The Three Princesses (2 page)

"Hello?" This time he didn't expect an answer. He mounted the staircase, one hand moving along the smooth and cold balustrade as he rose, step by step. No answer. No sound. Yet he could feel a presence about him, an awareness. The owner of the house knew he was there, of that he was certain. He felt goose bumps rise along the back of his neck, but the fear he felt was only for his missing son, so with firm resolve he climbed the stairs and stepped out into the landing.

The hallway was long and passed many doors before reaching the open door at the end from which golden light streamed. The Woodsman took a deep breath. Though light poured forth from the open door, he couldn't see within. Lowering his chin, he marched down the hall, step by weighty step, and when he reached the door he pushed it open with one broad hand and stepped inside.

A woman was seated with her back to him, brushing her long golden hair in a tall oval mirror. A great bed stood to one side, large enough for five, and everything was luxurious and beautiful, though nothing as beautiful as the woman. He could see her reflection in the looking glass; she was young and delicate and her lips were ruby red and her eyes lined with a mascara so dark that her eyes seemed to see through his soul. She wore a black dress on which was printed an endless and complex floral pattern, except down her back which was covered with black lace. Her skin was porcelain white, perfect and smooth, and her hair was so long that it fell almost to her hips. It was golden like the sun, golden like his son's laughter on a merry morning, golden and perfect and so was she.

All this time she had observed him in the mirror, not turning, nor ceasing to brush her hair. With slow languid strokes she ran her brush through her locks, watching him with neither fear nor amazement nor anger at his presence in her bedroom. With a each stroke, the Woodsman realized that was exactly where he stood, uninvited, himself a stranger and intruder in her most private of spaces.

"My apologies," he said, taking a step back. "I'm lost and searching for my son. A lion brought me here, and I called at the door, but nobody answered." His voice sounded gruff in the elegance of her bedroom, rough and unpolished, and for the first time in his life the Woodsman felt awkward and out of place, unsure of himself and his manner. All the while the woman brushed her hair, and watched him, and finally a small smile tugged at her lips.

"Don't go." Her voice was as light as the wind passing through the trees, at once unnatural in its cadences and filled with yearning. The Woodsman stopped at the door. She set the brush down carefully, deliberately, and then twisted on her seat to look at him directly.

Her eyes were a blue so dark they could have been black, so large and rimmed with shadow that he could not have looked away if he tried. Her skin was without a line anywhere, as if she had never seen the rays of the sun, and her features so fine that she could have stepped forth from a dream. With tremendous effort he broke her gaze, not wishing to be rude, and lowered his eyes. Her waist was as narrow as a child's, but her breasts were full and strained against the black dress, with only black lace covering her cleavage. The Woodsman felt his face burn, and then looked away, to the side, where a large white cat slept within a wicker basket filled with rainbow hued balls of wool.

"I had you brought here," she continued, voice firm and with a confidence of one much older than her appearance. "I knew that you would follow your son."

"He is here?" The Woodsman started forward. "Where?"

"Outside." Her smile was wicked, but the Woodsman didn't care. He rushed to the window and threw it open. Outside all was dark, but he could see golden eyes in the woods around the glade, watching him from between the trees.

"With those wolves and lions?" He turned furiously to the woman, and saw that she had risen to her feet. She was tiny, barely over five feet tall, her thick head of golden hair falling in cascading curls to her waist. She watched him, and there was no fear in her gaze, no discretion or propriety.

"He is. Even now he walks amongst them, but don't fear. He is quite safe."

"Safe with wolves? Are you mad?" The Woodsman took three long strides toward her, and just barely managed to stop himself from gripping her arm. "I must go to him!" With that, he stepped around her, and made for the door.

"You will not find him!" Her voice was a clarion call, and the authority in her tone stopped him before he could cross into the hall. "You may search all night and tomorrow and forever after, but you will not find him. He has become one of them."

The Woodsman felt his heart clench, and he turned to stare at the woman. She stood, hands behind her back, chin lowered, and watching him through her thick lashes. "What do you mean, he is one of them?"

"A wolf. He walks on all fours even as we speak. I turned him into a gray haired beast when he arrived, and in such form will he stay until I release him."

The Woodsman gaped at her, and then shook his head. And yet. The lion had led him on. The wolves and boars had walked beside him, as calm and quiet as domesticated dogs. This house. This room. This woman. He knew, deep in his soul, that he believed her.

"Turn him back. Return him to me."

"Such is within my power."

"Then do so!"

"Only if you pay the price."

The Woodsman raised his ax and rushed toward her, only to stop with the ax held high, the blade shaking in the amber light of the room. "Turn him back, or I will strike you down!"

Fearless, the young woman gaze up at him. "I know you will not. For one, should you do, you would never see your son again. He would slip away amongst the trees like a fish into the ocean, never to return. And two." At this she reached out with her hand, and with one icy cold finger traced the curve of his bicep, tracing it slowly, savoring the swell of the muscle and the power in his arm. "And two, you are not the kind of man to strike down a woman, no matter how much you wish it were otherwise. Am I wrong?" She looked up at him with wide eyes, darkly amused at his plight.

The Woodsman clenched his ax tight and gritted his teeth and stared down into her porcelain beauty. How could a face so perfect hide such malice? Her features were elfin and sweet, her lips succulent and rich and the red of a ripe apple, and her nose pert and small. She was the most beautiful woman he had not only ever seen, but ever dreamed of, and he wished he could strike such fear into her that she would free his son.

But he couldn't.

With a groan he lowered his ax. "What is it you want? Who are you? Why have you done this to me?"

"Three questions," she said, and dropped her hand from his arm to his chest. She spread her fingers wide, and pressed her palm over his heart. Even through his clothing he could feel how cold her hand was. She pressed it against his chest, feeling his muscle, and then ran it down his torso before dropping it away. "Three questions, but I'll answer them in reverse order.

"First, why have I done this to you? I could give you many reasons, all of them true. I could say that I have grown wroth with your chopping down my trees, felling beings who have stood peacefully in their groves for centuries until you came along with your ax. I could say that I am merely cruel, and delight in toying with you, in making you dance to my command. I could say that I am bored, and wish to pass the night in the company of another, to drown my memories for but a night. All true.

"Second, who am I? I am Circe, the goddess of the Woods, the queen of the Ocean, immortal and beloved by heroes and immortals alike. I am the daughter of Helios and Perse, and have seen more sunrises and deaths and births than even my memory can recall. I am Circe, and none can refuse my will, none can resist my desire.

"Finally, what is it I want?" Her smile grew wicked, and the Woodsman felt trapped by the gleam in her eyes, the decadent desire, the hunger and carnality that burned forth from her. She reached out and grabbed his cock, feeling for it through his pants with a surety born of endless lifetimes of experiences, and he found himself growing immediately hard and erect so that he strained against his pants almost painfully. "What is it I want?" Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I want you, every which way, in every way. I want you inside me; I want to ride you, to see how far you can go before you break, before you fail." She stepped closer, and began to massage the Woodsman's cock, moving her hand in subtle gyrations against his pants, running her palm up and down the length of his shaft. All the while she looked up at him, deep into his eyes. "I have watched you. Swinging that ax, sweat running down your back. Heard you grunt as you buried the blade in each trunk, seen your muscles bulge as you pulled your ax free. I've seen you strain to lift giant branches, watched you sleep in the tall grass, your chest rising and falling, your eyes closed, your mind adrift on the tides of sleep."

The Woodsman could barely breathe. He looked down at Circe, into her eyes, and still she massaged his cock, her touch growing frustratingly light, teasing and torturing him, her fingers deft even through the weave of fabric. His mind spun, and he tried to focus, to think.

"And yet," said Circe, ever so slightly sticking out her lip as if put out. "And yet never have I seen you pleasure yourself as solitary men are wont to do. Not even as your son slept did you ever slip away into the bushes to gasp and work your cock, eyes closed as you thought of some other woman's breasts or hot wet cunt. Never. Not once, in all these years. Can you imagine my curiosity?" Her eyes were burning bright, and a faint flush had brushed her smooth cheeks. "What kind of man, so virile and strong, restrains himself so perfectly? For whom does he save himself, if he lives all alone with his son?"

Her hand grew more firm on his cock, and the Woodsman found himself yearning for her to slip it under his pants, to feel her cool touch against his throbbing hardness, her palm on his shaft, to feel the sweet friction as she wrapped her delicate fingers about his cock and worked him harder. He fought a groan, fought for mastery, and all he could do was stand there and shiver with the effort.

Circe moved closer, and now she was so close that her breasts were nearly touching his sternum, and he could smell her, smell her long hair. It was a delicious scent, the smell of the woods and the sun, and more, secret perfumes that were as subtle as they were fragrant, akin to a field of flowers, delirious and perfect and enough to make you wish to close your eyes and breathe deep, were he not riveted by her gaze.

"Who is she?" Circe's voice was but a whisper now and her touch more demanding. "For whom do you save yourself with such passionate discipline?"

"My wife," groaned the Woodsman.

"Your wife?" Circe paused in her ministrations. "And where is she?"

"She died," whispered the Woodsman. "Long ago."

Circe blinked, and then her smile returned, curling with delight. She narrowed her eyes and resumed rubbing his shaft, moving her hand over the bump of his engorged head and then back down low to the base. "Dead, is she? Then you save yourself for no good reason. All these years, restraining, fighting your passion. I shall give you release. I will bring you such sweet torment that it will feel as if I am lowering you into the fiery lakes of Hades, only to rescue you and bathe your burning skin with cool kisses and sweet succor. Oh yes." Her voice was little more than a throaty whisper now, and she pressed herself against him with the languorous sensuality of a cat. "Oh yes, tonight will be yours as well as mine."

"No," said the Woodsman. It took all his might. "I will not."

"You have no choice," said Circe, pressing her cheek against his chest and looking down at her hand as she finally lifted it and slipped it under his belt. "Not if you wish to see your son. You have no choice but to do what I say."

Her touch was as cool as he had imagined, soft and smooth and demanding. She slid her hand between his abdomen and cock, down to his wiry bush of hair, and there grasped him around the base, her fingers curling around softly, so softly and then ghosting up his length, tormenting him, driving him to a frenzy.

"You promise?" He could barely phrase his words. "If I do this, you promise to return my son?"

"Oh yes," said Circe. "Oh yes."

"Then so be it," said the Woodsman. He dropped his ax to the floor. It hit the carpet with a heavy thud. He took her about the waist, his hands so large that she was almost a doll in his grip, and lifted her up. She gasped, surprised, and her eyes flashed with wild fire as he walked over to her bureau and sat her on it, her legs spreading about his waist as her skirt rode up. He slid one broad hand behind her slender back and cupped the back of her head with his other hand, and leaned down to kiss her cool neck. She looked up, exposing her throat, and he kissed its marble smoothness, kissed it over and over until he reached the hollow behind her ear and there he licked her, nose buried in her hair. He felt her begin to scratch his back, running her nails up and down his sides as she began to breathe deeply.

His anger and arousal and need and long, hard years of self denial came to a head, and he let loose his emotions, his need, his hunger. He held her to him without caring how hard he did so, pressed her lithe body against his broad, strong one, and kissed with hungry need the length of her jaw, bringing his hand round to cup her cold cheek, the curves of her ear pressed against his palm. She moved within his grip, never still, rubbing her chest against his, laughing as she turned her head from one side to the other, pretending to evade his kisses as he sought her ruby lips. He wanted to kiss her mouth, bite her lips until they hurt, taste her tongue, but she would not let him, and finally she slipped away altogether, off the bureau to back away from him, eyes flashing as she laughed low.