The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales

by Hillary Rollins

  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. F
or 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.

  At last Blossom began to carefully, tentatively touch and fondle Beauty’s vagina. She started on the outside, making tiny little pats with her fingers along the swollen fault line of the lips, while all the while keeping a gentle, steady pressure on the hood of the erect clit with the heel of her hand. She never breached the opening of her own volition; rather, she coaxed and beguiled the delicate tissues until they opened on their own like a flower ripening in time-lapse photography. Only then did she slip a probing fingertip inside the silky slit to retrieve a drop of sweet dew. She licked this honeyed pollen off her middle finger and it tasted so delightful she had to have more. Down she dove into the fragrant bloom to drink of its nectar with the hungry, searching, vibrating tongue of a hummingbird. At that point Beauty’s excitement began to really mount; her breath quickened, her toes pointed, her whole being tensed and released in tiny tidal waves. She was about to lose control, to catapult over the edge into the abyss. She gasped an inhalation as Blossom continued the rhythmic lapping and sucking, the pressing and releasing, the tongue and fingers against clit and lips. She exhaled a strangled sound of ecstasy as Blossom kept pecking and nibbling, kept rotating and stroking Beauty’s swollen pelvic mound, dipping and pressing, kissing and licking over and over again for a suspended wrinkle in time that might have been minutes or ages. Finally, finally, it was too much and Beauty was crying and writhing and spasming her release under Blossom’s velvet mouth.

  And then, just as suddenly as she’d come, Blossom was gone. All that was left was the dainty rose Beauty had picked, that now lay in the humid pocket between her legs. As she recovered from her shattering climax, Beauty’s eyes became clear again, filled with a profound peace and satisfaction. She turned these eyes to her voyeuristic captor. What she now saw was not the repulsive beast she’d encountered when she’d scaled the garden wall, but the handsome prince restored to his most civilized form. The only thing that was still animalistic about him was his engorged penis that bobbed and danced about like a puffed-up python. But now the prince knew better than to rush to his own wild completion as he once had. Instead, he lifted the fallen rose from its fragrant bed and began to use its whole nature—both the caress of its satin petals and the lash of its pointed thorns—to slowly tease and taunt and reawaken Beauty’s passions for hour after hour of tender love. And, at last, beast and prince were united as one to live happily ever after.

  …the miller’s daughter was awakened in the middle of the night by a pair of invaders—two monster-men who seemed to be fashioned from knotty sinew and twists of chest hair. They wore leather hoods that covered their entire faces and had tiny openings only for their sinister eyes; in the distorting moonlight they appeared almost supernatural. If the miller’s daughter had the time to catch her breath she would have screamed with all her might, but before she could exhale even a whimper of protest the larger of the leatherheads clasped a massive hand across her mouth and pulled her from her bed. She struggled violently, but it was no use; each desperate machination seemed to work her embattled limbs deeper into his grasp until her whole body was held and subdued by her captor. In this position, the tiny mouse pinned into submission by the giant hunter, she was powerless to ward off the thief’s advances. He slipped an icy hand inside her gown. She was surprised at how gentle his touch was as he cupped one breast. But a moment later all mildness was gone as he grabbed the nipple between pinching fingers and tugged on it over and over again until it was stretched into a long, red, distended thing. At the same time he worked a bony knee between her legs, shoving the rough broadcloth of her nightgown deep into her crevice and grinding away in slow, deliberate circles until, despite her fear and rage, she felt the slick dew of pleasure gather between her thighs.

  “It is useless to resist, missy, isn’t it?” drawled the vile goon from behind his false face.

  “And why would you want to?” piped in his companion in a mocking tone. “Until now you’ve been nothing but a humble miller’s daughter. Tonight you are to become the king’s personal property and his private delight.”

  His laughter was muffled and eerie due to the absence of a mouth opening in the gruesome mask. But as her darting eyes adjusted to the dim light she was able to make out a faint design burnished into the black leather in just the spot where there ought to have been human lips. It was the outline of the royal crest, an emblem well known in the region and one that could strike a paralyzing fear into the hearts of those who inhabited it, for the crest identified its wearer as an agent of the cruel and merciless king who ruled with an unquestioned authority. Wherever His Royal Highness or his brutish emissaries roamed, a trail of anguish was sure to follow.

  Still, the miller’s daughter had always thought the punishments inflicted by the court were reserved for criminals, slackers, and insurgents. She never imagined it would sponsor the abduction and abuse of a virtuous young girl by two such wretched thugs. Of course she’d heard the stories of those who’d vanished from the town and were rumored to have been forced into an unholy service to their dark monarch. The wizened village elders who made a sport of such gossip often huddled in the church square to sneer and cluck and purse their lips over the fate of these “unfortunates cursed to become the unredeemable playthings of the king.” But the miller’s daughter was a hard-working, sensible child who dismissed these tales as nothing but the grim superstitions of some foolish old crones. She chose to believe instead that the missing were merely feisty youths who chafed under the rule of such a demanding despot and ran away of their own accord to seek their fortunes in a more hospitable clime.

  Yet here they were, the king’s men, with their cold hands and blank, black animal-hide faces, stealing her from the warmth and safety of her innocent bed and taking unspeakable liberties with her. Had she done something wrong? Was there some cause or provocation for this humiliation and debasement that she could not remember? And what did they mean by saying she was to become the king’s property?

  Before she could beg an explanation, the other fellow, the one who wasn’t holding her in his indecorous grasp, slipped a queer sort of gag over her mouth, which silenced her utterly. It was an apparatus consisting of a series of leather straps fastened together into a sort of cage for the face and skull, similar to a dog’s muzzle or a horse’s harness, save for this one peculiar detail not found on an ordinary appliance meant to constrain the jaws of a rabid beast: a large, round, smooth leather ball was suspended in the center of the straps. This ball was inserted into the maiden’s supple mouth, forcing her to stretch her jaws open to the extreme and contorting her lips into a vulnerable, gaping “O.”

  Thus trussed, the miller’s daughter was forced to her knees with her shoulders and head bent to the floor and her buttocks raised high in the air. Her nightgown fell forward and settled around her in a lacy halo, rather prettily framing her spongy, red cunt and puckered asshole. These two openings shined dark against the lunar whiteness of her cheeks like a double bull’s-eye.

  “Your father says you can spin straw into gold, missy. That’s quite a trick for a worthless whore. But if it’s true, the king has decided to keep you as his slave. Of course, if it’s a lie he will have you put to death.”

  “Now to be worthy
of becoming a king’s slave, you must be chaste in body and mind.”

  “Are you pure in both thought and deed? If you are you must certainly fear and loathe our treatment of you here tonight.”

  “If you are as good as the gold you spin, you must certainly wish for us to leave you unharmed and unbroken. And this fervent hope—that we not complete the delightful rape of your maidenhead—will leave your tender slit as dry as an autumn leaf.”

  “On the other hand, if you are really the slut we think you are, you will have a need for punishment and a secret desire to submit to our special brand of defilement.”

  With that, one of the men swiped a probing hand along the length of her splayed-open gash. She heard his mocking, muffled laughter as his hand came up just as coated with wetness as it would if she were being wooed by an adored lover.