The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales Page 2

  “See? You’re feeling some ease already!” the princess noted. “Perhaps I should kiss it to make it better….”

  She raised herself on one arm and leaned over ever so close to the dwarf’s erection. She had barely grazed the head of the thing with her crimson lips when it reared back like a cannon and shot forth a gush of foamy brine. The discharge ran all into and around Snow White’s open mouth, and it tasted like a mixture of fragrant forest pine and the salty black soil of the mines.

  “Oh!” cried the shocked girl. Then she swallowed hard and forced a smile. “Well. I guess whatever was in there bothering you had to come out. Do you feel better now?”

  The dwarf began to laugh with amusement and relief. “Yes, yes, much better. But my brothers are suffering so!” he pointed out. “Do you think you might help them, as well?”

  “Of course,” replied the angel of mercy, who was as generous of spirit as she was beautiful. One by one the remaining members of this band of miniature men stripped down and presented their rigid organs to Snow White to be rubbed and polished and nuzzled and suckled until the surging climax came.

  Afterward, with seven flaccid, satiated pricks still wet with the dear girl’s spittle, the dwarves lay about in the moonlight and asked Snow White to tell them her story. When she told them of how her stepmother sent her into the forest to die, it was their turn to show their generosity.

  “If you’d like, you can stay with us for as long as you want and you shall lack for nothing,” they told her. “We ask only that when we return each night, tired from our labors, you comfort and service us as you have tonight.”

  Snow White agreed. And for many days and nights thereafter, she lived quite happily in the tiny dwarf cottage with her seven randy companions. Sometimes they varied their evening ritual so that instead of each one receiving the lady’s ministrations individually, they would lay her out upon the bed and en masse climb aboard her long- legged torso for a frantic group grope. One would place his penis in her mouth, another in her vagina, a third in her anus, the fourth and fifth would enter the dark groves of her armpits, and finally the sixth and seventh would violate the folds beneath her breasts. Then, in unison, they would ease themselves in and out of these sacred spaces until they had all satisfied their prodigious lust. All except Snow White, that is, for although she didn’t mind these evening romps, she herself never experienced the pleasure of the game.

  Meanwhile, back at the castle, the queen returned to her proud, vain ways. She was confident Snow White had long since perished and now she, the stunning queen, was once again the fairest in the land.

  But when she queried her magic mirror, the answer came, “Queen you are very fair, ’tis true, but Snow White is a thousand times fairer than you.”

  Alarmed and furious, the queen swore she would hunt down Snow White and kill her herself. She discovered that the girl was residing at the home of the seven dwarves and was alone all day while the little men went to work. So the queen prepared a poison apple that looked so fresh and rosy whoever saw it could not help but crave a bite. Then she dressed herself as an old peddler woman and set out with a basket of wares—including the tainted apple—to pay a visit to the tiny cottage.

  When she arrived, she knocked on the door and called out, “Lovely things for sale, lovely things for sale!”

  Snow White invited the peddler in.

  “I’ve many wonderful treasures to offer,” the old lady croaked, “but none are as delectable as this juicy red apple!”

  Snow White had to agree, and she immediately purchased the cursed fruit with a nugget of gold. But no sooner had she taken the first bite than she fell to the ground, apparently dead.

  The wicked queen began to laugh. “White as snow, red as blood, and black as ebony, no one can save you now!”

  When the dwarves came home that evening, they found Snow White lying on the floor with the bite of apple still in her mouth.

  “She’s dead!” the leader cried. “Our beautiful Snow White is dead.”

  The dwarves were despondent, for they had grown to love their precious concubine and dreaded returning to a life of lonely frustration without her gentle caress to arouse and relieve their bulging cocks. They laid her out upon a bier of sweet wood and were about to entomb her in a glass coffin so they could forever gaze upon her snow-white thighs, her blood-red nipples, her ebony pubis.

  But before they did, the leader of the dwarves—the very same fellow who had once awakened the sleeping maid with his rude, intruding tongue—climbed up beside her for one last kiss. And as he slid the slippery eel between her parted lips, he dislodged the piece of apple from her mouth. With a start, Snow White opened her eyes. This time it was the dwarf’s turn to startle with fear.

  “Oh!” he cried. “You live!”

  “Mmmm, yes….” drawled Snow White with a strange tone in her voice the little men had never heard before. It was the sound of a woman in heat—languid, full of longing, suddenly aware of her heightened senses and strangest desires. Her eyes, too, had changed. They were no longer the clear, feckless orbs of an innocent; now they shone with a knowing glint under the heavy lids, and their color went from the pure black of ebony to the smoky hue of the blackest fantasies. It seemed the poison apple had only poisoned her naiveté, melting her cold indifference to the sensual and summoning her to the flagrant possibilities for personal pleasure contained in her situation.

  “Do it again!” she ordered the little dwarf. “Kiss me! All of you, kiss me at once!”

  And the seven little men, happy that their dear girl was so very alive, were delighted to oblige. As seven little pairs of lips and hands roamed across the snowy field of her body, she suckled and savaged and sat upon seven not-so-little cocks until at last she had seven giant orgasms all in a row and lived happily ever after.

  …there was a poor widower who lived in a little cottage with his daughter, Jackie. The only valuable possession they owned was a milk cow that had been their main source of food for many years. Each morning, when she thought her father was still sleeping, Jackie went out to the barn to milk the old heifer so they would have fresh cream for their breakfast. She never knew her father crept out of bed before she did and hid in the barn to secretly observe his little milk maid hike up her skirts and straddle her tiny three-legged stool. From beneath a blanket of straw he watched as Jackie firmly massaged the beast’s distended udder to make the milk come in, then grasped the pendulous teats with a strong, sure grip to rhythmically, almost ritualistically, tug and release on the elongated nipples. As she leaned over a tin milking pail the buxom white globes of her own bosom spilled forward over the top of her gingham frock. For leverage she sat with her bare muscular legs splayed wide, feet planted firmly on the floor, calves and thighs flexing with the effort of supporting her broad hips and buttocks on the tiny stool. And the vision of his darling girl so full and open, so intent on her chore without a hint of self-consciousness, bobbing lustily against the hard wooden seat while pulling in and out on the cow’s dangling lobes, made the furtive old man swell like a puffed up sausage. As she—swoosh, whish, swoosh, whish!—sprayed the hot, frothy liquid out of the beast and into the pail, her breathless father sprayed his foam into the fresh-cut hay in which he hid.

  Now since this man and maid lived very far from the village and were so impoverished they could not afford a dowry, the father despaired of his daughter ever finding a mate. He feared she’d never feel the velvet touch of a lover’s blistering organ nesting in her hands, mouth, or belly. He feared her only sensual experiences would be when she threw her head back and stretched her mouth wide to receive a stream of warm milk directly from the cow’s teat, spraying the creamy liquid all over her face and neck, letting it drip down her cleavage and pool up in the tiny cup of her navel. Or when sometimes, because she thought she was alone and no one could see her, she would hoist up her legs on the beast’s flanks and twist the flexible, fleshy teat toward her slit, aiming the fragrant stream at her li
ttle pink pleasure bud. The warm, wet pressure of the milk would pulse against her sensitive clit, churning her up again and again until she melted like butter. The old man could see his daughter thoroughly enjoyed these morning milkings, but he worried that it was not right for Jackie to be so intimate with an animal instead of a man, and he resolved to send the girl to market to lose the heifer and find a husband.

  On the road to market Jackie met a butcher who was carrying some strange, brightly colored beans in his hand. She could not help admiring them, and when the butcher told her they were magic, she was persuaded to trade her cow for the handful of legumes. She ran back home to tell her father of the beans’ supernatural powers.

  “We can use their magic to make us rich and happy, Papa, to conjure up gold and silver and—”

  “Oh, Jackie!” he cried. “How could you be such a fool? I meant for you to go to market and meet a handsome buyer who would give you a pretty price for that cow! These beans are worthless. There are not even enough of them to boil up for our supper. We shall surely starve.” And my tender milk maid shall surely die an old maid as well, he thought. He tossed the cursed beans out the window.

  That night Jackie could not sleep. “Tomorrow we will have nothing to eat,” she thought, “and it is all my fault.”

  She began to weep, and soon she crept into her father’s room to crawl under the covers with him for comfort, just as she had when she was a child.

  “Oh, Daddy, what have I done?” the miserable Jackie sobbed.

  Gently, slowly, the old man licked the salty tears off his baby’s trembling face until she sighed and fell asleep curled against his warm chest. All night long he sought to soothe his dear girl, stroking her soft hair while she slept and fighting to keep from stroking her soft curves that pressed against him in the dark.

  The next day Jackie rose with the sun and by force of habit headed for the barn to milk the cow. She was feeling particularly agitated and thought how good it would be to give herself a private little “milk bath,” as she called it, to hose herself down in her special way just so she could relax. Then she remembered the previous day’s folly and her heart sank. But as she rounded the corner where her father had tossed the fistful of beans, she was struck by a sight like none she’d ever encountered. There, in the paltry garden outside their cottage window, was a gigantic beanstalk that stretched all the way up to the clouds! It was so thick and leafy it made a kind of ladder, and Jackie stared at it in awe.

  “I wonder where it goes,” she thought. “I think I will climb it and find out. I’m sure there is something wonderful up there!”

  Jackie approached the majestic stalk and, tucking her petticoats up into her waistband, readied herself for the climb. But when she came closer to the gnarled vine she saw that what had appeared to be leafy tendrils cascading around its girth were actually clumps and strands of wiry hair. What had seemed to be the waxy surface of a plant’s stem was really a sheath of delicate skin. The sinews that she had taken for chlorophyll cords of vegetation were in fact fleshy tendons and ligaments and blood-filled veins, and the whole stalk seemed to pulse and vibrate with a life force beyond that of a mere shrub.

  Now her curiosity was fully aroused, and the gentle milk maid heaved herself upon the giant protuberance and began to shimmy up its length. Higher and higher she tried to go, wrapping her naked legs around it, pressing her pelvic mound into its warm hide, rubbing her belly and the valley between her breasts against the plush pores of its skin as she labored to climb the enchanted phallus. But the stalk was slippery, and each attempt to hoist herself up was followed by a frustrating slide back down to its rooted base. Up and down, up and down the meaty shaft she traveled. Soon the entire stalk began to pulsate with a rhythmic rolling, like spasmodic waves, and these spasms finally pushed Jackie up to the mushroom-shaped top.

  There the strangest sensation overtook the milk maid. That familiar burning in her loins, which she’d always quenched with a long, languorous “drink” of milk, came to her like never before. But instead of craving a smooth spray of cow’s milk to put out the flames, she hungered for something richer, firmer, more substantial between her legs. She felt an undeniable urge to be penetrated, to feel the sweet, insistent pressure as something solid forced its way into her tight enclosure. This thick arm of tremulous flesh that she was riding like a bronco was just the thing!

  But gratifying this urge seemed impossible, for the stalk was so very large and she was so very small. How could she even begin to fit the massive head inside her tiny maw? How could she expect her dear little tender spot to yawn enough to accommodate such a fearsome intruder? Still, she had to try, for Jackie felt the desire so powerfully, so relentlessly, she was afraid she’d go mad.

  She kicked off her panties and let them fall through the bank of clouds to the earth below. Then she raised herself on her strong arms until she was hovering over the stalk’s pointed tip. She spread her legs as wide as they would go. Her slit was also spread open wider than it had ever been, though it seemed a minute incision next to the mammoth stalk. Her stretched and drawn labia glistened with passion’s dew, and she prayed this slickness would ease the way for the lance upon which she was about to be impaled. Then carefully, deliberately, she lowered herself onto the rod.

  At first there was no entry and she merely perched in a tottering sort of balance with her sticky nether lips spread flat against the top of the bulbous plant. It was as if she was sitting spread-eagle across a majestic redwood, so large was the pole she straddled and so small the opening she hoped to bury it in. But soon she began to rock back and forth, back and forth, rubbing her wet, open gash against the thing like she was oiling a leather saddle. And this polishing of the giant knob beneath her must have worked the magic that was contained in the beanstalk, for against all logic, the thing’s enormous head somehow worked its way a few inches into her diminutive cleft.

  Oh, the rapture she felt when it was lodged within! She squirmed and squealed and pushed herself down, down, down upon the perpendicular stalk and as she did her insides swelled and deepened and expanded until the whole shaft was submerged in her supple folds. In addition to filling her dark, inner space this voluptuous invasion also caused a tug and pull on the sensitive outer structures of her orchid-shaped organ, so that now her clit and labia were stretched and twisted into a state of unyielding arousal.

  Her father may have despaired his daughter’s fate when she traded the prolific heifer for those seemingly worthless beans, but he could not have known how much power their magic would ultimately have to please and satisfy his precious baby girl. If she had found her way to the market and sold the cow as he’d instructed she might have met a mild-mannered husband to share her bed. But how could the ordinary penis of some simpleton from the village ever compare to the magnificent vine that was slipping and sliding, bucking and braying inside Jackie now?

  Up and down, in and out, the transformed maiden writhed until all at once the earth moved. Literally. For just as she reached the most explosive climax of her life, a stentorian voice rang out from somewhere below the clouds, crying, “Fee-ee-ee…fi-i-i...fo-o-o…fu-u-m!” And the miraculous beanstalk moved from its vertical orientation to a horizontal one. Jackie looked up from her precarious mount and saw that she was skewered upon the penis of an other-worldly giant, as handsome as he was enormous, who had just bolted to an upright position, tensed and braced for his imminent release.

  “I smell the blood of an English—” he murmured in the last few seconds that felt like forever. Finally, Jackie burst into a second streaming orgasm off the excitement of watching the giant’s tortured pleasure begin to erupt, and in concert they both finished his song.

  “…CU-U-U-M!” they hollered, and the giant’s wand exploded, blowing Jackie into the air by the force of a magnificent geyser and depositing her in a sticky pool of liquid on the other side of the clouds. Slowly she floated back to earth.

  …she stepped through the door, and in so doing
trampled my heart until it was nothing more than a quaking thing beating like a wounded hawk in my breast. Most people assumed it was her striking beauty—golden hair, cat eyes, cheekbones as sharp as street knives, lips swollen with the juice of pomegranates and plums—that had me vowing to make her my lover and my wife. I did appreciate the lady’s fine-boned countenance, riding high and proud above cream-colored shoulders and an impossibly cinched waist. But it was not the beauty of her face or figure that reduced me to this quivering goddess worship.

  What then? Her soul? The gentleness of her spirit, the qualities of kindness and munificence that poured forth from her? I now know that she truly had such inner beauty, evidenced by the fact that she’d ministered to the needs of a doddering father, his evil wife, and two vain and selfish stepsisters without a whisper of complaint. Perhaps you think her a fool for allowing herself to be so used, for agreeing to cook, clean, and sweep the ashes from her family’s barbarous hearth. After all, since the death of her mother, she was the rightful mistress of the house and should not have been reduced to the role of scullery maid. But it was out of her deeply caring nature, and especially her love for her elderly father who was too infirm to realize the depth of his daughter’s humiliation at the hands of the she-devils who’d interpolated themselves into their lives, that the maiden felt she was duty-bound. Still, admire them as I might, it was not these attributes of goodness and charity that initially attracted me to my angel, for when I first laid eyes upon the girl I knew nothing of her circumstances.

  That auspicious sighting occurred at the fancy-dress ball I hosted under the guise of entertaining the neighborhood—an affair I throw every year to share some of the fruits of royalty with my deserving subjects in gratitude for their loyal service and obedience. But this year’s event was motivated by a more personal agenda: I dearly wished to find a wife. Of course I preferred not to advertise this fact as I thought it somewhat demeaning that I should be, in effect, shopping for a mate. But somehow all the eligible damsels in the province got wind of my intentions and a record number of marriageable lasses turned out, tarted-up and eager to “land a liege.” With so many jeunes filles to choose from, you would think I’d discover my bride in no time. But truth be told, I have very…shall we say, “particular” tastes in women. And when a prince’s tastes are particular, perhaps even a tad peculiar, it’s not so easy to match him with his perfect princess.