Fairy Tale Lust

by Kristina Wright

  I blurted a laugh.

  “I’m not kidding. You don’t know that?”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Whatever.” She swept one hand dismissively. She turned to leave.

  “What did you have in mind, Monica?” I called after her.

  She took my hand in hers. “Come on!”

  She brought me bright suits and dark blouses, then dark suits and bright blouses. The skirts were universally short, well up my long hard thighs.

  I was almost dizzy from trying things on. She approved some of her choices, dismissed others. I showed her each outfit. “Work it, girl!” I tried to do little model-style swirls. “Gawd, you got great knees!”

  I was now certain this girl was just stroking me. Around $5,500 worth of clothes hung on a rack to one side. I couldn’t imagine I’d ever wear them.

  “So, should I wrap ’em up? They look great on you.”

  My duck reflex was strong, but my pussy was dripping and my heart hadn’t throbbed so hard at my last two-hour workout. My sigh was a delicious surrender. It was not like I didn’t have the money. “Wrap ’em up.” Maybe just having them in my closet would somehow be like the Playgirls I stashed between the mattress and box spring when I was a teenager.

  Monica again reached for me, this time my face. She waited for me to nod. She pulled my long hair tight behind my skull. “At least put your hair in a ponytail so you can show off your face. Better still, cut it short. Oh, and about your makeup…” She held out a business card.

  “My makeup? What about it?” My mother had taught me to put on makeup. I’d always done it this way, never really thought about it. No way I’d go to someone for makeup. I shrugged and she started to retrieve the card.

  It occurred to me that I looked more like my dad. I reached out like a greedy child and Monica gave me the card.

  I bought new, revealing workout wear using some of the ideas that Monica had given me. These I wore regularly—with the shades closed, of course—then worked in the yard in my loosest sweats, hair dangling like a nice curtain.

  One morning the scent of Evan’s sunscreen filled the kitchen. The wetness between my legs grew as I thought of his smile and the looks and encouragement of the salesgirl. I knew I wasn’t a lesbian; it was that the young woman treated me as attractive. I still believed that she was just stroking me, making what turned out to be an extravagant sale…

  Of clothes that hung like still lifes in the walk-in closet.

  The richness of Evan’s scent overtook the kitchen and my heart pounded harder.

  Before I could duck, I changed into a pair of tight sweat-shorts that barely covered my hips and a spaghetti strap top that exposed a strip of my muscular waist. I returned downstairs and held the doorknob in my hand. I rushed back up and applied the new makeup as I had been recently taught; I’d expected her to show me how to make my eyes more closely set, my nose smaller, my lips fuller. Far from it; she showed me how to adorn what I was. I looked weird in the mirror.

  Probably the hardest thing of all was to tie my long hair to the top of my head.

  I rushed downstairs and pulled in a breath like I was about to dive in frigid water. I even locked my door behind me as I exited it to impede my easy return inside.

  I felt scared; I felt freed. I wanted to duck with the conviction of an ostrich. I probably looked like a frightened rabbit hearing the screech of a falcon diving. After a few deep breaths, I walked with a gait like it was no big deal, though I’m sure my pencil-top nipples on this ninety-five degree day belied my pretenses. I didn’t look at Evan but regretted my wicked peripheral vision, which saw him clearly.

  He stood in the middle of his perfectly manicured lawn, head turning like a turret. I was more a spectacle than I had thought. I didn’t dare look Evan’s way; I just opened the combination lock to my shed and stepped inside the oven-hot room and lingered. Perhaps I could just hide there. It was so miserably hot. I pulled the mower out, thinking it might make a good cover.

  Evan stood poised over his mower, too, until I looked. He pulled the starter on his brand-new mower deliberately, eyes darting between it and me. Crackita. Crackita, crackita! He shrugged like a helpless woman with a flat tire on the freeway.

  My stomach did loop-de-loops. My pussy was draining so hard that my only solace was that the shorts I’d chosen were black.

  He called out. “You know anything about these things?”

  I nodded. He wiped his brow in exaggerated relief. I joined him and looked down at the front of the mower. The spark plug was disconnected. His eyes slowly measured me. I lifted the cord and his eyebrows rose high. “You look great, Lisa,” he whispered. “You always look good, but right now…” The bulge in the front of his shorts grew huge, the shape of his rod became clear. He casually folded one large hand in front of it. “Um…sorry.”

  Right up to that very second, I’d harbored doubts that this was all just a cruel game. I’d stood ready to duck yet again. I sighed. “Sorry?” I peeked around his guarding hand.

  “Can I offer you an iced tea…um, inside, Lisa?”

  I drew a fresh, deep breath. “Please.” I followed him with a slow, cautious gait.

  When I reached for my hair tie to release my curtain, Evan gently grabbed my wrist. “I’d like it if you left it up.”

  “Well…okay.”

  We stood at the big stainless steel fridge looking at it. “I can’t stand it anymore.” He grabbed me and pressed my back to it. “The tea will keep.”

  I laughed nervously until he pressed a deep kiss into my mouth.

  Though Evan was a bit taller than me and his muscles well defined, I would not have believed he could lift a woman my size with such ease. He gripped gently under my pits and lifted me until my head draped over the top of the appliance. I stared at the ceiling and focused as he nibbled up and down me, popped my top over my tits with his teeth, then my shorts down to my knees. I felt paralyzed.

  It was appropriate that we were in the kitchen. He nibbled my ribs, licked my belly button, flicked my hard nipples and sucked them until I felt exquisite pain. He moaned and made snarling noises as he ate more and more of me. He squeezed me to his chest, my pussy pressed to the ridge at the front of his silky shorts. I curled my long legs around his back, gripped tightly to his thick neck. “Please don’t let me go, Evan.”

  “Are you kidding?” His kisses were salty and savory as he probed my mouth. I’d never felt like this before: a possession, the object of desire, needed as much as wanted. He fought the top of his shorts down, and his subdued cock sprang out like a demented jack-in-the-box and slapped between my buttcheeks. We shared a laugh that continued right up until his cock plunged deep in me.

  He carted me around his townhouse, seemingly suspended on his cock. He set me on the dining table, pumped me hard, then plopped me on his couch and fucked me even harder. He lifted me high and shoved me to a tall table in the entryway, knocking a vase over and sending two Lautrec prints askew. The dried flowers scattered on the travertine floor.

  He didn’t miss a stroke, even as the vase bounced like a basketball. It rang like a bell and miraculously didn’t break.

  It was as if he was marking his territory with…well, with me. Eleven rooms total, until he placed me like a gemstone in a velvet-lined box, on the surface of his bed in the master suite. I reached to pull a corner of the silk bedspread back.

  “Don’t you dare cover even an inch.”

  He pulled my shorts from my ankle and eased my top over my head. For the second time, he devoured me.

  All the years I had gone down on my ex to reward him after an uninspired lick or two between my legs seemed to come back to full payment as Evan worked my folds, my hips lifted to his mouth, my curled legs bobbing in time with his ravenous eating. I went rigid as he goosed that first orgasm from me. I’d never felt anything like it, not even from my most inspired masturbation. I yelled out over and over, and this only seemed to urge him deeper. The orgasm lingered on, my belly
strained like infinite ab crunches.

  He let my hips avalanche. I lay sprawled, body heaving, limbs still as fallen branches. I panted.

  He smiled gently and traced my face slowly with thick fingers. “May I make love to you, Lisa?”

  After all this, after all he had taken, after all he had given, his asking this now drew from deep inside me. Tears, pent up over ducking ten thousand times, exploded from me.

  “Oh, god, did I hurt you?” He held a Kleenex box toward me.

  I cried even harder into tissue after tissue. Between sobs I managed syncopated sentence fragments. “Didn’t hurt. Far from. Please. Make love. Please, Evan.”

  He rushed to his dresser and feverishly dug in drawer after drawer until he produced a new box of condoms that he ripped open like a Christmas present. The strip of condoms dangled like a Chinese ribbon dance as he raced back to the bed. While I composed from my tears, he squeezed a rubber on, then stroked my face and eased back inside me.

  His hips curled so very slowly. He seemed not to want to orgasm as he lingered on his thick arms, every detail of his sheathed rod tactile in me. He alternated hands and stroked my clit methodically, until he led me to another orgasm. His mouth finally gaped like a gator’s and he held his breath. His eyes went wide and fixed on mine as he grunted over and over.

  A small drop of drool fell like the first raindrop at the end of a drought and glazed my left nipple.

  He collapsed hard to my chest and kissed along my shoulders and neck and face as his cock softened in me.

  My waist clenched in what I can only describe as my first spontaneous orgasm.

  I donated every last bit of my frumpy clothes. My old makeup went out with some bread that had gone moldy. The bright new clothes in my closet were like new flowers planted where the weeds had just been pulled, and for once I was clipping them to show them off.

  My head felt so light after that first draconian haircut.

  “Lisa!” I didn’t jump, didn’t tug the short hem of my new skirt down, but I almost ducked as a coworker stood at the entry to the break room. His eyes traveled down my new, bright feathers. “You look great!”

  “Thanks, Mark.” I’m still having a hard time believing that I’ve grown into a swan so late in life, but I’m starting to believe that I’m not half bad for a duck. After an uneasy moment, I drew a refreshing breath and walked with a relaxed gait from the break room and his eyes followed.

  Ninja strut.

  THREE TIMES

  Justine Elyot

  And so it was that a Proclamation went out across the land, from the river basin to the mountain villages, that whosoe’er should free the Princess from the shackles of vine would win her hand.

  That day was a busy one in the Market Tavern, and Selina was rushed off her feet, running from barrel to bar top to table and back, trays of foaming beers held aloft in both hands so that all she could use to bat away the constant barracking and groping was her sharp tongue. Between bouts of flirtation, the likely lads of the town formulated foolproof plots to unbind the Princess from her obstinate tethers and claim her for their own.

  “She is fair—she will look well in my bed.” General guffawing assailed Selina’s ears, and she uttered a silent prayer that the unlucky Princess might find a more gallant rescuer than these thickset, foul-mouthed baboons.

  “Can you imagine it—to make your fortune and to fuck it too!”

  “To fortune and fucking!” The toast was proposed and the tankards clinked together, spilling foam into Selina’s cleavage as she passed. Fortune and fucking, she thought. The prospect of either was as remote as the Utopian Peninsula. She went to the back room to fetch the mop.

  Princess Ellora had never looked so serene, so beautiful or so heartbreaking. Against the bark of the silver vine tree she stood, still as a statue, her arms arched gracefully above her head. Some of the tree’s pearlescent sheen had transferred to her skin, giving her an unearthly glow on those parts of her body that were unveiled; to the rest, a togalike silken garment clung, outlining the teardrop shapes of her breasts and her lean, young hips. She looked like an exotic dancer, caught and frozen in midslink, her lips parted and the dark almonds of her eyes held in an expression of melting desire. But for whom was the Princess feeling this eternal moment of exquisite lust? Her arms and legs were crisscrossed with winding vines and, although her dress protected some vestiges of her modesty, it was clear that the snakelike plants holding her in bondage were also performing a secondary task.

  The King sighed as he pulled aside the gauzy material to apprise his Lord Chancellor of the full seriousness of his daughter’s plight.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed the veteran politico. “Good… merciful…heavens.”

  And he had to retrieve his lorgnettes to make sure that he was seeing straight, for the vines slithered all the way up Ellora’s thighs, cutting into their white succulence, and then they passed between her labia to disappear inside her. Around her breasts they were also tied, then wound around her nipples before curving back past her hips. Pressed against the vine’s eerily phosphorescent bark, Ellora’s buttocks were not visible, but it seemed fair to assume that the invasive plant was making its presence felt there as well.

  “Does she…feel anything?” whispered the Lord Chancellor.

  “I cannot tell. Her heart beats, and the blood still flows in her veins…but she has neither moved nor spoken since the vine claimed her.”

  “What is this vine? I have seen nothing similar before.”

  The King extended his hands, wringing them in frustration. “I do not know! Nobody knows! I have had all the botanists in the land examine it, but they cannot pinpoint its provenance. We know that it is unbreakable and poisonous to the touch. Ellora stumbled into the leaves and was instantly bound tight. We have tried knives, saws, even blowtorches—nothing seems to affect it.”

  “And now you fall back on general competition? With the offer of Ellora’s hand as bait? Dear me, Your Majesty, there are laws governing a lady’s right to choose her own match now, you know. Could I advise a different reward? Some lands? A diadem or two?”

  “A diadem or two won’t cut it,” snapped the King. “And besides, once some backwoods oaf has used his unexpectedly magical axe to free my Princess, we can always…renegotiate…”

  “Renegotiate, Your Majesty?”

  “Fling him in gaol on a charge of assault or attempted murder or something.” The King shrugged. “Obviously I have no intention of tainting our bloodline.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Well, then. Let us waste no more time. Open the gates and admit the pretenders.”

  Selina saw them all, a steady stream of dejected faces trooping into the Market Tavern and calling for ale, one after another after another.

  “No luck?” she would ask sympathetically, and he would slam down his pocketknife or diamond cutter or shovel on the table and launch into his tale of failure.

  Summer turned to autumn, and the vine held fast, showing no signs of shedding leaves or shriveling naturally, as had been the King’s faint hope. Ellora’s pulse continued to jump at her wrist, and experts thought that perhaps the vine was nourishing her in some way, for she appeared in perfect health, her cheeks rosy and hair glossy as ever.

  One dark afternoon in late November, a visitor from out of town appeared at Selina’s bar. These had been many and frequent during the summer, at the height of the competition, but were trailing off now, so the man’s unfamiliar visage and mode of dress caught Selina’s eye. It was no more than his foreignness that piqued her curiosity, for he was a fusty old fellow, bony-fingered and with a high dome of a forehead over a beaky nose. He drew his cloak tightly about him, seeming to find the air in the town unexpectedly frigid.

  “Are you from a warm place, sir?” asked Selina politely, setting down a pint of ale and a trencher of bread and cheese.

  “Yes,” he said. “Doesn’t the rawness make your bones ache?”

  “Oh, we ar
e used to it, sir. We have just had a beautiful summer, so it doesn’t seem so bad.”

  He smiled at this, an odd, unsettling smile. “Yes,” he said. “All the same, I’ll trouble you for a brandy, if I may. This chill does not agree with me.”

  “What brings you to our land?” asked Selina, setting a tot of the amber warmer in front of her guest.

  “Curiosity,” he smiled over the rim of the glass. Then a frown chased the remnants of merriment away. “And revenge.”

  “Revenge?”

  “I cannot tell you. It must remain in my thoughts until my plan has succeeded.”

  Now, if Selina had one fault—and, although generally an excellent girl, she was not quite faultless—it was an inability to resist the lure of a good story. And here, right in front of her, was what promised to be one of the best tales she might ever hear. So she closed the tavern and plied her guest with more brandy, until both his inhibitions and his tongue were loosened.

  “Oh, yes,” slurred the visitor, twisting locks of Selina’s hair in his bony fingers and breathing brandy-soured breath into her face, “your King will rue the day he tangled with August Villiers.”

  “But are you sure you will be able to kill the vine and claim the hand of the Princess?”

  “Quite, quite sure, you naughty wench.” He attempted to slide an arm around Selina’s waist, but she shifted sideways, away from the creeping tendril of his limb. “Why are you blowing hot and cold?” he lamented. “Come to bed and I’ll split the fortune with you.”

  “Later. Tell me how you will do it. No man has succeeded—it is said to be impossible to kill.”

  “Well, it is. Unless you are the man who planted it, and you know its secret.”

  “You are the man who planted it?”

  “I am. I am the owner of Villiers Vines; I specialize in the hybridization and cultivation of rare vines. This one has a curse on it.”