The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales

by Hillary Rollins

  “The gag may have silenced you, lady, but your lascivious nature speaks volumes. This pungent honey that flows from your virgin wound proves you are not fit for service to His Royal Highness as a cherished slave.”

  The miller’s daughter wanted to object, she wanted desperately to be able to assert her purity and deny that she was stirred by the violence of the strangers, the harshness of the leather straps that criss-crossed her peachy cheeks, the threat (or promise?) of enslavement to a severe and punishing master. But in her heart she knew they were right; the body didn’t lie. Perhaps this arousal could be taken as an admission of guilt and a sort of tacit consent to their cruel game.

  So using only these copious juices and her silent, grateful tears for lubrication, the king’s men took turns entering her again and again, enjoying the free use of her upturned backside, reveling in the plea-sure her pain and degradation brought them all as they fucked her rosy bottom, but always being careful to preserve her womb’s virginity for deflowerment by the all-mighty king.

  In the morning the miller’s daughter was brought to a tiny dungeon in the castle that contained a spinning wheel and stack upon stack of pungent straw. The only other furnishings in this grim chamber were a medieval set of shackles attached to the wall—ankle cuffs, wrist manacles, a collar to encircle her long, reedy neck, even a pair of heavy nipple clamps to hold her unruly bosom in check—and a hard wooden church pew provided for brief periods of rest and self-reflection.

  She was stripped of her clothes, seated at the wheel, and hooked up to the collection of ancient irons. Now she was a study in contrasts: a soft, round, pink defenseless thing, as naked and mortal as a newborn baby, yet at the same time “dressed,” outfitted at the extreme points of her person—the hands and feet, the tips of her breasts, the leather-gagged head—by hard, unyielding bonds of iron and chain, leashes to rein in and discipline an untrained dog.

  “Spin, miller’s harlot. Spin your straw into gold.”

  And with a final sardonic laugh they were gone. The prisoner heard the ringing “clink” of a padlock, and then she was alone in her disgrace, able to feel its sting even more sharply than when they’d kept her busy satisfying their lurid needs. How could this have happened to her, a poor, innocent child who had never known a moment’s wrongdoing? But perhaps she was not as innocent as she liked to believe—there was, after all, the hot, moist evidence of her clandestine voluptuousness oozing forth from between her legs. So is that what it came to now? Was she to be punished for her unspoken cravings? Did she deserve to have been used in such a vulgar manner by these nameless, faceless apes under the banner of the king? To be stripped of her clothing along with her dignity and chained like a common mongrel in a yard? To be gagged and imprisoned, so she could not cry out and had to suffer in quiescent silence, accepting their rude violations with no hope of escape? She could barely sit at the spinning wheel, so injured and sore were her lower parts from the ungodly activities of the night before. And now she was expected to spin all this straw into gold or else she would be put to death! Of course she knew nothing of such alchemy—her father had simply been bragging to earn favor with the king so as to protect the family from the wrath of the court. But the miller’s daughter had no choice. She had to try to work the magic her lord and master desired.

  With a prayer in her heart she lifted a handful of straw to the spindle and began to work the wheel’s pedal. The dull “clang” of iron rang out as her terrible manacles collided against each other. The weight of the clamps on her nipples, pulling as they did against the delicate flesh of her swaying breasts, made each congested tip darken and throb. Minutes turned into hours as the unhappy vassal spun and spun and spun. But, alas, there was no gold. Eventually, spent with her efforts, she collapsed upon the wooden pallet and slipped into a dreamless sleep that was as black and glassy as a puddle of ink.

  This time the miller’s daughter was awakened not by the two giant henchmen, but by a strange little man who held a bundle of birch rods tied together into a fearsome switch. As he barked at her, he cut the air with great swoops of the switch like he was wielding a sword against some invisible enemy.

  “Wench!” cried the fellow. “You have displeased the king! You spin and spin, but there is no gold!”

  The miller’s daughter could not answer, gagged and bound as she was. But she searched the man’s attire for the royal crest and nowhere could she find it. If he was not an official emissary of the king, how did he gain entrance to her cell? And what was his interest in her lot?

  “Now you are doomed to die. But before the king puts his chattel to death he first extracts whatever pleasure he likes from their defenseless flanks. For instance, he might force you to swallow his bulging cock for breakfast every morning. Then again, he might simply whip you until he draws blood every night. Or perhaps he’ll hand you over, like nothing but parcel of property, to his gang of depraved courtiers and instruct them to use you as they will. Then he’ll simply sit back and watch you suffer while they bend you over and open you to their collective hands, tongues, and organs. This will be your final mortification before an untimely death.”

  Even with her secret longing to be owned and used thus by a strict, demanding master, the miller’s daughter did not wish to die. The tiny man could see this when he peered into her eyes, the eyes of cornered prey, and he smiled a crooked smile.

  “But I can save you, for I can spin straw into gold, and this very night I will turn that whole cartload of worthless hay into a king’s ransom before the first light of dawn! I ask only two things in exchange for my services. First, you must allow me to punish you for your sins and insufficiencies. I would so enjoy administering proper corrective discipline to the shining buttocks of a worthless trollop like yourself.”

  So this was his gambit: He would replace the king’s violence with his own! It was one thing to prostrate herself before a worthy master, to turn her whole being over to the lacerations of a king’s whip because she was so lowly and he so grand, she so in need of moral and physical correction and he ordained by dint of his superiority, rank, and power to deliver her into that corrective state. But to simply be tortured by this dwarf, this birch-brandishing homunculus, for no purpose whatsoever except to bring him some sort of prurient pleasure—that was too much to bear! Still, she had no choice. To refuse him was to die. With a heavy heart, she nodded her consent.

  “Excellent. Now, for the second part of our little bargain: If, because of my efforts at the spinning wheel, the king decides to make you his wife, you must agree to give me your first-born child.”

  To this the miller’s daughter easily agreed, for what were the chances an exalted king would marry a common thing like herself? Especially as it had now been revealed that beneath her maidenly airs she harbored a lewd and shameful nature. If she was not pure enough to serve him as slave, surely she was not worthy to serve him as wife! This part of the contract she was sure would never be enforced, and so again she nodded consent.

  Eager to extract his pleasure from the first half of the deal, the little manikin set about positioning his victim in the ideal posture for her punishment. He turned her to face the wall and tightened the chains on her wrists and ankles so she was stretched akimbo against the cold flagstones. Her leather-clad face and beleaguered nipples were pressed into the mossy chinks of the wall while her back and buttocks and plump thighs were unabashedly displayed to the lecherous eyes of her torturer.

  When he was satisfied that her position would afford him the maximum access in this delightful beating, he took his place behind her and lifted his bundle of sticks (which he refered to as his “training rod”) high over his head, then brought it down, hard, against her unblemished rear. The sounds this made—a high-pitched siren of a whistle then the “thwack” as twigs met flesh, leaving both the rod and the receiver marked as they’d not been before—grew into a strange kind of music as he played his instrument against her in a rhythmic assault. Slowly at first, and then fa
ster and faster, his training rod sang its song on her hips, buttocks, and thighs, and the player punctuated each stroke of the baton with a chanted slur against the wayward maid.

  Hiss/thwack, “Slut!” Hiss/smack, “Whore!” Hiss/crack, “Liar and infidel! Your father promised gold, but did you deliver? Of course not! Liars and children of liars must be taught a lesson!” Hiss/thwack, hiss/smack, the birch branches cut into her again and again, leaving great, red welts in their wake, making the poor maiden writhe against her iron bonds as she twisted this way and that trying in vain to avoid the agonizing blows. Alas, there was no escaping the relentless fall of the rod. From behind her leather gag she uttered guttural moans and stifled screams. Boiling tears spilled from her panicked eyes and soaked the leather straps that bound her face. Tiny droplets of blood, like ruby chips, dotted the welts and gashes that the crazed martinet inflicted on her hind parts. But still he would not let up.

  “Strumpet!” Swoosh. “Useless cow!” Thwack. “Well, now you must bow to me, mustn’t you? Now you must grovel and fawn and submit to my will if you wish to see tomorrow!”

  His raspy voice rose and rose with furious excitement as he laid ever more crimson stripes upon the milk-white flesh, and just as the unhappy girl fainted dead away from the acute sensations of pleasure and pain, the little man erupted in an enormous gushing orgasm all over her well-seasoned globes.

  Some time later the miller’s daughter awoke to find herself alone. She was still chained and gagged, still naked and trembling, but now somehow less naked, as her derriere from the small of her back to the bend of her knees was dressed in a lattice of blisters and cuts. Purple welts and pink gashes were woven together like a fine lace petticoat and spread across her back and thighs in a veil of pain, and the only available balm to cool this burning garment was her tormentor’s sticky effusion, which he’d left exactly where it fell, in gobs of dripping wetness, upon the sleeping beauty.

  Fortunately, the little man had also left her spool after spool of gleaming spun gold in place of the straw. And the king was so pleased with these riches, which he assumed were the result of the maiden’s handiwork, he decided to make her his wife!

  Years passed, and the miller’s daughter, despite her longing to be slave and not queen, accepted her lot with the grace of unquestioning obedience. She attended to her duties and comported herself with all the propriety befitting her newly exalted station. But she was restless and unfulfilled, for despite his reputation, she found her husband’s appetite, at least insofar as it applied to her, rather pallid. He rarely came to her bed except to conceive an heir. And while a tour of the castle revealed that the private halls and chambers were outfitted with a variety of indecent devices—whips and harnesses and complicated rigs for flogging—the fixtures in the queen’s suite were as comfortable and ordinary as those in a picture book.

  It seemed the king regarded marriage as sacred and therefore not in the least bit sensual, reserving gratification of his more piquant tastes for the legendary lost ones of the village, the legion of silent slaves who padded naked and barefoot through the lower depths of the castle wearing the same irons and gags and nipple clamps that had once adorned the miller’s daughter, carrying out the grunt work of the household by day while satisfying the proclivities of their exacting king by night.

  Because the last time she was allowed to venture into the cavernous underworld beneath the castle was when she’d been locked away in the dungeon to spin, the queen never actually laid eyes on these shadow slaves. But her ears confirmed their existence when, in the depth of her loneliest nights, she heard their far-off cries of anguish uniting with the climactic screams of her lord and master as he used their bound, prone, and tortured bodies to absorb his passion and his rage over and over again. During these times she would recall the details of her own voluptuous episode in the dungeon when the strange little man had flagellated her naked rump so thoroughly her filthy secrets were purified. She remembered how he had lashed her like she was a misbehaving colt and he a severe jockey bent on training her wayward hindparts with his birchwood crop until she begged and pleaded for mercy and finally passed out from the force of her hunger for such a beating. She remembered, as she rolled herself between furious fingers until the soapy wet bubble of her lust expanded and popped between her legs, the whistle of his rod as it split the air. She remembered the crack as it landed, the burn like a cattle brand on her great hams as wood bit into skin, the taste of the leather in her mouth, and the humiliation in her excited gut. But what she never remembered, because it had seemed so far off and preposterous, was the devil’s contract she’d entered into with her harsh instructor. So it came as a cruel shock when, after the birth of her first child, the little man showed up for his due.

  “I come for the child,” he said blandly, as if it were commonplace to take a babe from its mother’s breast.

  “No, please, I beg of you,” said the queen. “I’ll give you anything else you ask, but not my child!”

  “What have you that I could possibly want?”

  “Why, I have everything! I am the king’s wife and all the riches of the kingdom are at my disposal.”

  “Aye, you are indeed the king’s wife, but you only achieved that lofty station because I spun spool after spool of straw into gold! So you must realize that riches of that sort are nothing to me; I can simply spin them whenever I want. No, Your Highness, the only way I shall grant you clemency in this bargain is if you can guess my name. I’ll give you three chances, and if you can’t call me by my proper name, the child is mine.”

  “Is it Balthazar?” asked the queen.

  “No,” he replied.

  “Is it Alouisious?”

  “Wrong again!”

  “Is it…Rumpelstiltskin!?”

  The little man searched the eyes of the beautiful queen and there he found the same craving for correction that he had seen there when she was nothing but a doomed miller’s daughter. With a twist of his gargoyle lips, he chuckled softly before he pronounced his answer.

  “No, slut. No, Rumpelstiltskin is not my name!”

  “Wait!” implored the queen, “I think I know. It is…Master,” she whispered as she sank to the floor before the knave and threw her skirts up over her head. Her exposed buttocks quivered and quaked in happy anticipation of the cruel lashing it had needed for so long.

  “Yes! Master!” cried the little man, and the air rang out with the song of his rod as it came crashing down on the waiting, willing target groveling at his feet.

  ...the question was posed: What’s in a kiss? Not just any kiss, but that particular kiss that awakens the sleeping beauty in lovers. It should be simple to answer; a kiss is, after all, just lip upon lip, tongue wrapped around tongue in an embrace like the coiled necks of mating doves, or the gesture of unity between two entwined pinkies to say, “Yes, I am with you.” But that is only the physical description—lip to lip, tongue to tongue, hot breath, the private pocket of humidity formed when two searching mouths come so close—and there is so much more than the physical to this act, is there not? For between the lips of lovers entire souls can pass. As one exhales, she releases herself and the other catches it up in his inward breath, ingesting her very essence into his own. In this way selves are exchanged, again and again and again, until a boundary-less blending occurs.

  And so it was with that gifted beauty of legend, Aurora, whose very existence on this earth hinged on the magic of a kiss….

  Despite attempts in every manner and position, her parents could not conceive a child. They longed to share their lives with a son or daughter, but they were barren for so long that they began to lose hope. Without the promise of a joyful procreation, their lovemaking began to slowly disintegrate, turning from a mutually satisfying union into a sordid, disconnected act of selfish lust. He would wake with a raging erection, its angry, purple-headed shaft leaping and writhing under the pressure of engorgement like an electric eel searching for prey. She would refuse him ent
ry, teasing him mercilessly as she mauled and fingered her pointed, burning clit to a violent orgasm right in front of his eyes. Then, only after she’d finished herself off with this one-sided climax, would she soften enough to allow him to take his own pleasure between her thighs. Now all slick and buttered up with the juices of self-gratification, she would turn her back to him and let her legs fall open. Her rounded buttocks lay before him like a decadent satin cushion and the wet portal just below showed its satin lining like a red flag to a bull. With one hand he scooped her up under her belly and raised her pelvis to just the right angle. With his other hand he pressed open her still-swollen vaginal lips and then plunged the full length of himself between her slackened muscles. Thus, uttering the grunts and howls of a mad dog, he would take his wife again and again until he drove it home to the explosive final thrust. But even though he was buried deep inside her, it was as if he were all alone. He poured his musk and cream all the way up her, almost to her heart, but since this liquid offering didn’t seem to be able to give her the child she longed for, she ignored the gift, lying with her face down in the pillows, slipping away into her self-induced afterglow, and receiving her husband’s amorous assaults with a detachment that bordered on disdain. And, above all, they never kissed.

  Then one day, while bathing in the stream, a horned toad hopped upon the woman’s naked belly. She screamed with disgust and brushed it off in a panic, but later that night a strange sort of toad-man visited her in a dream.

  “Madame,” said the creature. “Do not fear me. I come with good tidings. You long for a child, do you not? Heed my advice and you shall have your dear babe. In the morning, when your husband wishes to make love to you, do not stave him off in your usual manner or turn your back on his desires. Make love as you used to, with mutual exultation and reciprocity, and at the moment of complete convergence, kiss each other. Insert your tongue deep within your husband’s hungry mouth, let him suck gently upon your lower lip, inhale his breath as he devours you, exhale your essence into his heart, lungs, and belly, and you shall conceive the most beautiful baby girl in the world.”