Page 38 of Far From Sherwood Forest
Even as the image of Robin’s face coated in his tears and my cum swims in my mind, there’s no regret.
No remorse.
No pangs of conscience.
I feel no desire for penitence, nothing tempting me toward self-flagellation.
The only thing Idofeel is the blood rushing to my cock. The soft sheets shift as my dick thickens, and I quickly throw the covers off of myself before it can convince me to give it somerelief. Between that and the comfortable bed, I could lie here all morning.
The cabin I live in within the park grounds came fully furnished. It’s nicer than the place they gave me at the last park I worked at. It’s all dark wood and gray stone, a kind of rustic space that makes me feel right at home. It’s also different enough from Ivy’s cabin that I don’t feel the weight of the two years I spent there suffocating me whenever I’m here.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I hang my head and let out a breath.
If I feel bad about anything, it’s that Idon’tfeel bad.
It didn’t feel wrong.
It felt…good.
Really fucking good.
There’s still a part of me that feelssomekind of way about it, for reasons beyond it being Robin of all men. I think I’d describe it as along the lines of uncomfortable. It’s not disgusted. Or immoral. Or shameful. Just…an unease. But considering I spent most of my life firmly believing it was a sin against God, I’m thankful I’m not rushing to seek penance and punish myself.
Truth be told, I don’t mind this world so much. If I’m going to live out the rest of my life here, I have to adapt.
I think I can do that.
But when I throw in theRobinof it all, well…maybe I don’t want to adaptthatmuch.
Everything gets so fucking murky when it comes to him.
Do I want him? Don’t I?
Do I want my revenge or not?
It would probably be best if I stick to never seeing his face again.
But…fuck. He got off by grinding on my boot, and I can’t stop replaying it over and over in my head. Why was that so fucking hot?
Alright, that’s enough of that before my dick starts getting ideas again.
Standing, I head into the bathroom so I can get ready for work. When I got home yesterday, I took a long, self-reflecting shower and cleaned the nasty gashes in my arm that the damn magical bear gave me. They were deep, but they didn’t hurt as bad as they looked. They were still bleeding when I wrapped the entire length of my forearm, and since the wounds seem to have bled through the gauze, I decide to change it before getting dressed.
I start unwrapping the bandages, and when I get my first peek of the skin beneath, I pause.
It’s…healed?
Yanking off the rest of the wrapping, I reveal that my suspicions were right. The flesh is unbroken. There’s no blood, no ripped and open skin, no pain.
Tossing the bandages onto the countertop, I run my fingertips over my forearm. It’s definitely not just my eyes. The wounds are really gone.
My jaw clenches as a wave of fury crashes over me.
Some person or some force sent us here from Sherwood Forest, and now they’re fucking with us. Withme.
Sweeping my arm over the counter, I knock cups and toiletries off onto the floor, their clattering echoing through the small room. I grab onto the edge of the granite, my knuckles turning white, and stare into my own face in the mirror. I barely resist the urge to smash the glass.
I may not know who’s making my life a living hell all over again, but I think I hate them more than I hate Robin Hood.
