The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  Red

  Snow White and the Seven Dwarves

  Jackie and the Beanstalk

  Cinderella

  Goldie and the Three Bare Bachelors

  Rapunzel

  Beauty and the Beast

  The Miller’s Daughter (Rumpelstiltskin)

  The Sleeping Beauty

  The Three Little Pigs

  Hansel and Gretel

  The Empress’s New Lingerie

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  For “Lawrence Parks,”

  who has given me the gift of eroticism,

  and for “Lulu,” who has blessed

  me with fairy tales.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Shaye Areheart for her praise (and her patience), to Andy Mayer and everyone at becker&mayer! for their continued support (and their patience), and to Barbara Hogenson for being the kind of agent I am proud to call a friend.

  …there was a young girl who lived with her mother near the edge of a forbidding wood. She had talc-white skin, lips the color of apricots, and a blazing head full of curls so coppery she was known as Little Red Riding Hood. But as she grew from a child into ripening womanhood, the heavy, shifting dunes of her breasts and the swell of her rounded hips belied the name “Little.” She became simply Red.

  The time had come for Red to enter the dark forest and venture forth without the company of her mother or any other protector along the path.

  “You must carry these succulent treats to Grandmother’s house,” said her mother, handing the girl a laden basket. “And mind you, don’t spill your treasures into the lap of some stranger along the way!”

  Red started to protest, but she was hushed by a volley of teasing tongue-clicks.

  “Uh uh uh, don’t you deny it, young lady. I’ve seen the way your hips sway when you walk to market. I’ve seen the way you yield to the caress of the wind on your thigh or the sting of icy water on your hard little nipples when you bathe in the stream. These days you are about as likely to stray from the path of propriety as any wicked girl in the world, are you not!?”

  It was true. Ever since she’d become Red she found herself unable to control certain impulses that made her blush with shame. The changes in her person—the tightening inward of a cinched waist in contrast to the sudden, unruly voluptuousness of belly and chest; the appearance of a natural and exotic perfume that rose from the folds of her breasts and armpits; the weighty, drawing, languid sensation (almost pain, but more exquisite) when, each month, her engorged womb filled and then emptied in a terrible, rhythmic flow—all these forced upon Red a new and disturbing sensitivity that plagued her day and night. She found herself suddenly aware of her own firm buttocks, her purple-dark slit and arching spine, until she had to seek private places behind the larder or under humid quilts at night to repeatedly, in a frenzy of flying fingers, seek relief from the burning self-consciousness.

  But these secret acts, which always began in breathlessness and climaxed in a wash of pleasure, were inevitably followed by a sense of let-down and loathing that clung to her like a poisonous mist. She could not fully satisfy her cravings by herself. She yearned to enlist the aid of something or someone else to quench these internal fires. Yet here she was, all alone except for her decrepit mother. And now the old woman was compounding Red’s wretched loneliness by sending her off, without benefit of friend or companion, on a tedious journey to Grandmother’s house. It was too cruel, really. But perhaps it was exactly what she needed—something practical, something active and ruggedly physical to do—that might stop her from mooning about in a perpetual state of agitation and discontent. Maybe a vigorous walk in the woods would exorcise the demons that drove her inexorably to those desperate acts of sensual self-indulgence.

  And so Red set off down the forest path, clutching her overflowing basket of luscious sweetmeats to her even sweeter bosom….

  After a short while the pine-needle-strewn path took an unexpected twist. It turned away from the sunny and orderly fringes of the forest into its brambled and moist, dark depths. Here the light was dappled by dense thickets, the air felt as if it were pressing too close in a savage, insistent embrace. Strange shadows leapt at Red’s feet and the abrupt flutter of an untamed bird or the eerie vibrations of a million teeming insects caused her heart to first stop then race frantically as she crept further and further into the ancient timber.

  Suddenly from behind a gnarled grove of walnut trees there came a low, suggestive growl and something terrifying leapt in front of Red. She froze. Was this some hideous animal that dwelled in the forest’s depths? Slowly she summoned her courage and lifted her eyes to see whatever it was that loomed so menacingly before her. But instead of a loathesome beast she found a man. An extraordinary man, perhaps—with broad shoulders and gleaming eyes, a shock of thick silver hair that swept around his neck like a fragrant pelt and a dark, toffee-colored complexion that made her own alabaster skin seem splendidly frail by contrast—but he was still just a man. He smiled, flashing his teeth like stolen gems in a pawn shop.

  “Hello. My name is Wolf. May I help you carry your basket?”

  “No—no thank you,” stammered Red. “It’s not very heavy, really. Just a basket of treats for my grandmother.”

  But for reasons she could not comprehend, her entire body trembled. She shook as if she were chilled by a blizzard, yet her ears, face, neck, and groin were flushed with heat. This was worse than the drunken fever that overtook her during her naughty little games, for this confusion went beyond her private, self-centered ravings to catch the handsome stranger in its powerful wake, making the image of his face and sinewy body enlarge and quiver and swim before her eyes in an unsteady whorl.

  Her breath shortened. Her knees could not bend to move her forward or backward on the sullied path. The man bent closer to Red and his salty, aromatic breath seemed to set her flesh on fire. Her hands could no longer grip the basket and it slipped to the ground. Sweetmeats and sticky buns and ripe, bursting pomegranates rolled this way and that, but neither Red nor the fire-breathing man seemed to notice. Her snow-drift cheeks blushed as crimson as her celebrated mane, then drained again of all color. She almost passed out. But instead of succumbing to the faint her body just kept repeating the cycle of shivering and blistering until she grew exhausted. Finally she sank to her knees on the mat of pine needles below. The beautiful dragon-man knelt to catch her.

  “What is your name?” he whispered.

  “Red.”

  “Red…ruby Red…cherry Red….” he moaned, as he lifted and cupped handfuls of her flaming hair in his fists. He kissed and nuzzled and even gently bit this cascade, handling each burnished lock as if it had a nervous system of its own.

  Eyes closed, mouth slack with ecstasy, he slowly drew a curl across his upper lip to feel its silken texture. Then he opened his eyes and stared with a crazy intensity into hers. He spread his fingers wide, stretched to hurting, as they fought through the auburn tangle, preening and combing and playing almost roughly in the fragrant mass with a desperate fervor. Suddenly he let his fingers go limp and gently settle on her neck, barely touching the hidden whiteness with his fingertips until she felt her bony spine melt into a column of shimmering liquid.

  These alternating caresses drove her mad. One minute he was hotly inflamed by the feel, the smell, even the grain of her tresses, and his strokes would grow more and more frantic as he tousled them about like she was a rag
doll made solely for his pleasure. She could do nothing to resist; she was pinned to the spot as his roaming fingers and probing mouth toyed with her hair, neck, ears, lips, collarbone, always returning to nestle again in the blazing mane of hair as he sighed, “Red, my unplucked rose, my blood-colored angel….” It was almost frightening—she felt like a tiny, defenseless rabbit that had been caught, trussed up, slit open, and turned inside out to be stripped of its precious coat. But no one had ever worshipped her fiery ringlets like this before, and even as she feared it, she thrilled to his violent touch.

  Then, just as she was becoming lit by the flame of his passion, he would cool, suddenly pulling back with a terrible sort of detachment as he wound one long lock of hair around his forefinger. Using her entrapped strand of hair like a lasso, he gently, slowly, tugged his prey closer and closer to his hungry lips. The kiss of this wild and worshipful Wolf man assured her that at last she’d found the one who could fulfill her and end her loneliness and self-obsession. Gratefully, she tumbled into his lair….

  Wolf carried Red the rest of the way through the woods to Grandmother’s house. When they arrived, the elderly dame was nowhere in sight. Wolf set Red upon the bed, stripped her of her skirts and undergarments, and laid bare her second crowning glory—the spread of redheaded curls that adorned her mound and fringed the edges of her crimson labia and pulsing, swollen clit. The sight of such a luxuriance of Titian pubic hair nestled against the plump whiteness of exposed belly and thighs made her lover salivate, so delicious did this strawberries-and-cream delicacy appear. Just as he was about to bury his face deep within she caught sight of his giant, supple tongue as it curled and quivered in anticipation of the waiting feast.

  “Oh! What a big tongue you have!” she cried.

  “The better to eat you with, my darling Red!”

  This frightened the tender Red. Eat her? What exactly could he mean? She struggled to get away from the fearsome tongue as it lashed about preparing to dive. When he’d kissed her back in the woods this organ had seemed quite normal—hot and wet and hungry, yes, but of average size. Now as he contemplated her unveiled sex, which was as moist and ripe as a Caribbean fruit, this very same tongue seemed to swell and grow to outrageous proportions, transforming from a velvet sliver into a gigantic muscular thing with a pointed pink tip waving about like a diviner’s rod searching for a tap spring.

  Just at the moment she was about to be devoured by this slippery snake demanding its succulent meal, she cried out. And as luck would have it, an intrepid woodcutter was passing by. He heard her desperate cry and burst through the cottage door to save her, but it was too late. Wolf had pinned Red’s knees open wide and his powerful, beastly tongue was already burrowing deep into her flesh with a force and rhythm that seemed heaven-sent.

  The woodcutter wanted to do something, he really meant to do something noble and brave to spare this young maiden from her gentle rape. But the sight of Wolf eating out the luscious Red left him weak and useless and unable to move. The knob between his legs began to swell almost as large as Wolf’s tongue and he stood there like a fool, his ax limp in one hand, his penis erect in the other.

  Now Red was no longer crying in fear. Instead, she was moaning low, throaty sounds of pleasure. Her eyes rolled back in her head, her eyelids began to flutter and close in a languorous sweep. But before she shut them entirely, she spied the randy woodcutter standing by the bed. When her eyes met his, it gave him the strength he’d been missing to raise his ax high above Wolf’s neck. But before he could bring it down hard, Red murmured, “No, wait….”

  And then, as Wolf’s ravenous mouth had its fill, Red’s appetite was satisfied beyond her wildest dreams.

  …on a winter’s day, a queen sat at her open bedroom window sewing a tapestry on a frame made of black ebony. She accidentally pricked her finger with the needle and three drops of blood fell upon the snow that banked along the window’s ledge. The red drops looked so beautiful against the white snow that she said, “I wish I might have a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as ebony.” A year later, her wish came true: The queen gave birth to a daughter with skin as white as snow, cheeks as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony. She named the child Snow White.

  But the queen died, and a year later the king took a second wife. This new queen was very beautiful, but she was also very proud and vain; she could not bear to think that anyone was as beautiful as she.

  Now, this queen’s most prized possession was a magic mirror. Every day she stepped in front of it to look at herself and say, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”

  And the mirror always replied, “Fair Queen, you are the fairest of them all.”

  Sometimes she would use the mirror not only to admire her face, but to inspect and delight in the rest of her body as well—her pointy breasts, her wide hips, the soft down on her belly, and so on. In the privacy of her chambers she would take off all her clothing, place the mirror down on the floor, and then straddle the silvery disk so that she could catch a reflection of her beautiful crimson labia as it bloomed. Again she would ask, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”

  And again, the mirror would answer, “Fair Queen, you are the fairest of them all.”

  Other times, when she didn’t feel like being alone to fondle and fawn over her own charms, the queen would invite the king to visit her boudoir. On these occasions she hung the mirror in a special frame above the bed so that when he mounted her she could lie back and watch his pink buttocks pumping in rhythm to her sighs. This sight of the naked backside of the king, as he was reduced from a mighty monarch to a gasping, heaving servant of her desires, never failed to send the queen to the edge. As she crashed against the shores of pleasure she would catch a glance of her own face—twisted, flushed, and bloated with passion but still beautiful to behold—in her beloved mirror above the bed. And in the twilight that followed their lovemaking she would again whisper, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”

  In a voice that seemed to mimic the breathless, spent murmurs of her royal lover, the mirror answered, “Fair Queen, you are the fairest of them all.”

  These words always made the proud queen very happy, for she knew the mirror did not lie. And with her husband sleeping soundly in their post-coital embrace, she thought there could be no end to the satisfaction and happiness her extraordinary beauty would bring.

  But time passed, and as her stepdaughter Snow White grew up, the girl became more and more beautiful. One morning when the queen stepped in front of her mirror and asked, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”

  The mirror replied, “Queen you are very fair, ’tis true, but Snow White is a thousand times fairer than you.”

  When the queen heard that she turned pale with rage and envy. From that moment on she could not even think of Snow White without feeling a bitter pang in her heart. Day by day her hatred grew until it gave her no peace.

  At last she called her huntsman to her and said, “Take Snow White into the forest, for I never want to see her again.” The huntsman did what he was told, leading Snow White so deep into the woods that he was certain she could not find her way home. The depraved queen assumed the wild beasts would devour her young ward, or that the child would die from starvation in the great, dark, snowy forest. But as Snow White wandered over sharp stones and past thorny brambles, looking for some exit from the thicket, she spied a light shining through the trees. With hope in her heart, she followed its beacon. At last she came upon a tiny cottage. Inside, everything was unusually small and in multiples of seven—seven little plates and cups, seven little spoons and knives, seven little beds all in a row.

  The tiny beds were especially inviting to the weary girl, and she lay down on one for a moment’s rest. Pretty soon she fell into a heavy slumber.

  Later that night, the owners of the cottage came marching in. They were seven dwarves who spent
their days digging in the mountains for gold. When they saw Snow White asleep on one of their beds, they didn’t know what to do. They had never seen a young woman as beautiful as she, and powerful yearnings began to stir in their seven little cocks.

  “We should wake her up, should we not?” one dwarf whispered.

  “In a moment,” said their leader, who could not take his eyes off the porcelain maiden in his bed. “First, a kiss. Just one kiss….”

  The miniature man climbed up on the pillow next to Snow White’s blood-red lips and leaned forward until his own were pressed against them. His mouth was so small next to hers it was as if a young child were kissing a grown-up lady, but there was nothing child-like in his ardor as he slipped his tiny tongue into her mouth.

  “Oh!” cried Snow White, frightened awake by the dwarf’s stolen kiss. “Where am I? Who are you? What are you doing!?”

  But none responded, for by now all seven were stunned into a helpless kind of silence by the force of their sudden urges. All they could do was grunt and sweat and moan with longing, and several of them even drooled as they ogled the lush form that lay before them. She was gigantic from their point of view and as richly arousing as a virgin mountain of untapped ore. The lead dwarf was so overcome with lust that he began to cry like a baby as he fondled his stiff penis beneath his leather britches, and the sight of him suffering touched the heart of the innocent Snow White.

  “There, there, don’t cry, little man. Are you hurt? Let me see what it is that pains you there between your legs.”

  The weeping dwarf pulled out his erect knob and offered it up to Snow White like it was a fish on a hook.

  “My goodness! No wonder you are crying. You are so small and this thing is so large and swollen! It must ache terribly,” she murmured. “Here, let me soothe it.”

  As she stroked and cuddled the dwarf’s now disproportionately large, thick cock the little fellow’s pathetic tears turned to guttural groans and sighs of pleasure.