I haven't written anything in ages. I'm just warming myself up, as it were. This is fluff. Dirty fluff.
All his life, he had been searching for his ideal woman. He had known, from before his 14th birthday—before his first wet climax, even—what she would look like.
She would be tall, nearly as tall as his own 6 foot, and her hair would be jet black and gently waved, like an ebony waterfall. So long she could nearly sit on it, her hair would also be soft and thick, not coarse and brittle as hair could be when it was grown too long; as a perfect woman, she would be all softness and pliability, even down to the tips of her flawless hair.
Her mouth would be wide and smiling, full-lipped and naturally rosy, and saved from being common, the mouth of a peasant, by her fine, slender, not-too-small nose. Her eyebrows, delicately arched and yet thick as velvet, would be even blacker than the hair on her head, and would surround wide, almond-shaped eyes the colour of an autumn ocean—charcoal grey, but with a navy sheen, as if lit from within by blue flame.
Her breasts, white as marble, would be indecently plump and high, rising above the laces of her corset like cherry-tipped melons—he would gorge nightly on this veritable cornucopia of beauty, this living fruit salad, and once he was done there, he would skim his hands and lips and tongue down her flat stomach, pausing to admire her impossibly tiny waist and cup her firm, yet fleshy buttocks, before burying his head between her generous thighs, to drink the honeyed nectar of her desire-swollen, blood-purpled orchid.
Once he had had his fill—and she hers—he would thrust into her until his seed was sown in the fertile depths of her goddess-like body, and if she ever so much as looked pregnant—in danger of ruining her own perfection—he would use every ounce of skill, and talent, and magick he possessed, and rid her of her unborn burden. And by virtue of those same skills and talents, he would keep her young, young for a hundred years or more, so he could feel and taste and fuck her, until he grew tired of life itself, and even his own powers could not quicken his heart into beating. And only then—when life itself bored him—would he give her her freedom, and perhaps even some money and such for all her years of service, and only then, would he let this treasured prize live out the remainder of her life in whatever fashion seemed best to her.
But a hundred years of searching, he reflected wryly, had not found this woman. And so all his skills, and talents, and magick, had gone into creating her, instead.
Still looking into the fine, gilt-edged mirror at the foot of his magnificent canopied bed, Andaran Fire-Sworn, a thousand years of wizardry in his bloodline, finest student of the Rehlloran Academy in 300 years, First Mage of Elmeria, lowered his gaze from his blue-grey eyes, with their delicate, black-velvet brows, and began to admire his full, gently swaying breasts. As he let his falling gaze take in every inch of the sudden richness of his figure, he gracefully knelt, now-feminine legs spread wide, and began to stroke his newest handiwork; his desire-swollen, blood-purpled cunt.