Table of Contents
Title Page
Foreword
Introduction
ROSA REDFORD
GRETEL’S LAMENT
MATCHES
THE BEAST WITHIN
WOLF MOON
MIRROR MIRROR
THE LAST DANCE
NAME
SENSITIVE ARTIST
YOU
KIT IN BOOTS
THE LONG NIGHT OF TANYA MCCRAY
SHORN
REAL BOY
GARDEN VARIETY
STEADFAST
A SEA CHANGE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Copyright Page
FOREWORD
Sylvia Day
The Disney Company made sure we all grew up with fairy tales. Most girls grow up with a favorite Disney princess or two and a stack of video cassettes or DVDs (depending on the era) of their favorite princesses’ stories. It’s become a part of girlhood to dream of Prince Charming and the miracle he’s supposed to bring to his true love’s life, staging grand rescues from evil stepmothers and their curses and spiriting his mate away to his castle to never again have a care in the world.
I was twelve when my notion of Prince Charming changed. That was when my mother handed me a romance novel featuring a virile, ultra-alpha sheik and the woman he desires to the point of obsession. Looking back now, with our modern feminist sensibilities, we both admit the book is a “bodice ripper,” but at the time it was powerful, sexy stuff. Prince Charming wasn’t rescuing the heroine; he was her antagonist, her kidnapper, her beast to tame while he exposed her to her own potent sensual nature (and fell helpless to it himself).
Many years later I discovered erotic romance via the futuristic novellas of Liz Maverick and Angela Knight. Now this, I thought, is my kind of reading. Stories in which sex was as integral to the characters as breathing, the means through which they most deeply communicated with each other. Kick-ass men and women who had well-rounded lives all by themselves, they needed rescuing in only the most personal and profound ways; the rest they had covered on their own. For me, that’s romance.
Where are the fairy tales for readers like me?
Once upon a time, fairy tales were darker, grittier, and sexier. Rapunzel let down her hair and lifted her skirts. Sleeping Beauty wasn’t awakened by a mere kiss. Little Red Riding Hood is an allegory for the wolfish, predatory qualities of men. Fairy tales were written for adults, then later adapted to be suitable for children. They were softened and sweetened, removing most of the spice.
Somewhere along the way we’ve come to believe that the magical and fantastical are for kids. To prove maturity, one is expected to cast off belief in the imaginary, but adults need fairy tales, too. We brave the dangerous forest of commuting every weekday, fighting off the trolls and goblins in our lives, outwitting the witches and villainous overlords we work alongside, and trying not to strangle the stockbrokers who manage our golden nest eggs.
I’ve outgrown the softened and sweetened fantasies of childhood. The stories I crave are raw, laced with dark magic and unfettered passions. Adult fairy tales should be gritty yet illusionary, edgy yet sinuous, violent yet dreamy. They should take what is recognizable in us to the farthest degree, making it marvelous and terrifying, fascinating and titillating.
I still have a soft spot for Prince Charming, but I prefer him as a reward for the prince or princess who slays his or her own dragons. He should carry a bit of the beast inside him and more than a little wickedness. He should bring his adventurous spirit into the bedroom, and he should be respectful of the value and independence of his true love. But that’s my fairy tale. For others, tales may include princes or princesses who master them, one (or a few) who save them from themselves or exposes a hidden beauty, like the swan from the ugly duckling.
The beauty of Lustfully Ever After is its celebration of the individual fairy tales in us all. I relished taking the ride, seeing how fluid the journey can be and how unique each creator’s vision was of something known and familiar. As a writer, it’s natural to say I’ll write what I wish was out there for me to read, but then I would be trapped by the limits of my own imagination. Within the pages of this collection, I was invited to join in the fantasies of others, which took me in directions I would never have thought to go, wrapped within the enchantment of fairy tales and folklore, and deliciously flavored with sex and love.
Here are the fairy tales for grown-ups. Enjoy!
INTRODUCTION: THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER
When I edited my first collection of erotic fairy tales, Fairy Tale Lust, and received an overwhelming number of submissions from authors—and an enthusiastic response from readers and reviewers—I knew I would be editing another fairy tale collection soon. There were just too many fairy tales in need of retelling—tales that were ripe for reinterpretation. And so, the idea for Lustfully Ever After was born, sitting on a back burner in my imagination while I wrote other stories and edited other books. But the excitement about another fairy tale collection wouldn’t wait long and before I knew it I found myself pitching the idea to my publisher. Happily (ever after), they were as enthusiastic about it as I was—as were the authors when I put out my call for submissions. Fairy tales, it seems, are such a part of our culture and imagination that we long for more.
While there are similarities between Fairy Tale Lust and Lustfully Ever After, there are also notable differences. Fairy Tale Lust was a collection of original and classic fairy tales written as erotica and erotic romance; the stories ranged from light and playful to eerie and intense. For Lustfully Ever After, I knew I wanted only reinterpretations of the classics and that I wanted them to lean more toward the dark tones of the originals. The stories themselves, while steeped in the history and tone of the classics, are as different in Lustfully Ever After as they were in Fairy Tale Lust.
Some of the stories in Lustfully Ever After are the tales that you know by heart but likely never dreamed of quite this way. Others, while still based on classic stories, will be less familiar but I hope just as entertaining. Among the stories you will recognize immediately are Anya Richards’s “Rosa Redford,” a delicious reinterpretation of “Snow White and Rose Red,” and Lisabet Sarai’s reimagined Rapunzel in “Shorn.” Emerald gives us a corporate “Beauty and the Beast” in “The Beast Within,” while Shanna Germain shows sympathy for—and the passionate, Sapphic side of—Snow White’s evil stepmother in “Mirror, Mirror.”
Some less easily recognized tales include Charlotte Stein’s “You,” an imaginative retelling of “The Three Billy Goats Gruff,” and Michael M. Jones’s retelling of the somewhat obscure “The Boots of Buffalo Leather” in his adventurous and sexy “The Long Night of Tanya McCray.” Andrea Dale delivers a contemporary version of “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” in her poignantly erotic “Steadfast,” Anna Meadows has written “Matches,” a passionate (and happier) blend of “The Little Match Girl” and Mexican folklore, and Sacchi Green dreams of a different kind of pussycat in “Kit in Boots.”
Michelle Augello-Page has penned a romantically charged BDSM version of “Little Red Riding Hood” in her tale “Wolf Moon,” while Jeanette Grey tackles “Hansel and Gretel” (or at least Gretel’s story) in “Gretel’s Lament.” Contrary to the title, Lynn Townsend’s “Garden Variety” is no typical “Jack and the Beanstalk” tale, nor is Evan Mora’s “Real Boy” anything you’ve ever imagined about “Pinocchio.” Other classic fairy tales make appearances, including “Twelve Dancing Princesses” in Kristina Lloyd’s erotic threesome fairy tale “The Last Dance” and “The Princess and the Pea” in Donna George Storey’s creative “Sensitive Artist.” My own story, “A Sea Change,” is “The
Little Mermaid” revisited in reverse, and A.D.R. Forte’s “Name” is an ambitious and passionate retelling of one of my favorite fairy tales, “Rumpelstiltskin.”
The stories here were chosen for being original, erotic interpretations while maintaining the fairy-tale elements and literary integrity of the original tales. I was seeking as much variety as possible in these stories—not wanting to duplicate the table of contents of Fairy Tale Lust. The few classic tales that appear in both collections are as different from each other as they are from the original stories. I think that says as much about the talented authors’ imaginations as it does about the diverse appeal of fairy tales.
Unlike Fairy Tale Lust, every story in Lustfully Ever After has a romantic relationship and a “happily ever after” or “happy for now” ending. So relax, dear reader, and curl up with this delightful collection of fairy tales that will lead you down a magical path into forbidden romance and erotic love. I promise you won’t need those bread crumbs to find your way home—for home is where the heart is, and the authors of Lustfully Ever After know your heart’s most wicked and secret desires.
Kristina Wright
The dark woods of Virginia
ROSA REDFORD
Anya Richards
I’m not hungry.” He held out his hands, as though showing her those strong, hairy fingers would be proof enough. “I’ve already…supped. All I want is companionship. The world is such a cold place.”
Behind him the snow fell in thick flakes, drifting down like feathers to settle on his fur-covered head and shoulders, clinging to the long eyelashes. Dark, all-too-human eyes glowed with silent entreaty from the beastly face. But despite his horrifying appearance, Rosa removed the chain and let him in.
As he slowly entered, his dark gaze swept over the secondhand furniture and old stage props, the detritus of their theatre jobs and myriad potted plants. What he thought about any of it, the marks of their occupations and personalities, she couldn’t tell. He expressed no opinion, simply prowled around the edge of the living room, looking and sniffing at everything before plunking down on the couch.
“What’s going on?”
Blanche came down the passage rubbing her eyes, the hem of her short nightie swinging around her thighs. His gaze sharpened. Blanche gasped, seeing the hairy man-thing.
“I just wanted some company.”
Once more loneliness echoed in his voice, and, when Rosa glanced at Blanche, her friend’s mouth pursed into a winsome pout. A spark of annoyance fired in her belly. Why did Blanche always have to be so cute, even with her pale, straight hair all over the place and sleep lines on her face?
“No problem.” Blanche dropped onto the couch too, folding her long, slim legs up under her ass. “Company is always a good thing, right Rosa?”
Well, there was company and then there was company, and Rosa wasn’t sure what to make of the present kind.
“Would you care for a drink?” She shifted from one foot to the other, asking more out of the need to say something rather than politeness.
“What do you have?” He was still casing the joint, so to speak, but his eyes now went from her to Blanche and back again.
She glanced at the cabinet, trying to remember what was left. “Vodka, gin, maybe scotch. We killed the tequila last night though.”
He laughed, and the deep, rich chuckle, the strong, sharp teeth made every hair on her body stand on end. “Just as well. Tequila makes me want to live la vida loca. You don’t want to see that.”
Strangely though, she kinda did. Would he climb on the table—climb on her—and howl to the moon?
“So, nothing then?”
Now his gaze settled fully on her, eyes seeming to penetrate into her soul, and warmth flashed over her skin. Beneath her white T-shirt her nipples came to attention and a buzz of arousal took residence in her pussy. She wasn’t aware of licking her lips until his attention dropped and a low growl issued from his throat. Even when she forced herself to stop, his eyes didn’t move, stayed on her mouth.
Her legs wobbled.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Screwdrivers,” Blanche said, uncharacteristically decisive, already heading for the kitchen. “I’ll get the ice.”
With trembling hands Rosa poured the vodka, awareness tightening her skin, blood flowing thick and hot, like lava, in her veins. Blanche came back and dropped cubes into the glasses, added a splash of juice to each, but she may as well have been a ghost. All Rosa could focus on was the creature across the room—the hint of his scent filling the apartment.
Blanche took her drink, leaving two glasses behind. Rosa stared down at them for a moment, trying to pull herself together, but his allure was too strong. Picking up the drinks, she walked over and gave him his, shivering slightly at the brush of his fingers, her heart rate picking up speed. Her mouth was dry so she took a sip, hardly noticing the cool bite of the alcohol going down. Like a mirror image he did the same, and she watched the powerful throat move, yearned to put her lips there, feel the muscles shift.
Who are you, she wanted to ask, what are you? But although the questions lingered, they didn’t seem important. The only one that mattered was whether it was her or Blanche he chose. With her long legs and willowy figure, quiet Blanche attracted lots of guys, although Rosa couldn’t complain. Her more rounded figure, Latin looks, and outgoing personality garnered attention enough, and they never fought over men. But, this time, Rosa wanted the beast for herself.
He growled, a low, sustained sound, and leaned forward slightly. His eyes burned, matching the heat already inundating her body, melting whatever hesitancy remained. Letting her gaze drop, she saw his cock rising, long, dark and thick, from the hair of his groin. Stepping toward him, she nudged his legs apart, knelt between them.
“Damn,” Blanche sighed.
“She’s the one,” he replied. “But you can watch, if you like.”
Rosa ignored them, intent on his growing cock. It curved up toward his belly, the head so smooth she salivated to taste it. He plucked the glass from her hand and she smiled, reaching for him. When she circled his cock with her cold fingers, he growled again, and a giggle escaped her.
Then there was no more time for laughter.
His glans filled her mouth—texture, taste, and arousing scent exploding in her head all at once. It was like she’d been starved but now had a feast, and she wanted to devour him. Licking and sucking, learning the shape of him with her tongue, his fingers tunneling into her hair to hold her in place, she couldn’t get enough. The base of his cock pulsed, and she laved a thick bead of pre-come from the tip, knowing he was close, wanting to hear and feel him let go in her mouth.
When he pushed her away, she fell, gasping, on her ass, the sense of loss indescribable.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled, and she saw his muscles bunch, poised to spring. “No, no, no…”
He was on her, ripping her T-shirt away, tearing at her panties with his teeth, and everything became a slow-motion blur, a cacophony of growls and gasps and moans, a tsunami of sensations. He licked and nibbled his way over her body, pushing her breasts together with his powerful hands, sucking and growling around her nipples. Working his way down, parting her legs, swirling his tongue between the lips of her pussy, surrounding her clit, the knowledge of those strong teeth close to her flesh bringing her to a screaming climax.
And could he fuck! He made her glad for the stamina and flexibility brought on by years of dancing, because missionary clearly wasn’t in his vocabulary. Twisting her, this way and that, clutching with his claws, cock unerringly finding its way home, he gave her orgasm after orgasm. At the end Rosa found herself practically doing a split on the back of the couch, his cock driving into her from behind as she held herself aloft with a death grip on the cushion in front of her hips. Blanche stared up at them, blue eyes wide, her usually pale cheeks bright pink, lips open as she panted. She was thrusting a neon-green vibrator into her cunt, finger
s of her other hand pinching and tugging at her nipples.
His cock went deep and he leaned into Rosa, teeth grazing her shoulder, scraping up to her neck. No reason why that should make her lose control, but it did. Entire body shuddering, she was the one who howled, pumping her hips with short, hard, movements, his cock moving with delicious friction in her pussy.
“So tight,” he growled into her ear. “So wet and sweet.”
She couldn’t answer, could do nothing but let the waves of orgasm break over her, revel in him filling her, hearing his words dissolve into the primal sounds of his release.
The last things she remembered was asking, “What would happen if I gave you tequila?” and his answering chuckle.
Waking up, blinking against the sunlight coming in through the window, she realized the warm, soft body snuggled with hers on the couch was Blanche’s.
“Wow,” Blanche stirred, yawned. “I had the wildest dream.”
“Did it involve a hairy man-beast thing?”
Blanche went still. “Yeah,” she replied slowly.
“And do you own a neon-green vibrator?”
“Damn…so it wasn’t a dream?”
Rosa didn’t bother to answer. What was there to say?
The winter fell into an otherworldly pattern—working during the day and Bear, as they took to calling him since he wouldn’t tell them his name, at night.
For the first time in years Rosa and Blanche were working on the same project, an off-Broadway production by the world-renowned team of Short and Dean. Still in rehearsals, Rosa had one of the leads while Blanche worked on the set designs, so they spent even more time together than usual. Normally Rosa would have been stressed to the max with opening night only six weeks away, but somehow she floated through. Not even the tantrums and scathing remarks of producer David Short, who often came to monitor the cast’s progress, fazed her.
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