She will have the son of the loch beast himself. Bones of Winter by @sieistschoen #erotica

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Bones of Winter

Written by D. Morgenstern

Genre(s): Erotica, Supernatural


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Intended for 18+ audiences and all characters depicted in sexual acts are 18+ Caoimhe enjoys the stark beauty of the winter in the Highlands above all else. Unfettered by man she treks the hostile environment with as much grace as the fae themselves.

One night however Caoimhe encounters a mysterious laird with a proposition for her; bare his child and be protected forever. She concedes for to be whore to a laird is still a better fate than that of a sterile old maid. After their tryst her lover leaves her in the still and frozen night.

The young woman finds herself pregnant by the stranger and prepares for the birth. As her body swells however she begins to wonder if the man she met wasn't actually human. As she becomes more and more grotesquely bloated she meets her laird again, and knows what she will birth is a monster.

Caoimhe however, unafraid of the frigid wastes, throws her lot in with the devil. She will have the son of the loch beast himself. For her bones have been frozen by her lover like those of winter.

A piece of most horrific erotica focused on xenophilia and pregnancy fetishes.

An excerpt from

Bones of Winter

When the lamb was lost she knew disaster could only follow.

Caoimhe NicAoidh had only noticed the stray after she had settled the others for the night. She had tucked the flock away into a small glen between two great mountains. In this crevice was the shack where she had passed most of the winter. The days were long with aimless wandering in search of enough pasture for her father’s flock. Soon they would all be returning home for the spring shearing, the world had already begun to warm in its edges and cracks.

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She had pressed the lambs to her breast in the deepest chills of the season. Of all the flock they were the most vulnerable. They were the most closely watched. How had she missed one? How had she nor the dogs seen it wander away? For surely no predator had missed any of their wary eyes. The dogs would hear anything long before it made it to the valley floor.

Cursing her luck, the shepherdess tied her dirk at her waist. She pulled her arisaid over her head and wrapped it around her shoulders. The rest of the tartan tucked around her waist and draped over her skirt.

Caoimhe was of stout peasant stock, of wide shoulder and hips. Her Da often said she could crush a man’s head between her stately thighs. She had passed the last seven winters in solitude. She was the oldest of the younger four sisters and now one wee baby brother. The lass was nineteen or twenty or so, time had only started mattering in the vast open expanse of winter in the Highlands.

Perhaps because she preferred the frigid fields, and the challenge of finding enough pasture for the flock to survive winter’s killing touch, the joy of self-sufficiency and the ecstasy of independence, she was becoming an old maid. She was not an untouched virgin, the laird had tumbled her when she was fifteen or so after dancing around the May pole. Back when he had still only been Alasdair MacCharraige and no laird of Loch Saoidh and its environs. The encounter had left her with no insult to add to injury. It had also left her unimpressed with the touch of men. She rather looked forward to spinsterhood if she could forever travel across the snow laden glens and crags.

She left the dogs with the flock, the sole guardians in her wake. With her large frame and blade she had taken on a wolf before. The pelt hung over her parents’ bed. Usually screaming was enough to chase away the lone, slinking beast however. It was a clear night besides, with a full moon and still air. The merciless winds of the land were laying silent tonight. The snow remained impressed with the trail of the flock, and surely slowly walking down it eventually lead to the divergent trajectory of the lost lamb. The twinkling lights of the snow crystals in the light of her torch guided her across the reversal of the day.

At the cusp of the glen she discovered the splintering of the lamb’s path. It had turned west into a copse. Caoimhe sighed and strained her ears for the mewling young ewe, but nothing greeted her ears in the stagnant night but the distant ebbing of Loch Saoidh. The confluence of the two major rivers of the region it was so deep it never froze, even in winter. Long ago a dun had once sat on its east shore, but nothing remained now but ruins.