The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales (5 page)

“…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.

That night I danced with girl after girl, hoping one of them would meet my requirements and ignite my desires. But no one even raised a spark. And it was not for lack of trying on their parts. Most ladies wore gowns so low cut that the edges of their brownish-pink areolas peeked over the top of the neckline, and I knew this was intended to make me grow rock hard and completely irrational. I knew, too, that they expected me to bury my face in their bosoms during a dramatic dip in the gavotte to take a surreptitious bite out of these flesh-apples pushed upward beneath their bodices like offerings at a banquet. So to satisfy their expectations, and perhaps their cravings, I ran my long tongue deep into each maiden's perfumed décolletage and nibbled with gusto on their breasts. I felt their nipples tighten and wrinkle up like ambrosia berries until the tips grew purple and throbbing. One after another, I would sashay my partners behind the camouflage of some marble column or velvet drapery and there I would greedily reach inside their gowns and pull their tits up over the scoop necks to suck on their protruding nipples with the grunts and sighs of a madman. As I pressed an insistent knee against the heavy brocade of their skirts, searching for the hidden “v” between their legs, I would run my tongue up their chests to the delicate arch of their necks, their chins, their waiting mouths, and then back down to their aching nipples. This made some women delightfully agitated; they returned the pressure of torso against torso, they rubbed their thighs together beneath their sumptuous petticoats and squirmed in my arms like exotic fish. Others—those with the tiny, exquisitely sensitive, almost translucent nipples of a teenaged virgin—simply swooned when I tasted their delicacies, rolling their eyes back in their heads and collapsing in a seductively limp tangle in my dancing arms. I enjoyed administering these love bites, enjoyed seeing the milky complexions of the maidens flush red and bloom with shame and desire. But as for me, I felt no fire within.

Then she entered, seeming to float to the top of the golden staircase. She hesitated, surveying the undulating dance floor below, then slowly, purposefully, like a giant cat, stretched one long leg out from beneath her ankle-length gown. For just a moment before her descent, that extended limb hung poised above the first stair, and that is when she slew and felled me like a lovesick dragon. At the end of this shapely leg was a rosy, naked foot the likes of which I had only dreamt in my dark, secret little daydreams. The tender foot beckoned me to come to it, to sniff it and suckle it and venerate its arch and instep and tiny fresh-water-pearl toes with all the passion of a zealot....

Ah, but perhaps I've confused you or led you astray. I said the dear foot was naked, and you must be wondering what sort of a low-rent trollop comes to a ball at the palace with feet unshod and au naturel! My mistake. You see, I remember this foot as naked because I could see every curve and coloring of its perfect form. But this charming appendage was not actually nude. Rather, it was clad in a unique sort of footwear, a shoe that visually exposed all the vulnerabilities of the naked foot to an admirer's ravenous eye yet held that cherished nakedness encased in a clear coffin, thus keeping the foot aloof and always just slightly beyond his grubby reach! For this maiden's slipper was made out of glass—fine leaded crystal that rang like a church bell when heel tapped against heel—and it was seductively and maddeningly transparent as it gleamed in the light of the candelabra. All five toes were visible, like fat little piggies lined up for slaughter, but they were squeezed together and locked away behind their tiny glass enclosure designed to frustrate my overwhelming urge to bite them one by one. The shoes were shaped like standard dancing pumps, except for the fact that the heels were so extremely long, high, and spiky that they made my loved one tiptoe on the tender balls of her feet and forced her instep into a severe and exaggerated arch that could have curled itself around my throbbing penis. This extreme bending and arching of her supple tootsies had a superb effect on the rest of her lower extremities, forcing, as it did, the lithe, rounded calf muscle to flex and shape itself into its most feminine and enticing lines. I could see glimpses of this exciting lower leg, and sometimes even a tease of knee or thigh, whenever she lifted her skirt during the minuet or kicked out her well-turned ankle during the spirited rondelais.

Oh, to prostrate myself beneath such a foot! To feel the smooth sole of that slipper grind itself into my heaving chest, to kiss the rounded toe of the pump and taste the neutral covering of glass while I could only imagine the rich flavor of hot, moist flesh that lay within its confines! I would massage my lady's exhausted calves and ankles after she'd been dancing all night long, I would anoint her fragile skin with fine creams and oils, I would clean between her toes with my tongue and mix my tears with exotic lacquers to paint her seashell nails. Then, to repay me for my devotion, my cruel mistress would dig the glass heel, like an icicle shard, into my spine and buttocks, roll my hardened but helpless organ between her heels, make me scream for mercy as she stomped all over my defiled royal personage….

But as suddenly as she'd walked into my life, she was gone. At the stroke of midnight, my high-heeled dream flew to the top of the palace stairs and ran out the door. I'd never even gotten her name. All I had of the extraordinary woman was one glass mule, for as she ran it slipped off her foot, flew through the air, and fell into my outstretched hands. The silvery glass, still fogged up by the scented sweat of her delicious instep, did not shatter. My heart did.

Who was this creature whose brutally beautiful feet had danced their way into my life, only to disappear as swiftly as she'd come? No one seemed to know. Every flat-footed nag in the neighborhood who'd shown up at the ball could be accounted for. But the mystery nymph with the crystal slippers seemed to vanish into the midnight mist.

And so I undertook to find my lady at any cost. I began an arduous journey, traveling from house to house with the matchless shoe, searching for the foot that could wear this trophy of my lust and love. Time and again I was disappointed. The shoe was either too large or too small for every instep I cradled during these frantic fittings, although many a lass took extreme measures to try to fit into the transparent pump. Some of them slathered up their chubby, stubby toes with cooking lard in order to squeeze into the slender box, others sought to stuff the shoe with tissue when they thought I was not looking so their scrawny and bunioned appendages would appear to measure up.

And several took pains to distract me from their inferior feet by giving me their audience sans undergarments. I would bend to place the shoe upon a maiden's left foot, only to find she'd extended her right.

“Oops!” she would giggle, then ceremoniously recross her legs, making sure that in the fanning motion of these limbs her flimsy skirt would be raised just long enough for me to catch a dark glimpse of hairy cavern and breathe in a whiff of feminine musk.

It was not that these teasings left me entirely cold; I could feel slight stirrings of desire whenever I had my face buried between some mademoiselle's knees as I tried to slip the shoe upon her provocative, dangling tootsie. But at no time were these vague arousals comparable to the ardor I'd felt for the feet at the fete—those sensual and dainty pink doves I longed to feel wiggle their toes against my testicles or drive their heel between the globes of my buttocks. And nowhere did the shoe fit.