The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales

by Zoe Blake

  One sight of her, and I had wet the bed.

  Hours stretched by, her dark eyes shining behind the wet tangles of blood drenched hair, watching me, waiting. The monster’s prowl endless, I cowered in sodden covers, tracking her every movement.

  In my heart I knew that to place even a toe from that bed, to consider running for my nanny, would be the end of me. I didn’t dare breathe. I knew that naked, bloody woman wanted badly to hurt me.

  At daybreak, when my nanny arrived to prepare me for the day, she scolded me soundly for dirtying the sheets. I was marched in my soiled nightdress before my parents, intruding upon their private breakfast so that they too might echo the castigations of my nanny.

  I had tried to tell them that there had been someone in my room. I tried to make them hear me. My father had scowled, his waxed mustache twitching.

  Tantrums and melodramatics were not to be tolerated. I had earned myself a spanking and a day locked away in my room, made to lie on the same wet bed, where every time I closed my eyes, I was certain bloody hands would slip from some dark corner to strangle me.

  Even after a sleepless night, even with the safety of the sun bright in the room, I could not find rest. It was too wet and cold, my blankets smelled, and I was ashamed of myself.

  It was not until almost dark that the maid came to change my sheets and dress me in a clean gown for sleeping.

  She should not have bothered.

  The tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, of the grandfather clock crashed through the house so loud, so very loud I was certain the whole city must have heard that drumming.

  Before I was fully prepared, before my childish prayers to Jesus were done, all went quiet.

  Swallowing, I cut a glance where I should never have looked. Up high on the shelf, moonlight showing the perfect white fur, the rabbit had once again turned its head to watch me.

  The woman was coming back, I knew it. She was coming and she’d figured out how to get me.

  But then there was no wet slap of her sodden feet on the floor. No chesty, clicking breaths.

  All was quiet and I began to breathe easy. It had just been a bad dream; the rabbit must always have been facing my direction. My papa was right; I was just a silly little girl full of nonsense.

  I was so very wrong.

  There were worse things than the bloody woman. In the silence, I heard a pair of soft, childish giggles. Spider-like hands crept up the side of my bed, fisting my covers.

  Something was under my bed!

  With a terrible yank, my blankets began to be dragged under the mattress, the childish laughter growing mean. I tried to make a grab for my only defense, but whatever was hidden beneath me was so much stronger. In vain, I toppled to the floor. Before I might clamber back up, hands shot out from the dark space under my bed, encircled my ankles, and yanked my little body across the floor.

  Next thing I knew I was stuffed under my bed, prodded and scratched by the unseen nightmare.

  Unlike the evening before when I had kept silent, doing my best not to draw the red woman’s attention, I screamed. No one heard, no one came to save me. Scrambling to claw my way free, I fought and I kicked. My gown was ripped, white ruffles torn right off. I got myself to the nursery corner. Pressed my boney shoulders into the tasteful wallpaper and stared around the room, knees knocking together.

  My arms smarted, my legs—I had been scratched so badly there were bleeding cuts all over me.

  Then I saw them.

  The first one leapt upon my bed and began jumping. The other took my sheet, threw it over his head, and ran about the room like a shrouded ghost. Two little boys... they were just two little half-dressed, emaciated boys.

  Chortling as he bounded up and down on my mattress, the cruel-eyed waif grinned at me. His teeth had been filed into points, sharp and sinister. Looking at my wrist, I could see the bite marks those teeth had left behind—little puncture wounds that did not bleed much, but stung so badly my eyes watered.

  His cohort was exactly the same.

  The remainder of the night I spent pressed back against that corner. Sometimes I think the demented pair forgot I was there, or they had grown bored of me. They would play their vicious games; if one grew angry with his companion the play would grow violent. Turning their claws and teeth on one another, the scamps crashed about my room—knocking toys from shelves, breaking things.

  When they would pull apart from their fighting, they turned their beady-eyed stare at me.

  Snarls turned to giggles. In seeing my terror, the boys had found a new game to play. Trying to trick me, the pair of them worked in unison to sneak, to make a grab at my hands or feet, to drag me back screaming under the bed. My knees were bruised, elbows too, from all the times I had fallen trying to break free and hide from the pair of devils.

  They were more cunning than one tired little girl.

  Beautifully Primal

  A Beauty and the Beast Tale

  Zoe Blake

  Beautifully Primal Warning

  You hear the bark and fear the bite but cannot escape the Beast's dark embrace. Your wild nature calls to his own and demands to be tamed. Resistance will not be tolerated, the Beast will have his way.

  Enjoy!

  Zoe Blake

  Twisted Fairytale

  The voices of a thousand pages call out to me.

  Tortured whispers filled with lies.

  There is no gentle prince by my side.

  The darkness moves and shifts, a beastly form only I can see.

  A bruised petal gifts the sweetest scent.

  A broken wing strengthens the heart.

  Fragile breath against a soul so marred.

  There is no light, only a dark descent.

  Oh moon, you cannot help me now for I am in his grasp.

  Captured and tamed, under his rein.

  Tied and bound, salvation through pain.

  With him there is only the moment; no future no past.

  He is my twisted fairytale.

  I know my love for him will prevail.

  - Zoe Blake

  Chapter One

  A purple mist snaked its way through the deep, dark forest. The malevolent moon cast an ominous glow on the barren earth below. The unsettling scream of a raven could be heard high above the crippled and twisted tree branches.

  Her breath came in tortured gasps as her slippered feet slid and tripped along the slick, frozen ground. Reaching out blindly in the darkness, she fell against a tree trunk. The sharp edges of the bark pressing against her soft cheek and the palms of her hands. Heedless of the bite of pain, she withered to the cold ground. Her rich, velvet gown pooling about her like a death shroud. Casting large anxious eyes about, desperate to see through the gloom, she searched the shadows.

  Is it gone?

  Did she lose it in the mist?

  The sickening sound of splintering wood cracked like a whip through the unnaturally silent forest. A heavy thunderous tread rolled closer and closer still. The rattle and crunch of crushed underbrush was punctuated by guttural snorts and grunts.

  Forcing her stiff and cold limbs into motion, she grasped the roughened tree trunk, using it to pull herself upright.

  She must keep running.

  It was getting closer.

  Her skirts felt wet and heavy with frosted dew, chilling her fingers as she fisted large swaths high above her ankles. Willing herself on, she ran deeper into the forest.

  Her mouth opened on a startled scream as her body was wrenched forward, then ruthlessly back by a heavy weight on her skirt train. Desperately pulling on the fabric, she looked down to see it pinned under one large, black paw.

  Screeching in terror, she fell to the ground. Twisting her body till she was on her back, her fingers digging into the frigid dirt as she tried to claw her way backwards. Her feet helplessly kicking through her skirts, trying to dislodge her attacker.

  There was a low, feral snarl.

  She stilled.

  A seco
nd paw pressed against her hip. Through the mist, the beast, covered in sleek, ebony fur slowly came into focus, shifting its massive weight to hover over her slight form. The first paw moved, stepping on her thick curls as they fell in waves about her, forcing her to remain prone and still. A thick obsidian mane framed a long, powerful snout and startlingly bright green eyes. It was the beast’s eyes which mesmerized her. Captured her. She forgot to scream. Forgot to breathe as she fell under their spell. Filled with almost human emotion, she could read their primal intent.

  “Please,” she begged.

  The beast cocked its head to the side, as if it understood her plea. Its muscles bunched and shifted as it leaned forward on its paws. Its strong chest bearing down on her breasts. Pinning her under its weight, his snout pressing against her neck. The beast was learning her scent. Reflexively, she inhaled. It smelled of moss, cedarwood and honeycomb. Her brow wrinkled, confused. She had expected the sick, acrid scent of blood.

  The warmth radiating from the creature’s body spread over her own, banishing the night’s chill. The silken strands of its mane brushed her cheek as its snout moved downward. Her body trembled with an unnatural response as the tip of the beast’s tongue lapped along the ridge of her exposed collarbone. Alarmed, she tried to get away. Rising on her elbows, ignoring the sting of pain as her hair trapped under his paw pulled and tugged.

  The beast’s mouth opened on a low growl, exposing long, white teeth. The points so thin and sharp they appeared almost opaque. With a whimper, she sank back to the ground, lying helpless under its restraining weight.

  Watching its captured prey intently, the beast lowered its snout to trail between her breasts, down her middle. Again, reading an almost human response in the evergreen depths of its eyes, her breath grew ragged and uneven. As its powerful body prowled closer to her hidden core, fear of both it and her own response overcame all else.

  Springing upward, she latched onto its mane, filling her small hands with its silken weight. The beast reared back with a roar, pulling her with it. On its hind legs, it towered over her petite frame. Her slippered toes barely skimming the icy peaks of grass that covered the earth. Her body was forced flush against the beast’s powerful chest as it dangled, held aloft only by her faltering grip on the beast’s fur.

  As the beast’s head tipped back on a deafening bellow, the ebony fur morphed into red, moth-eaten rags. The sharp teeth became blackened and blunted. Its majestic snout, shortened to a broad, flat nose. The beautiful emerald greens eyes become a colorless, watery gray. His deep-throated roar shifted into a high-pitched cackle.

  It was the gypsy woman from the fair two summers ago.

  Loosening her grip, she fell to the ground, staring at the shriveled woman in horror.

  Pointing one gnarled hand towards her, the gypsy woman, spat out, “I curse you! You, who are arrogant, who hold yourself above all those around you. Your beauty is your curse. You shall only know happiness through pain, will only find love through supplication to the beast. Be forced to yield to the hand of your master or face your destiny alone!”

  Beatrice awoke with a start. Her legs tangled in the heavy, velvet bed covers. Her breath visible in the frigid bedchamber. It was a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.

  Chapter Two

  That dreadful gypsy woman had invaded her dreams more than once over the last two years, always repeating the same nasty curse. Beatrice had encountered the tattered woman at a fair on her father’s property. The gypsy had been shuffling about trying to sell trinkets which were stolen no doubt and begging for food. When the gypsy woman approached Beatrice, beseeching for coin to buy bread, she had her thrown off the grounds. The gypsy had shouted the obscene curse at Beatrice as she was being dragged away.

  At first, Beatrice dismissed it as bothersome dribble from an old foolish woman but as the days stretched into months then years, a small doubt began to invade her waking thoughts and nightly dreams. Since the curse, she had failed to find any happiness with any suitor who crossed her path. One by one they fell away. Slowly, she was hardening to the idea of marriage. Slowly, her heart was turning cold to the thought of finding affection. Slowly marching towards the lonesome destiny the gypsy foretold.

  It was all nonsense of course, thought Beatrice with a shake. If she was alone, it was of her own choosing not some silly curse. She would kneel before no man. Accept no one as her master, never to be dominated. The thought brought to mind the far more disturbing aspect of her dream.

  The beast.

  Never before had she dreamed of such a creature. The recollection sent a shiver through her body. The beast in her dream was so powerful, so strong, and so masculine…as if it were more man than beast. The way it chased her down, holding her against her will under the weight of its body. She vividly recalled the sensation of feeling the beast’s warmth pressing down on her as if it were real and not a dream. The scent of cedarwood and moss from the forest lingered in her mind as if it wafted through the very air of her bedchamber. Beatrice closed her eyes, tilting her head back, remembering the feel of his rough tongue as it caressed along her collarbone. The heat of his breath against her neck. Her trepidation as it nuzzled against her stomach…and lower. The overwhelming sense of fear and yes…something close to desire for the forceful man-like beast.

  As she brought to mind the strikingly real scene from her dream, Beatrice’s hand glided between her breasts. Raising her knees, her silk gown slid to bunch at the top of her thighs. Her fingers shifted further along her body, just skimming her hidden curls. As the barest tip of her fingertip slipped deeper, teasing her sensitive bud, there was a clamor at her bedchamber door.

  A chambermaid walked in carrying an iron scuttle and small broom.

  “You incompetent dolt,” screeched Beatrice as she grabbed one of the many small pillows which graced her bed and threw it at the poor girl’s head, angry at being interrupted at such an intimate moment.

  The girl grimaced, bowing into an awkward curtsy as she dodged yet another pillow. “Sorry, miss!”

  “Where the hell have you been? It is freezing in here! You should never have let the fire go out!” raged Beatrice.

  “Yes, miss. Sorry, miss. It won’t ever happen again,” whined the girl as she fell to her knees before the fire grate, quickly sweeping up the spent ashes.

  “I will make certain of it,” warned Beatrice, making a mental note to have the girl removed from her household chores and assigned the much harsher task of laundry duty.

  Beatrice rose from her bed, crossing the polished evergreen marble floor as she swung a lush, purple brocade robe over her shoulders. She moved towards the large glass doors which led to a massive stone balcony. Sweeping past the billowing gauze curtain, she stepped into the chilled morning air and sunshine. Preferring to sleep with the door open to the warm night breeze, it had grown cold in the late evening from a northern wind. It was probably why the fire had gone out, not that Beatrice was going to let the little chambermaid off the hook for her negligence in seeing to her mistress.

  Beatrice Victoria Arbot de Villeneuve was the very privileged, wealthy daughter of Frederick de Villeneuve, Europe’s most sought after perfumer. Her father’s estate was nestled in a fertile valley in the South of France. Beatrice’s gaze swept over rolling hills filled with roses and lavender. At the end of the valley, just beyond the ridge, there were narcissus, osmanthus and violets. Behind a large copse of trees, there was a small plot filled with sage, coriander, caraway and anise. All exceptional ingredients for making the most revered perfumes in Europe, coveted by the rich and royalty alike.

  Beatrice breathed in deeply. The air always had a scent of spicy, sweet decay from the perfumery located down the road from the main house. Its stores were filled with dried flowers, fruits, leaves, resins, seeds and even stacks of various types of wood like birch, juniper and cedar. Despite all the luxurious aromas, the heady, rich scent of the luscious rose was still her favorite. Sparing a final look to see if
the workers were in the fields pruning the bushes and harvesting the buds, Beatrice returned to her room.

  “Is my father awake?” she asked the cowering maid.

  The chambermaid choked out a barely audible, “Yes, miss.”

  “Speak up, you ninny! Do not presume upon my time by making me repeat myself,” snapped Beatrice.

  “Yes, miss,” she squeaked only slightly less loudly.

  “Fetch my maid…what’s-her-name,” commanded Beatrice. She never bothered to learn the names of her lady’s maids. They never stayed in her employ for very long.

  The chambermaid scurried out the room, leaving a trail of dusty footprints. Beatrice gnashed her teeth in frustration. Moments later, a harried looking woman of middling years rushed into the room.

  “It is about time you decided to see to your duties. I have been waiting for ages!” complained Beatrice as she took a seat before her vanity.

  “How would you like to wear your hair today, miss?” asked what’s-her-name, who was also called Dolores by her friends, family and people who bothered to learn her name.

  Beatrice surveyed her reflection for a moment. She was blessed with very striking, almost feline features. Her long, narrow face was given presence and character by a pair of high cheekbones and full lips. While her lips and cheekbones were attractive, by far her best feature were her eyes. Large and almond shaped, they were a truly unique shade of bright amber surrounded by a thick, fringe of long, black lashes. Although despite their golden glow, there was a creeping coldness behind their depths, a growing bitterness.

  Sweeping her heavy, tawny locks off her neck and above her ears, Beatrice turned her face from side to side looking at her reflection in the mirror. “Swept up into a chignon. I’m going riding later.”