The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales (8 page)

By now he was completely naked himself, his giant erect cock as purple, bald, and shocking as my shaved head, rising like a triumphant sword from the thicket that covered his loins. He mounted the chair, got on his hands and knees above me, lifted the giant braid that guarded the entrance to my insides like a curtain and grasped it in his teeth. Then rearing his head, he pulled my whole pussy up and out, opening the lips and exposing the pulsing pink inner flesh to his delicious assault.

Afterward, Razor washed me, inside and out, and treated me to a second shave down below, this time with scented foam and a gleaming, hand-held blade. He was so expert in his machinations he didn't even nick the skin and now I was left utterly nude everywhere: a satiated and smooth-skinned newborn cub curled up against the velvety fur of both bear and barber.

Now a few inches have come in, leaving me with this unkempt growth on both head and hind parts. So I'm off to the top of the tower for another appointment with my stylist-prince with his own special brand of “shear pleasure.”…

…there lived a kind and handsome prince who was struck by tragedy when early in his life he lost his dear mother and was left to be raised by his father—a brusque and barbarous man who did not understand his special child. The king mistook the boy's acute sensitivity for weakness, thought he needed to be “toughened up” and properly seasoned in order to become a man. So when the prince was just thirteen years old, the king dragged him to the local whorehouse to simultaneously dispose of his virginity and his dreamy romanticism in one swift turn.

The house of ill-repute the king chose for this task was no cheery brothel filled with large-bosomed, warm-hearted women of experience who might carefully nurture and guide a youngster across that most sacred of lines separating youthful innocence from sophisticated manhood. This was a rough and ungainly place, reeking of whisky and soiled sheets, cooled by the foul winds of corruption and despair that blew through the cracks in the clapboard walls. It was populated by an underclass of dissipated prostitutes in whose false embraces and manufactured moans could be heard the constant tick of the time clock and the avaricious “ka-ching” of the cash drawer. The callow prince was forced to sample every sort of sexual congress with these whores, every lurid fantasy and lascivious posture, and because he was a young man with the healthy physical drives that accompany youth, his body responded in full. But his fragile soul shut down and mourned for its loss, for in his heart he longed for the kind of lovemaking that would express tenderness, caring, emotion, and, above all, sensuality. In this cheerless den each act was lustful and violent, a dance of mastery over one's subordinate, a contest in which the goal was possession, domination, and the finality of quick, self-centered orgasm. But where was the sweet give-and-take, the ardent passion, the spirituality and depth of meaning that was meant to back up these acts, meant to prolong, celebrate, and edify the process rather than shoot for the grunt-laden finish line?

The king thought these harsh episodes of counterfeit love would turn his tender child into more of a man; instead, they turned him into a beast. The gradual strangulation of his instinct toward slow-handed, languorous, sensual love made the prince grow bitter and doleful until he found himself completely transformed into the most repellent of creatures. Now his grotesque countenance and twisted form provoked fear and loathing in all he met, and the erstwhile, fair-haired boy was forced to flee the court and hibernate from society in a dark, deserted castle to live the life of a reviled beast.

The only link to the beauty and nobility of his prior self were the extraordinary roses he planted in the castle garden. The beast tended and nursed these flowers as lovingly as if they'd been his own children, and for the few hours each day that he mulched and pruned and watered the fertile plot, his princely nature would blossom alongside the buds. Soon he had rosebushes of such superior splendor that the handful of citizens brave enough to venture a peek through the garden wall returned home in rhapsody about what they'd seen. “The botanical beast” became a legend across the land. But everyone knew never to venture within those protective walls, and never, ever to pluck even one of the rare blooms. For when he was not tending his plants the cursed prince's demeanor would return to that of a feral monster, whose rages were even more legendary than his roses; the few who had dared to try and steal cuttings hadn't lived to see them bloom.

One day Beauty found herself walking along the road that led past the beast's castle. She'd heard the dire warnings against disturbing him in his grim habitat, but she'd also heard of the heavenly roses that flourished there. If there was one thing she adored more than anything in the world, it was a perfect rose. To keep such magnificent blossoms hidden away from others was, in Beauty's estimation, a crime against nature and a horror worse than anything the beast might confer upon her. She decided to climb the garden wall and pick the finest flower she could find to share with the outside world.

As she scaled the wall and came face to face with the famed rosebushes, she could not believe her eyes. These giant, succulent blossoms, redder than blood, pinker than a maiden's flesh, more yellow and white and orange and violet than the rarest sunset, were unlike any she'd ever seen before. They seemed to be almost animated, dancing and vibrating on their stems, deepening in color and perfume with every subtle quiver and opening themselves to the visitor's touch with the same dew-kissed yawn of a lover's slackened mouth in the afterglow. How could she even choose which rose to pluck? For each one she caressed seemed more perfect than the one before. Finally she settled on an especially superb bloom—an explosion of the finest crimson velvet at the end of an exquisitely slender, thorny, forest-green stem—and after drawing in a long, satisfying breath of its scent, she reached for its base and tore it from its moorings.

“Arrrgghhrrr!” roared the beast, leaping into view. Beauty recoiled, for he was uglier than she'd imagined. “You dare to meddle with my garden so now you must die!” the fearsome gargoyle announced, and he grabbed the cowering maiden in his giant paws and prepared to devour her.

“Forgive me, I only wanted one of the many spectacular roses you have!” she stammered, struggling unsuccessfully to free herself. “And I did not want it for myself alone, but to share with others!”

Forced to view him up close, Beauty could see through his gruesome exterior to a sadness within and realized the beast was really more pathetic than fearsome. She began to soften toward the fellow even as he threatened her life, and she turned her lovely face up to his terrible one to gently plead her case. “Besides,” she said, “These flowers are not yours. You do not own them in the strictest sense, for while you have surely tended these beautiful buds only Nature herself can be said to have made them. And no man—or beast—has dominion over the glories of Nature. So to be blessed with Her fruits and then to hide them away from Her other attendants is to wound Her, is it not?”

Since the death of his mother no woman had spoken to the beast with such grace, such thoughtfulness, and certainly such kindness. The rude taunts and scatological chatter of the whores were the only feminine strains he'd heard since childhood, so this song of Beauty's was like a tonic. He knew he should have devoured her then and there, as he had the other impertinent thieves, but he wanted to hear her gentle, soothing voice again. He let go his grip and tempered his raging vengefulness.

“Perhaps that is so,” he growled. “Perhaps I have no right to lock Nature behind my walls. But just look at me! Has Nature not wounded me more mercilessly than I She? Has that cruel mistress not warped and corrupted him who was once a prince and a gentleman into…into…this? A hideous beast whom no man or woman could love?!”

“That is not the handiwork of Nature,” Beauty answered in her sweetest tones. “That transformation can only be the result of you forsaking Nature, your own nature. For I believe you are prone to the gentle passions of the softest goddess but instead have been a servant to the hardest of demons.”

How could this Beauty know him so well? “You see all that when you look at me, lady?”

“When I look into you. Past the false and frightful face you show the world. I see all that when I see this perfect rose, which your loving nature has cultivated.”

She bent to kiss the ruby-hued blossom she had plucked, and as she brought the talc-soft petals to her lips, a wondrous thing happened. The rose suddenly metamorphosed into a tall, lithesome, red-headed maid, as supple and stunning as the flower from which she'd arisen, and ardently returned Beauty's kiss.

“Blossom,” sighed Beauty. “Mmm, my precious, precious Blossom.”

The beast watched in awe, enraptured by their gentle rhythms, their abundant femininity, as together the two women sank to the ground and began to caress each other with tender touches punctuated by volleys of tiny kisses. Blossom, who was already fully nude, bent over the supine Beauty and carefully unfastened her bodice with long, tapered fingers that fluttered like white doves. She opened the panel of lace to reveal a pair of breasts so young and new and finely wrought they seemed like mounds of spun sugar topped off with their own miniature pink rosebuds waiting to bloom. The beast was used to mauling such a bosom, squeezing the globes in his grasping fists, but Blossom barely touched it. She sat back for a spell to regard the enchanting orbs as they were offered up to her until her eyes filled with adoring tears. Then she slowly lowered her head to allow one single teardrop to fall from each eye onto the perfect bull's-eye of each nipple. Beauty moaned as Blossom gently took the moistened nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and began to roll them around like lustrous agates in a bath of scented oil. As she continued to moan and sigh and purr with mounting pleasure, Beauty's long spine stretched and curved; she was a provocative cat in heat being petted and aroused. From this arched position she could reach her tongue up and out to wrap it lightly around the protruding nipples of Blossom's more womanly breasts, and Blossom eagerly fed her playful kitten these milky treats.

The watching beast breathed heavily. He felt his balls tighten and his prodigious cock swell and harden like a tree stump. But even as his sex grew hard, his features grew softer. By the time Blossom had helped Beauty remove the rest of her clothing and wind herself around the stem of her lover's flowering body, the beast was looking almost human. He watched as Blossom ran her thorn-like nails ever so gently up and down Beauty's back, not deeply or sharply enough to hurt her, but just enough to excite the sensitive nerve endings and bring on a heated flush. His fascinated gaze devoured the two as they took turns kneading and massaging each other's polished limbs, never in a hurry, never touching the sacred spot but concentrating instead on all the forgotten places: the backs of the knees, the soles of the feet, a neck, a brow, the cleft of the buttocks. For a while the two ladies just played with each other's hair, combing it through open fingers, twisting it into braids and buns, intertwining Beauty's rich, black pubic locks with Blossom's fiery strands. For another stretch of time they kept their eyes closed and their hands tied behind their backs, agreeing to explore the landscape of each other's bodies only by taste and smell.

Oh, how could they do it?! How could they keep from exploding, as he was sure he was about to do, keep from peaking and falling off that most treacherous of cliffs? But slowly, sensually, they continued to prolong this wonderful maddening tease, this mutual exploration of body and soul with no attempt to reach the main event. How he envied them, how he wished to join in their sensual gavotte. But he could not. To intrude his clumsy maleness into their sublime feminine circle would be too horrible. All he could do was watch, yearn, silently pray, audibly weep as the languid couple pressed breast to breast and mouth to mouth for what seemed an eternity.