dragon. As dragons go however, one never knows what to expect. Some are benevolent, while some will kill you as soon as look at you. The same goes for the elves and dwarves. You have to know something of which clan they belong to. Some are allies, while some are enemies, the same as one must deal with humans. Some creatures however, you can count on as being evil. Trolls and ogres, for example, will always try to do you harm. These I kill on sight. I have heard of good witches, these so-called white witches, but in my experience, I have never met a good witch. I have ended up killing each one I have ever met.

Many other beings co-exist here as well. Some live in groups, while others live alone. Fairies, along with pixies and sprites live in clans, while goblins, dragons, witches, and gnomes tend to live mostly solitary lives. As well, there are many other beings and creatures. One must always be aware of his surroundings, constantly scouting for danger. Women and children should never venture far from their villages without accompaniment.

I am called Angus, of the village of Beathenhold, which lies at the far southern edge of Anonwyn, in a land of golden wheat fields and clean rivers full of fish. The symbol of the eagle, the totem animal of my village adorned my neck in those days, as it did all the villagers, but it was lost in the wars. I am a blacksmith by trade, apprenticed for eight long years since my seventh summer. In my fifteenth year, already a strong lad, the Imperial Army came looking for recruits and took me away from my family, along with twenty other men and boys from nearby villages. They chained us all in a coffle, and were brought to the imperial barracks in the north where we were trained for war. I have not seen my family since the day the army took us. There was a girl I was fond of, flaxen-haired Eloise, who cried and held onto my sleeve as I marched away in chains. The last vision I had of Beathenhold was of her weeping on the dirt road, knocked to the ground by the butt of a sword of a burly sergeant, a small trickle of blood trailing down her forehead.

I fought in the Giant Wars for ten years, killing many a giant and dwarf and making a name for myself. I have the elven magic of a distant forebear in my blood, you see. My arrow never misses its target, and I am swift as a deer, able to jump twenty feet into the air, up into a tree, or onto the back of a giant whereupon I can climb up to his head and slit his throat. I also have keen eyesight in the dark, like an owl on a moonless night. The war took its toll on me however. The happy, carefree lad is gone, and has left an angry, sullen man in his place. I am now a warrior without a war, a servant without a master, a lover without a woman. But at least my beard is still black, without the gray of old men who have nothing left but tales of their youth.

And so, I drink too much. And I fuck whores when I have the coin, and any peasant woman who will take me in for a night. I roam from village to village looking for anyone who needs a swift arrow or strong sword arm. And when there is no work, I hunt game and sell the meat to taverns and meat mongers. I never know where I will wake up. Sometimes it’s in the bed of a tavern wench, and sometimes it’s on my belly in the mud in the back alley of a tavern. I have slain dragons and trolls, witches and werewolves, and men who would do good people harm. I am known as the Huntsman, a man who hunts beasts or men for money.

I was returning from having killed a troublesome witch in the village of Blogsmere for a few coins, whereupon I fucked the local farm wench with the hole in her roof, and was now riding toward the village of Barrensholm. It had been raining steadily for days, and I wore my oilskin slicker with the hood up to keep the rain out of my eyes. It was early evening, but the sky was tar black and starless. I gave my horse his head, and let him plod on wearily, finding his way in the darkness.

The horse stopped at a crossroad, and I looked up. A sign read Barrens pointing to the left fork, and Barrensholm to the right. I was weary, wet, and cold, so I went to the right, seeking shelter for the night. The road ran through a dark forest, up a long hill, then opened up into fields of wheat and corn at it descended into the village. I passed some farm houses, and a sty with wet pigs mucking about for corn in the slop.

A barefoot girl of perhaps twelve years was standing in mud up to her ankles outside a shack of woven reeds and bricks of fired clay and straw, carrying a heavy wooden bucket of water with both hands. She was wearing a filthy wet dress, torn at the arms and frayed at the hems, that clung to her skinny, malnourished body, and her dark blonde hair hung sodden and flat to her head. She would be a poor farmer’s wife in a few short years. She’ll bear many children and die young, but the fate of little farm girls is of no concern of mine.

I brought the horse to a halt. Have you a tavern in this village, girl? I asked.

She looked at me with dark, frightened eyes. No one likes a stranger in their village, and I was a large, imposing man on a dark, rainy night. She pointed in the direction I was going with her nose.

Thank you, little miss, I said kindly, and continued down the muddy road. She watched me go, then turned and ran into the shack. Had she been of age, I would have tarried in her arms for the night, and warmed my bones at her hearth with a mug of warm grog.

Ahead was the tavern, looking inviting with warm light pouring from the windows. I dismounted and tied the horse to a hitching post. Inside, the tavern was warm and humid with the wet clothing and drunken breath of weary workingmen. A fire burned brightly in a corner, and lanterns on tables lit the interior. I stomped the mud off my boots, shook the rain off my slicker, and pulled back the hood. The men at the tables stared at me over their beers with suspicion in their eyes. A tavern wench with milky white tits spilling above her frayed bodice laughed and served the men. She was missing several front teeth and had the face of a garden gnome, with a thick nose and stray hairs on her chin. A drunken farmer pinched her fat ass, whereupon she giggled and slapped him on the back.

You’ll have yer hands up me cunny next, you will! She laughed, spraying saliva onto the man’s face.

I walked up to the bar and sat on a stool.

Beer, please, I said to the bartender.

The man opened the tap on the bottom of a keg and filled a wooden mug with beer. He handed it to me and said, That’ll be one cerna. He looked at me with one eye cocked.

I pulled a coin out of the pouch at my belt and placed it on the bar. Are you the owner of this tavern? I asked.

Aye, and what of it? he replied sullenly.

I’ll need a room for the night.

Rooms are five cerna. Food is extra.

I’ll take the room. And bring me some meat also.

He reached under the bar and pulled out a slab of meat. He sliced some off and laid it on a stained wooden platter, then sliced a hunk of brown bread and handed it to me. That’ll be seven cerna for the room and the meat. I’ll need payment up front.

I reached back into my pouch and removed seven cerna. There were not many coins left. I turned in my stool to face the patrons of the tavern, chewing on a slice of meat. Most of them turned back to speak with one another when I turned, wary to meet my eye. A few still looked at me with suspicion. I ignored them. All villages were like this. A stranger comes into town. The uneducated and superstitious locals do not know his intent. Is he a thief? A murderer? One of the king’s men come to collect taxes? Strangers rarely came with good news. It usually meant trouble.

The wench was at the bar now, scraping bits of half-chewed food off the mugs with her dirty fingernails. I ordered a second beer and eyed her tits as they jiggled about. She occasionally glanced up at me with interest.

I asked the barkeep, Have you any work in this town?

What sorta work you lookin for?

I shrugged. Ogres needing slaying. Dragons ravaging the townsfolk. Pesky gnomes digging about and needing to be cleared out. That sort of thing.

We don’t have no ogres nor dragons about here.

I shrugged. Looks like it’s the hunt for me, I thought.

I finished that beer and had a third. The wench was clearing tables and beginning to look better. As she wiped down a table with a dirty, wet rag, she bent over low, her fat ass looking like it would hold the weight of a full-grown mountain troll. Her dress lifted slightly in the back revealing a pair of thick ankles, and I wondered how they would look sticking up into the air.

The tavern slowly emptied, and lanterns put out, until there was only one patron left sitting at a table. He looked to be a poor farmer.

"How much for the wench? I asked.

Two cerna for her pleasure for the night, he answered.

Have her sent up to my room. Have you a stall for my horse? I asked.

Around back. Another two cerna for hay and grain. Pick any empty stall.

I went back outside. The rain had stopped and my horse snorted when he saw me. I untied the reins and led him to the back of the tavern and into a small barn. I unsaddled him and brushed his coat. I watered him at the trough, led him into an empty stall, and fed him some hay and grain.

Someone came into the barn holding a lantern. I turned and grabbed the hilt of my sword.

No need for that, stranger.

It was the poor farmer from the tavern. I eased my grip on the sword, but didn’t let go.

State your business, I said tersely.

I overheard you say that you’re looking for work.

Continue.

My daughter disappeared over a week ago. There’s been no word from her, nor sign anywhere.

She probably ran off with some farm boy.

No, there’s no boy. She’s a young virgin, just come of age. She knows nothing of the ways of men.

Hmph, I snorted.

I’ll offer you twenty cerna for her safe return, or proof of her death, he said.

Twenty cerna. That would barely cover my expenses tonight.

I’ll do it for no less than forty, I said.

Forty? I don’t have forty. I won’t have that kind of money until my crops come in.

You can take it or leave it. My fee is forty.

He looked down. My wife has a dowry from her family. It’s not much but you can have it. It’s a ring given to her by her mother, handed down from her mother’s mother. It must be worth something.

Bring it tomorrow morning and I’ll see it. And bring the coin, too.

I turned back to my horse, and the man left.

The wench was waiting for me in my room when I returned. She looked prettier than when I first saw her. Alcohol and a darkened room have a way of altering a man’s perception. She had black hair braided down the sides of her head, and fawn-colored freckles spattered over her dirty face. The hairs on her chin didn’t disturb me as much now, though I wanted to reach out and pluck them.

Evening, sir, she said with a smile and a curtsy. I’m Liza, if you please.

Her smile revealed her missing front teeth, and the rest were nearly black, but she was plump and looked ready for a toss in the sheets.

Take your clothes off.

She undressed, and stood in her chemise with her hands clasped behind her ass. I could see the outline of her well-formed tits pressing against the soiled white of her undergown. A patch of black hair found its way out from under her arms.

All of it, wench.

Yes, sir. I hope to be pleasing, sir.

She pulled off the chemise, revealing a fat cunt, bristling with black hair. Her legs were thick and strong, covered in black hair, and she had large tits and a round belly that bounced nicely when I pounded her cunt.

I lay on the bed with my back against the headboard and pulled her face down to my cock. She protested, but I grabbed onto her hair and forced her head down, silencing her objections. My knob slid past her lips and into the space where her teeth were missing. There’s nothing like a good gum job on a hard cock. She had her hands on the bed to either side of me, trying to push herself off me, but finally succumbed to my strength.

When I had nearly spent my load, I pulled her off me and pushed her down onto her back. I suckled her thick nipples and fingered her cunny until she came, braying like a donkey, then fucked her good and filled her with my seed. I climbed off her and lay on my back with my hands laced behind my head, whereupon she snuggled against me with a satisfied smile on her face. She was soon asleep, snoring dreadfully, like a pig rooting for tubers, and her breath was foul. I turned in the opposite direction and fell asleep.

When I awoke the next morning, the wench was thankfully gone. I got dressed, gathered my kit, and went downstairs, where she was wiping tables. She smiled shyly at me. I dislike seeing a woman the morning after I fuck her, so I ignored the wench. I had a beer and some more meat for breakfast. After paying the tavern keeper, I had little coin left.

The wench stared after me longingly, and I knew she would leave with me should I ask. I continued to ignore her and gathered my belongings, the tavern owner yelling at her as I walked out the door. I hadn’t seen the farmer, so I went to the barn to see after my horse. I hadn’t paid for it, but I gave him more grain and hay. The tavern owner had taken most of my coin already, so the fucker could afford to give me at least this much for free. When the horse was done eating, I watered him, then saddled him and led him outside. The farmer was there waiting for me.

Here’s the coin, he said, handing a pouch to me. And the ring.

The ring looked to be silver. I bit into it, leaving a tooth mark. There was a signet of a wolf’s head on it, set with small red gems in the eyes of the wolf.

What’s the gem, I asked, and the meaning of the wolf?

I believe the gem to be a ruby sir, but don’t know the meaning of the wolf. It belonged to my wife’s great-grandmother, and has been passed down through the women. Little is known about it, other than that the women were known to be odd.

Odd? Odd in what way?

It’s not clear sir, but it is said they had strange powers.

I turned the ring over in my fingers. It was worn and battered, and couldn’t have been worth more than twenty cerna, despite the small rubies.

Okay, I’ll take it. Tell me where your daughter was last seen.

Like I said sir, it was little over a week ago. She headed north into the woods. Her grandmother, my wife’s mother, lives there in a cabin. She’s a strange one, too. Likes to be alone. My wife refuses to talk about her, and won’t let me go there.

And how will I know this girl?

Her name is Blanchette. She has long blonde hair, crystal blue eyes, and she wears a riding hood of red flannel.

A red riding hood. She should be easy to spot.

Chapter 2: Blanchette’s Cunny Addles Me

After taking the coin and ring, I mounted the horse and rode north. I had no doubts as to the fate of the girl. Either run off with a dirty farm hand, raped and killed in the woods by cutthroats, or worse- eaten by some evil creature. Either way, I would find her, or pieces of her, or her riding cloak and bring it, or her, or pieces of her back to her family.

Riding north, I passed through a wheat field and entered a thick wood where there was a trail leading into the forest. I looked for sign of the girl, or tracks of any creatures, but saw none, the rain having washed any sign from the ground. Riding back out into the wheat field, I circled around and looked for other trails or sign of her. There were no other trails to the north, so I assumed she must have taken this one. A young girl would not enter the forest unless it was on a well-worn path. One could easily get lost in these thick woods. I returned to the trail, and re-entered the forest.

Riding slowly, I scanned to the left and right while also keeping an eye on the ground. I surmised that since she had left home on foot, she would not want to walk in darkness nor spend the night in the forest, so her grandmother’s cabin must be only a few miles from the house. Maybe five at the very most- no more than a two or three hour walk at a brisk pace. It’s unlikely she would venture farther than that without a horse or accompaniment. She would be wearing sturdy boots of some sort, and carrying a sling or rucksack with food for her grandmother. The grandmother could not be more than sixty years old, for in these dark times, that is close to the age of death, and it would be difficult for her to fend for herself alone in the forest. For what reason she lived alone thusly isolated, I could not guess. The father had said she was odd, and the women in the family line had strange powers.

I rode for three hours with no sign of the girl. I found it strange, since I was on horseback and she, a young lady, was on foot. There had been no forks in the trail, no cabins, no smell of wood smoke, nor anything to indicate she might have turned off the trail for any reason. I scanned the trail for foot prints or sign of blood, watched for twigs with bits of red thread clinging to it, and anything else to indicate she may have passed, but had seen nothing. I rode for another three hours, the trail winding on, unbroken. The day was getting late.

I dismounted and rested, eating some dried crackers from my saddle bag and washing it down with water. The horse grazed on some tufts of grass growing here and there. I wondered if I had missed something in the farmer’s words- some clue or misspoken phrase. There must have been something I had not heard or understood. I mounted back up and continued down the trail. Gradually, the ground dried and I came to a place where the rain had not fallen. I saw sign on the ground. Wolf tracks. They were large ones, wide apart, as if he were running at a fast pace. I put the horse into a canter and moved more swiftly through the forest. I kept an eye on the ground to see if the tracks veered from the trail, but they continued on down the path. After another hour, the trail suddenly ended in a swamp. It seemed I had lost my quarry.

The sun was nearing the western horizon and the sky was dark here under the dense canopy of old trees. The smell of decay and death from the swamp filled my nose. There was some foul magic about. Tiny lights danced over dead tree trunks in the dank water of the bog. They swirled about, winding around the dead branches, dipping down to the surface of the water, and then back up into the air again. Water sprites. The horse spooked and snorted, bucking and pawing the earth, trying to turn around and run, but I held him fast. The sprites saw us and began flying toward us in swarms. They buzzed around our heads like angry dragonflies. The horse reared up and nearly threw me. One flew close to my ear.

Beware! said a tiny voice. I swatted at it but missed. Another ventured close and gave the same warning. I kept swatting at them, but they were too quick. They were like a swarm of angry bees, driving me crazy, and the horse was snorting and bucking. It was all I could do to hold him.

Then I heard a howl ring out through the darkness, clear as a bell. The sprites flew off and returned to dancing among the dead tree branches, hovering, diving to the swamp water, and hovering again. That howl. It was a distinctive sound that I had heard before. It could mean only one thing. There was a werewolf about.

I thought about my choices. If I turned around and went back, I’d have to return the farmer’s money, and I had little enough to spare. I certainly was not going to spend the night anywhere near this place. The only other choice was to continue on. Should I go left, or right?

I looked in both directions, but could see nothing that would indicate which way to go. Dismounting, I backtracked, picked up the wolf’s tracks again, and followed them back to the swamp. I noticed that just before the edge of the murky water of the swamp, the tracks veered slightly to the right and then disappeared. Could he have jumped? I walked into the forest to the right, leading the horse. He was still nervous and spooky, but came willingly. I scanned left and right for sign, then, fifty or so feet in, I saw a faint game trail, and on it, wolf tracks. A fifty-foot jump! Incredible, but there was the evidence. I led the horse down the narrow trail, and after a couple of miles, I smelled wood smoke. Walking further, in the distance through the trees, I saw a cabin.

I removed my longbow from my shoulder and drew an arrow out of the quiver, notching it in the drawstring. I approached slowly, looking around to see if anyone was in the vicinity. The dim glow of a lantern shone out a window, and smoke drifted out of the chimney. There was a pile of cut wood stacked neatly outside the cabin, with an axe stuck in a log. There was no sign of wolf nor werewolf.

The forest opened into a small clearing surrounding the cabin. The wolf tracks ended, and became human footprints continuing onto the cabin door. I approached the cabin and called out,

Hello, is anyone home!

The door opened a crack, and an old woman peered out. She had unkempt gray hair, white hairs on her chin, and sharp, beady eyes. I kept the bow aimed at the ground, not wanting to frighten her off.

Who is it, and what do you want? she said in a tremulous voice.

I am Angus of Beathenhold. I come seeking a lass named Blanchette, who wears a red cloak. Her father sent me to find her.

There is no girl here, just an old woman. Go away! she said, and slammed the door shut.

I tied the horse to a tree and quietly circled around the cabin, keeping to the shadows, out of range of the light from the window. When I got to the far side of the clearing, I could see the old woman at a