The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales (9 page)

At last Blossom began to carefully, tentatively touch and fondle Beauty's vagina. She started on the outside, making tiny little pats with her fingers along the swollen fault line of the lips, while all the while keeping a gentle, steady pressure on the hood of the erect clit with the heel of her hand. She never breached the opening of her own volition; rather, she coaxed and beguiled the delicate tissues until they opened on their own like a flower ripening in time-lapse photography. Only then did she slip a probing fingertip inside the silky slit to retrieve a drop of sweet dew. She licked this honeyed pollen off her middle finger and it tasted so delightful she had to have more. Down she dove into the fragrant bloom to drink of its nectar with the hungry, searching, vibrating tongue of a hummingbird. At that point Beauty's excitement began to really mount; her breath quickened, her toes pointed, her whole being tensed and released in tiny tidal waves. She was about to lose control, to catapult over the edge into the abyss. She gasped an inhalation as Blossom continued the rhythmic lapping and sucking, the pressing and releasing, the tongue and fingers against clit and lips. She exhaled a strangled sound of ecstasy as Blossom kept pecking and nibbling, kept rotating and stroking Beauty's swollen pelvic mound, dipping and pressing, kissing and licking over and over again for a suspended wrinkle in time that might have been minutes or ages. Finally, finally, it was too much and Beauty was crying and writhing and spasming her release under Blossom's velvet mouth.

And then, just as suddenly as she'd come, Blossom was gone. All that was left was the dainty rose Beauty had picked, that now lay in the humid pocket between her legs. As she recovered from her shattering climax, Beauty's eyes became clear again, filled with a profound peace and satisfaction. She turned these eyes to her voyeuristic captor. What she now saw was not the repulsive beast she'd encountered when she'd scaled the garden wall, but the handsome prince restored to his most civilized form. The only thing that was still animalistic about him was his engorged penis that bobbed and danced about like a puffed-up python. But now the prince knew better than to rush to his own wild completion as he once had. Instead, he lifted the fallen rose from its fragrant bed and began to use its whole nature—both the caress of its satin petals and the lash of its pointed thorns—to slowly tease and taunt and reawaken Beauty's passions for hour after hour of tender love. And, at last, beast and prince were united as one to live happily ever after.

…the miller's daughter was awakened in the middle of the night by a pair of invaders—two monster-men who seemed to be fashioned from knotty sinew and twists of chest hair. They wore leather hoods that covered their entire faces and had tiny openings only for their sinister eyes; in the distorting moonlight they appeared almost supernatural. If the miller's daughter had the time to catch her breath she would have screamed with all her might, but before she could exhale even a whimper of protest the larger of the leatherheads clasped a massive hand across her mouth and pulled her from her bed. She struggled violently, but it was no use; each desperate machination seemed to work her embattled limbs deeper into his grasp until her whole body was held and subdued by her captor. In this position, the tiny mouse pinned into submission by the giant hunter, she was powerless to ward off the thief's advances. He slipped an icy hand inside her gown. She was surprised at how gentle his touch was as he cupped one breast. But a moment later all mildness was gone as he grabbed the nipple between pinching fingers and tugged on it over and over again until it was stretched into a long, red, distended thing. At the same time he worked a bony knee between her legs, shoving the rough broadcloth of her nightgown deep into her crevice and grinding away in slow, deliberate circles until, despite her fear and rage, she felt the slick dew of pleasure gather between her thighs.

“It is useless to resist, missy, isn't it?” drawled the vile goon from behind his false face.

“And why would you want to?” piped in his companion in a mocking tone. “Until now you've been nothing but a humble miller's daughter. Tonight you are to become the king's personal property and his private delight.”

His laughter was muffled and eerie due to the absence of a mouth opening in the gruesome mask. But as her darting eyes adjusted to the dim light she was able to make out a faint design burnished into the black leather in just the spot where there ought to have been human lips. It was the outline of the royal crest, an emblem well known in the region and one that could strike a paralyzing fear into the hearts of those who inhabited it, for the crest identified its wearer as an agent of the cruel and merciless king who ruled with an unquestioned authority. Wherever His Royal Highness or his brutish emissaries roamed, a trail of anguish was sure to follow.

Still, the miller's daughter had always thought the punishments inflicted by the court were reserved for criminals, slackers, and insurgents. She never imagined it would sponsor the abduction and abuse of a virtuous young girl by two such wretched thugs. Of course she'd heard the stories of those who'd vanished from the town and were rumored to have been forced into an unholy service to their dark monarch. The wizened village elders who made a sport of such gossip often huddled in the church square to sneer and cluck and purse their lips over the fate of these “unfortunates cursed to become the unredeemable playthings of the king.” But the miller's daughter was a hard-working, sensible child who dismissed these tales as nothing but the grim superstitions of some foolish old crones. She chose to believe instead that the missing were merely feisty youths who chafed under the rule of such a demanding despot and ran away of their own accord to seek their fortunes in a more hospitable clime.

Yet here they were, the king's men, with their cold hands and blank, black animal-hide faces, stealing her from the warmth and safety of her innocent bed and taking unspeakable liberties with her. Had she done something wrong? Was there some cause or provocation for this humiliation and debasement that she could not remember? And what did they mean by saying she was to become the king's property?

Before she could beg an explanation, the other fellow, the one who wasn't holding her in his indecorous grasp, slipped a queer sort of gag over her mouth, which silenced her utterly. It was an apparatus consisting of a series of leather straps fastened together into a sort of cage for the face and skull, similar to a dog's muzzle or a horse's harness, save for this one peculiar detail not found on an ordinary appliance meant to constrain the jaws of a rabid beast: a large, round, smooth leather ball was suspended in the center of the straps. This ball was inserted into the maiden's supple mouth, forcing her to stretch her jaws open to the extreme and contorting her lips into a vulnerable, gaping “O.”

Thus trussed, the miller's daughter was forced to her knees with her shoulders and head bent to the floor and her buttocks raised high in the air. Her nightgown fell forward and settled around her in a lacy halo, rather prettily framing her spongy, red cunt and puckered asshole. These two openings shined dark against the lunar whiteness of her cheeks like a double bull's-eye.

“Your father says you can spin straw into gold, missy. That's quite a trick for a worthless whore. But if it's true, the king has decided to keep you as his slave. Of course, if it's a lie he will have you put to death.”

“Now to be worthy of becoming a king's slave, you must be chaste in body and mind.”

“Are you pure in both thought and deed? If you are you must certainly fear and loathe our treatment of you here tonight.”

“If you are as good as the gold you spin, you must certainly wish for us to leave you unharmed and unbroken. And this fervent hope—that we not complete the delightful rape of your maidenhead—will leave your tender slit as dry as an autumn leaf.”

“On the other hand, if you are really the slut we think you are, you will have a need for punishment and a secret desire to submit to our special brand of defilement.”

With that, one of the men swiped a probing hand along the length of her splayed-open gash. She heard his mocking, muffled laughter as his hand came up just as coated with wetness as it would if she were being wooed by an adored lover.

“The gag may have silenced you, lady, but your lascivious nature speaks volumes. This pungent honey that flows from your virgin wound proves you are not fit for service to His Royal Highness as a cherished slave.”

The miller's daughter wanted to object, she wanted desperately to be able to assert her purity and deny that she was stirred by the violence of the strangers, the harshness of the leather straps that criss-crossed her peachy cheeks, the threat (or promise?) of enslavement to a severe and punishing master. But in her heart she knew they were right; the body didn't lie. Perhaps this arousal could be taken as an admission of guilt and a sort of tacit consent to their cruel game.

So using only these copious juices and her silent, grateful tears for lubrication, the king's men took turns entering her again and again, enjoying the free use of her upturned backside, reveling in the plea-sure her pain and degradation brought them all as they fucked her rosy bottom, but always being careful to preserve her womb's virginity for deflowerment by the all-mighty king.

In the morning the miller's daughter was brought to a tiny dungeon in the castle that contained a spinning wheel and stack upon stack of pungent straw. The only other furnishings in this grim chamber were a medieval set of shackles attached to the wall—ankle cuffs, wrist manacles, a collar to encircle her long, reedy neck, even a pair of heavy nipple clamps to hold her unruly bosom in check—and a hard wooden church pew provided for brief periods of rest and self-reflection.

She was stripped of her clothes, seated at the wheel, and hooked up to the collection of ancient irons. Now she was a study in contrasts: a soft, round, pink defenseless thing, as naked and mortal as a newborn baby, yet at the same time “dressed,” outfitted at the extreme points of her person—the hands and feet, the tips of her breasts, the leather-gagged head—by hard, unyielding bonds of iron and chain, leashes to rein in and discipline an untrained dog.

“Spin, miller's harlot. Spin your straw into gold.”

And with a final sardonic laugh they were gone. The prisoner heard the ringing “clink” of a padlock, and then she was alone in her disgrace, able to feel its sting even more sharply than when they'd kept her busy satisfying their lurid needs. How could this have happened to her, a poor, innocent child who had never known a moment's wrongdoing? But perhaps she was not as innocent as she liked to believe—there was, after all, the hot, moist evidence of her clandestine voluptuousness oozing forth from between her legs. So is that what it came to now? Was she to be punished for her unspoken cravings? Did she deserve to have been used in such a vulgar manner by these nameless, faceless apes under the banner of the king? To be stripped of her clothing along with her dignity and chained like a common mongrel in a yard? To be gagged and imprisoned, so she could not cry out and had to suffer in quiescent silence, accepting their rude violations with no hope of escape? She could barely sit at the spinning wheel, so injured and sore were her lower parts from the ungodly activities of the night before. And now she was expected to spin all this straw into gold or else she would be put to death! Of course she knew nothing of such alchemy—her father had simply been bragging to earn favor with the king so as to protect the family from the wrath of the court. But the miller's daughter had no choice. She had to try to work the magic her lord and master desired.

With a prayer in her heart she lifted a handful of straw to the spindle and began to work the wheel's pedal. The dull “clang” of iron rang out as her terrible manacles collided against each other. The weight of the clamps on her nipples, pulling as they did against the delicate flesh of her swaying breasts, made each congested tip darken and throb. Minutes turned into hours as the unhappy vassal spun and spun and spun. But, alas, there was no gold. Eventually, spent with her efforts, she collapsed upon the wooden pallet and slipped into a dreamless sleep that was as black and glassy as a puddle of ink.

This time the miller's daughter was awakened not by the two giant henchmen, but by a strange little man who held a bundle of birch rods tied together into a fearsome switch. As he barked at her, he cut the air with great swoops of the switch like he was wielding a sword against some invisible enemy.