by Alison Tyler
“But you’re not real!”
Yet the words were a nonsense when her deft and very tangible fingers were already unzipping his jeans.
“But what do you understand by ‘real,’ Charlie?” Her words were soft, barely more than a breath as he gazed down between his outstretched hands, watched her open his ink-smeared fly and slip out his rigid penis. “What is real…and what is imaginary? I venture that you do not truly know, do you? You do not believe in yourself, and therefore there is little else you do believe in. Am I correct?”
She was. She was right on the money. Quivering with pleasure, Charlie nodded. Almost absentmindedly stroking his cock, the Fairy Queen continued, “But you must believe in something, Charlie, or life is intolerable. So why not believe in me?” She paused, then sniffed the air and smiled right into his eyes. “Surely anything is preferable to being alone with only your right hand to pleasure you.”
The Fairy Queen knew everything about him, and he didn’t think it was from stains on the carpet or the sticky residue that still clung to his cock. She knew him from the inside out.
“You have been playing with yourself, have you not?” Blue as the sky’s vault, her eyes controlled and teased him, yet were deep with sympathy. She flowed out of them into an aching void within him, offering not only release, but a sense of forever, of happily ever after.
“You have toyed with this lovely thing—” slipping two fingers beneath his aching flesh, she jiggled him playfully “—and you have made it spurt your essence all over the floor.”
Impossible as it seemed, Charlie got harder, and he watched, his belly a-tremble, as the Fairy Queen took hold of his plump glans and worked it delicately between her finger and thumb.
“You are a naughty boy, Charlie, are you not?” Her all-knowing gaze demanded an answer, so Charlie nodded as if he was in a trance, controlled only by her. “Wasting all that sweet nectar, when I am close by…and so hungry.”
As she drew a long crimson fingernail thoughtfully around the tip of his penis, Charlie moaned softly. Then moaned loudly as his numbed brain grasped her meaning.
“What in heaven’s name is the matter now?” Setting both of her slender hands to the task, she held his shaft with one, whilst flicking and manipulating him wickedly with the other. She squeezed and tickled at the bulging plum, then scooped up his thin, gleaming pre-come and transferred it to her tongue as if it were ambrosia.
“Please!” Charlie gasped, his hips surging and his shorts and jeans slithering to his ankles. His hands flexed, tightening his hold on her breasts. For a moment he thought he’d hurt her and she was about to pull away, but then she sighed and her body rippled in a long, seductive undulation as she rewarded him with a sweet squeeze, too.
“Please what, my Charlie?” Her breath was perfume against his tense, sweaty face, and between his chest and her stiff-tipped breasts, his hands were squashed. All the time she still manipulated his shaft.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!”
Charlie couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. Purely on instinct, he released her breasts so he could crush her closer, savoring the way she rubbed and pressed her sinuous torso against him, inviting the jab of his rampant erection. The blue veils of her dress ruffled and slithered against his belly.
“Patience, my sweet.” The Fairy Queen inched away from him, adjusting her grip on his erection. “Trust me, Charlie dearest, and believe.” Her voice was a whisper, and so was the soft center of her palm as she cupped it around his glans while closing her other hand firmly around his shaft. “Believe!” she commanded, working him with her fine strong fingers, dragging the velvety skin of his cock up and down, up and down, up and down over its stiff, blood-filled core. Like a demon goddess she pumped him, working him to a pitch of pleasure so great it was almost agony. With a broken cry of surprise, Charlie climaxed, his semen spurting into her slender, gripping hand.
His body racked by sobs, he struggled to focus. The Queen of the Fairies lifted the hand that had caressed him, drew it to her luscious rosy mouth and lapped his essence from it as if it were honey from the slopes of some sweet promised land. Knees like rubber, he swayed and staggered, then let his dream, the insubstantial illusion he’d created from ink and paper, take the full weight of his fainting body and lower him down to the rug alongside her.
Bing-bong! Bing-bong, bing-bong, bing-bong!
“Don’t go ballistic!”
Disorientated and queasy, Charlie hauled himself reluctantly back to consciousness. How the hell had he ended up on the rug? He hadn’t the faintest idea how he’d got there, and the floor was hard, and he ached.
Glenister, you bleeding idiot, kindly remember to open a window when you use these!
Frowning, he struggled to his feet and shook his head, jamming on the caps of a few stray felt-tip markers that lay scattered along the pen tray of his drawing board. He’d been tripping, because the room was full of fumes.
Bing-bong!
“Won’t be a minute!” he called out. Stumbling around, he was almost afraid to pull back the curtains, and when he did, he cringed at the state of chaos. The room was a disaster and so was he, and judging by the sun so high in the sky, his impatient visitor was probably Tania Richards, who he’d secretly had hopes of impressing.
Snatching up a few of the most erotic drawings of the Fairy Queen, he hid them under some less explicit ones, then groaned as he turned his attention to his own appearance.
“You’re disgusting, man…you’re a freak.” There was ink, paint and what was unmistakably semen on his T-shirt and jeans. His heart sank. He’d been clinging to the hope that whatever obscene activity he’d indulged in last night had just been a dream, induced by accidentally inhaling solvent fumes. But judging by the amount of spunk on his clothing, at least some of it had been all too real.
Jesus, I’ve got to get a grip. I can’t go on like this.
He’d been lost in a lovesick wet dream of fucking and sucking and grabbing. Of using his fantasy woman’s every lovely orifice, and slaking his sexual frustration on her peerless elegant body.
The doorbell rang again, a triple blast this time, and with a sigh of resignation, he went to answer it.
“Hi! I guess you’re Charlie?” His visitor strode confidently into the room, black leather portfolio under her arm, apparently oblivious to the rampant squalor and odor of sex. “I’m Tania Richards. Nice to meet you.”
Charlie stared at her blankly, rubbing his tangled hair on auto, the breath knocked clean out of him.
Tania Richards was a redhead. She had a porcelain complexion and clear blue eyes. She was even wearing a long, flowing blue dress in some kind of soft, floaty fabric.
“Hey, are you okay?” She studied him with eyes that were brilliant with suppressed laughter. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but you look really out of it… Is this a bad time?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m okay.” His face stretched into a nervous smile, or the nearest he could approximate. Surely, it was just coincidence… The hair, the blue dress, the rest of it. Crikey, she was even wearing a similar necklace, a kind of hippy-dippy Indian silver-filigree thing with a network of twinkling little stars.
And her breasts. And that soft, full, rosy mouth, that bitable lower lip. Oh, God, she was almost as beautiful as…
“Fuck!” Taking a wary step, he’d trodden on something sharp that was jabbing into his bare instep.
“I beg your pardon?” Tania’s perfectly sculpted crimson lips curved deliciously as she unzipped her portfolio, all no-nonsense and business, and started taking out sheets of white drawing paper.
“Sorry about that. I trod on something…a drawing pin or whatever.” With his eyes riveted on sumptuous curves defined by a thin veil-like dress, Charlie bent down to pick up the offending object.
Then almost dropped it again.
The room seemed to speed away from him, then rush back again, like some kind of optical ef
fect from a movie. His blood chilled and his cock went rigid in a sudden, intense, almost painful state of arousal.
No! It couldn’t be. She must have dropped the thing just now. It couldn’t already have been here. And she couldn’t be who he imagined she might be…
Tania Richards was simply a pretty girl who just happened to have lush red hair, sparkling blue eyes, truly magnificent breasts…and a rather dilapidated secondhand necklace that seemed to be shedding its components.
“I believe that’s mine.” Long, alabaster-pale fingers, tipped with scarlet lacquer reached out for the small opalescent star. “I knew I’d lost one somewhere around.”
Paralyzed by her amused and hypnotic regard, Charlie felt the room do its disorienting, retreat-advance thing again. It was like he was drowning, sinking into the well of blue in her eyes, bedazzled by the floating brilliance of her amazing hair. Everything was there. The perfect heart-shaped face…the full, breathtaking breasts, the hard, dark nipples, the cute little dink of her navel and the delicate curve of her pubic mound, barely veiled but also defined by the wispy, gauzy layers of her gown.
“Would you like to see my drawings, Charlie?”
As her words dropped into the room like the notes of a wind chime, she tossed the pearly star onto a blank sheet of paper. Once there, it dissolved instantly and a manlike shape, etched in dusty lines, replaced it. A quick pass of her slender fingers, and details began to appear of their own accord.
Charlie opened his mouth, tried to cry out, but couldn’t utter a sound. Before him was a very good sketch of a lean, disheveled, but remarkably handsome, young man with shaggy, tangled dark hair and a bemused expression on his face. His heart lurched wildly and his cock lurched, too, swelling even harder and higher inside his shorts. He stared at the paper in awe and disbelief, seeing the very face he saw each day in his bathroom mirror.
Within seconds every last feature of the drawing was complete and utterly lifelike. He stared down at it because he didn’t dare look up.
“You see, even I need something to believe in, my sweet Charlie,” murmured the Queen of the Fairies, her words thrilling and affectionate as she cupped his aching groin.
Always Break the Spines
Lana Fox
Fairy tales hurt. Believe me.
It started in the bookshop down Stoke Street, where I’d been handling the leather-bound covers. I’d always loved leather—the feel, the smell—and once I’d started touching the covers, I never could stop. I felt someone’s breath on my neck and turned to face a stranger with wolf like eyes. He snatched the book from me. I gave a little gasp.
“You’re a student,” he said in a stuck-up voice. “I can always tell a student.” He tipped his head and stroked along the cover. That’s when I noticed his hands, with their long, pale fingers, and the way he grasped that leather, as if he’d like to claw it. “This book deserves respect,” he said. “Little girls know nothing of that.”
“I’m not a little girl,” I said, “and I’m certainly not a student.” (This was a lie—it was my first year of college.)
“Then what are you?” he said, eyebrow raised.
“I’m a customer,” I snapped, “and I was going to buy that book.”
He drew himself closer. He was clean-shaven, with graying hair, and teeth that were smooth and white. What big eyes he had. What a dry smile. He wasn’t the sort of man I’d usually crave, and yet just standing there was turning me on. It was his severity that did it, and his rudeness perhaps. “But you’re not about to buy it,” he said. “You want to abuse it. The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales, but what do you care? I’d refuse to sell it to a dirty girl like you. You’d no doubt break the spine.”
I was at once so angry and so totally aroused that I ripped the volume from him, as if to teach him a lesson; but, being a step ahead of me, he pushed me to the shelves, and, snatching back the book, pressed a hand against my chest. He splayed his fingers above my collarbone—cool and dry, no sweat, no strain. “I knew you were foul,” he said.
“I know your type,” I told him. “Girls for you are either whores or princesses.”
Lust flared in his eyes. “Correct,” he said, “and you’re hardly Snow White.” Slowly, he raised the leather-bound book. I thought he might make me smell it. But in fact, with the flat of it, he raised my chin. The scent of the hide filled me, the cover dug right in. He glared across the leather, right into my eyes. “Foul girls,” he told me, with hot, wet breath, “need to be made right.” And he grabbed my waist and turned me, so I fell against the shelf. I knew we were in a public place—that this was his bookshop. I knew there were customers browsing nearby. But when he raised my skirt and slammed the book between my thighs, so the edges pinched my flesh…and when he pulled it out again and thwacked my ready ass…I knew (oh, God, I knew) that I was going to submit and this bastard, whoever he was, would be the best I’d had.
“I guess…” I heard myself whisper. “I guess I have been foul!” And with that, I reached for his hand and pulled the book against me. “Punish me, then! Do it. Make me pay.”
He spanked me several times, saying, “Never. Make. Demands.” My mouth had fallen open; every part of me was drooling. His torture stung so hard that I realized what this meant: unlike the boys I’d slept with, this man was in control—that was why he turned me on, while the others couldn’t. He stopped, suddenly, and gave a breathy groan. “Keep doing it,” I cried. “Yes, you’ll do it again!”
I felt him pause behind me, grab my jaw and twist it back so I was looking up at him. “I will tame you,” he said quietly, “exactly when I please. I won’t have you saying when and how. You will come back at ten and, if I deem it fitting, I’ll punish you more thoroughly.” Then he raised the leather book, which was damp from my sweat, and whispered, “Now it’s spoiled and you must pay. If you touch yourself, just once, before I see you next, I’ll know.”
“You don’t scare me…” I said.
“Ernest,” he said, by way of introduction. And his eyes filled with heat. “Then, sweet whore, you’ll suffer.”
Believe it or not, I was shy back then. I rarely got angry, never snapped at strangers, didn’t borrow books for fear I might abuse them. My own books were stored in order of height, in rows upon my shelf. But somehow, Ernest brought out my inner bitch—the one who longed to spit her gum between those perfect pages.
I went home, showered and touched myself a lot. I came several times, thinking of him. I craved his leather beatings and, of course, he knew it. Never before had I felt like this. To trust a stranger! And then to let him spank me and screw me in his shop! This wasn’t me. It wasn’t. And yet, it felt like me. Just a darker part: a “me” I’d never met.
I wore a flared skirt with nude-colored stockings and a silky top with nothing beneath. Hard and sly, my nipples poked through. What would Mother say?
The shop was shut when I got there, and I couldn’t see Ernest. My thighs were slick, I was so turned on. I knew what this meant. If Ernest wasn’t here, I’d have to sink into the shadows and thrust my fingers into myself and rub my aching clit. I’d be hard with myself, till I groaned with relief. Too bad if anyone saw! I smiled when I thought of the fairy-tale book. Was I the little girl waiting for the wolf? I leaned against the door and idly stroked my breast, before raising my skirt and dipping underneath. I reached across my stocking tops, fingers creeping. My head rolled, as I blinked and moaned.
Then I heard a noise. A snapping twig. And there, beneath the streetlight, was Ernest. “You disgust me,” he said.
My sex flooded as he strode right up. Then he pulled me aside, jangled his keys and unlocked the door. Still gripping my arm, he dragged me through the shop and hurled me against the counter. I fell clumsily. How I longed to be beaten with the fairy-tale book! “You’d touch yourself in the street?” he said. His breath was fierce. “Slumped in a doorway? Dear God, the bad girls stray.”
“I’ll be bad if I want to! What are you going to—”
He clasped the back of my neck in a way that made me arch, then thrust me forward so I fell across the surface. My nipples hit the wood. The pain was sublime. “You need another lesson from the Brothers Grimm.”
I felt him up against my ass, grinding through my skirt. His sex was hard and full. I felt him reach across me, then pull right back again. Instinctively, I knew he’d got the book. “You make me want to fuck you, whore.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He said he’d call me what he liked.
“Then do it,” I cried. “Hit me with the leather.” My mouth was moist and I couldn’t keep it shut, my breaths came quick and fast. I was caught between his hard-on and the counter as he yanked up my skirt. His hands were cold as they slid across my cheeks.
“No panties?” he whispered. “That’s wicked.” I felt him shudder. He thrust his fingers into me and I let out a groan. His words rolled on a growl: “You need a lesson in morals.” Then I felt the leather, and everything went still. “These are moral tales,” he said, the book against my ass, my breath trapped as I waited for the beating. “The little girls who stray get eaten by the wolves. Whores are savaged, virgins are saved.” He drew back the book, ready for the swoop. “So what are you? Virgin or whore?”
I begged him to find out.
At once, I felt him move—I mean, really, really move—and I knew the blast was coming and my heart thumped loud. The first slap was fierce, the second far worse, harder and harder, so my body slammed forward. He just kept going, the leather hard and fast. What bliss to be spanked with such force!
“I’ll teach you some morals!”
I rolled and moaned as the pain burned. I raised my buttocks higher, stretched out my arms. “You’re savage,” I moaned.
“I’m saving you,” he said, and, still spanking with the book, he reached round my front and cupped my sex. His touch was hot. His fingers dug in. Desperate for pleasure, I rubbed myself against him. He paused for a moment. I stayed stiff against the counter. Then he dragged the leather spine up my inner thigh and said, “Want me to keep going?”
