Pussy in Boots (Naughty Fairy Tales)

by Fox, Georgia

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2012 Georgia Fox

  ISBN: 978-1-927368-92-3

  Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston

  Editor: Caitlin Ray

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Will

  PUSSY IN BOOTS

  Naughty Fairy Tales

  Georgia Fox

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  Once upon a time (definitely before last Tuesday), in a kingdom far, far away (not France and to the right of Russia) this happened. Maybe.

  ****

  Who had four paws, one fantastic tail, and could sleep all day to fuck all night? This gal.

  Make no mistake, being cursed had its drawbacks, but there was one very good thing about a witch's spell that turned her into a cat during daylight hours—she could sleep the day away if she wanted, and stay awake throughout the night. And since this curse gave her a woman's body only in moonlight, she could have an awful lot of fun while her handsome master slept. As long as he thought he was dreaming, she was free to explore to her heart's content.

  He certainly made no complaint.

  She nuzzled her way between his thighs and trailed her tongue over the warm skin of his balls, felt it tighten, swell. He parted his legs to make room, moaning dreamily, arching his back, drawing his knees up. She opened her mouth and sucked softly, first one side then the other, before running the tip of her wet tongue up the line between his seed pouches, ruching the skin. Then further up, along the thick vein, tasting the salty ridges of his fast-hardening cock.

  Two hands reached down to touch her hair, stroking it while she caressed his staff with her lips, her tongue, her cheek. Even her eyelashes. His breath quickened and his hips moved. Rising up, she pressed a kiss to the head of his phallus and then curled her tongue around the bulging helmet. He wanted her to take it in her mouth, of course; she knew he waited for that. But she was in the mood to tease.

  She draped her long hair over his groin, tangling his twitching, lusty member in her silky tresses. Now, whenever she moved her head from side to side, her hair, wrapped around his erect cock, tugged on it like tiny, silken lassos on a horny bull. Gently she mouthed his sac again, licked the skin of his inner thighs, let her tongue venture lower, tasting the sensitive flesh between his anus and his scrotum. Her master exhaled, grabbed her hair, tried to unwind it from his cock. She laughed, but it was more of a purr than any human sound.

  Holding his buttocks open, she slipped her tongue between them and lapped at his anus as if it was her morning saucer of milk. He growled low, his lower body jerking, his cock pulling on her hair with every upward thrust. Further she forced his hard, muscular buttocks apart, made her tongue into a little spear and pushed it at the puckered hole, wriggling the wet tip persistently against his anus and then pressing on the skin beneath his balls again, until his loins began to buck faster, frantically fucking her hair. Drops of his dew now stuck to her shiny, black locks, marking her with his scent. Her tongue retreated. She blew on his dampened anus, felt him flinch. Grinning, listening to the needy hitch in his breath, she licked her finger slowly and then began to use it where she'd readied him with her tongue. Her master cried out, but made no attempt to prevent the penetration. She returned her mouth to his pulsing knob, her finger working in and out.

  For him, of course, this was all just a dream. A naughty wet dream he would confess to no one.

  But Puss loved her midnight mischief.

  ****

  She was already yawning as she woke, stretching out in the warm patch of light that dripped over her, thick and languid as honey from a spoon. It had been one of those casual naps, taken just because the opportunity arose and not because it was needed. Now, opening her eyes slowly against the copper-edged light, she realized it must be late afternoon already.

  Where did the time go? She sniffed at the air and found it empty of man scent. He wasn't back yet then. Good. She didn't like him to find her curled up, being useless. He'd threatened to toss her out on her ear several times lately, if she didn't start earning "her keep" round the place. Naturally, he had no idea what she did for him at night, while he dreamed. She earned her keep then alright. But she could never tell him the truth of her predicament or else— the witch had warned her— she would be stuck in her curse for eternity.

  She sat up and looked around. Two fat mice gossiped in the corner among the wood chippings, watching her, their whiskers twitching. Bold little buggers. They knew, of course, that she was hopeless at catching mice and had long-since given up getting herself out of breath trying. It just wasn't her thing. And it ruined her nails. Master Bossy Buttocks insisted that was all a creature like her was good for. Of course, he thought she was a common-or-garden cat like any other. To him she was simply a stray he took in out of the kindness of his heart and therefore she should be intensely grateful for every little treat he tossed her way.

  In fact, she was the one doing him favors every night in that narrow bed. Not to mention guarding him from the trouble he could so easily get himself into by day, if she wasn't around. Fine, yes, the treats were a bonus—the occasional cod's head, a little bite of liver, some gravy left over from his supper. But it was hardly a horn of plenty. He was, after all, only a humble carpenter and she'd lived in grander places than this, eaten off solid gold plates. So what if she'd had to con her way inside those noble palaces and stolen that fancy food? She could proudly say she'd been thrown out of better homes than this one.

  There was just something about him that she liked. And no it wasn't just that lovely big cock she enjoyed at night in her human form. There was more to it. He needed her and he didn't know it. Silly fool. Someone had to look after him, didn't they?

  A sudden whistle outside warned her that he approached. In a good mood for once, apparently. Whoop de do.

  She leapt to her feet, ready to assume her usual alert pose on the window ledge—so he might think she'd sat there all day, pining for her master's return.

  As if, she thought with a smirk, arching her back, stretching her tail in a slow curve.

  Turning her head, she watched him stroll down the lane toward the cottage, tool belt slung around his hips, arms swinging, lips pursed in a merry whistle. Sun touched his head, lighting his unkempt hair with a few glimmering sparks like magic dust sprinkled from a fairy wand. She purred thoughtfully, staring through the open shutters. He was quite a welcome sight coming down that lane. Made her all feisty inside. At times like these she longed to have her old body back permanently.

  The man was smiling. Perhaps he had a new commission at last.

  A ladybird landed on the window ledge. She swatted at it with a distracted paw, just because she supposed she ought to.

  Drawing closer, the man saw her there. "Hey Puss, guess what happened to me today?"

  So today she was "Puss", rather than the harshly muttered "Damn Cat". Good. That meant he was in a tolerant mood. Treats in store. Cuddles perhaps. She leapt down onto the sun-streaked path and wound her way in and out of his feet, rubbing her black fur on his boots as he walked slowly along.

  He stopped, leaned down and picked her up, his face looming close. "I fell in
love, cat. Lady Serena is the most beautiful woman in the world and I mean to have her."

  The purr jammed in her throat. She stiffened.

  In love?

  In the few months she'd known him, she'd had him all to herself. She kept him content at night. Surely he had no need for another.

  In love?

  Just like that. Could he be any stupider? There was more to love than looking at a pretty face. She ought to know, having lived many more lives than him already. So many she'd lost count. It was hard to remember numbers when one was a cat. Too many other things could—oh, there went one of those pretty dragonflies.

  "You should have seen her, Puss. Face of an angel. A pure young virgin, for sure. I could barely breathe when I looked at her. I certainly couldn't speak a word." He laughed softly, shaking his head in a bewildered manner. "Must think me a mute! Her carriage wheel had broken on the road and I mended it for her. She offered to pay me, but I refused."

  She stuck her claws into his tunic, fearing he might put her down again, but he didn't anyway. Not yet. Holding her against his chest, he walked on into the house, resuming his tuneless whistle. So it was "love", she mused, that put him in his merry mood. He was even scratching her behind the ears, which he'd never done before.

  Love did strange things to humans. Uh oh. A second thought crowded in—her own place in his life and on his warm bed might now be usurped by another. Not likely. Not if she had any say in it.

  "Ouch, cat! Mind those damned claws of yours! They're like needles." He set her down by the cold hearth and she stood for a moment, watching him as he walked into the larder. He came back with two jugs and poured a mug of ale for himself, a dish of milk for her.

  She mewled, waiting patiently. He set the dish of milk on the floor beside the table and she trotted over to lap it up. Walking around her, he slumped into a chair with his mug in one great fist, staring out through the window in a day-dreamy state. Poor lovelorn fool.

  Trotting over, she stood on her hind legs and batted at the leather purse hanging empty from his belt. Of course he refused payment for mending a broken wheel—he was too kind-hearted for his own good. No wonder he lived in this tiny cottage and there were holes worn in the soles of his boots.

  But try as she might she couldn't be angry with his stupidity; she was too fond of him for that.

  He was a tall, stocky fellow, rough about the edges but with a heart always too full, too easily abused. That, after all, was how she came to live with him. He took her in as a stray, fed her, gave her a warm bed and fresh milk, where other men, not wanting an extra mouth to feed, would have left her outside in the cold.

  Now he fell in love with another woman who couldn't possibly do all the things for him that she did.

  She sat, watching the empty leather purse swing back and forth. If only the carpenter knew she was the woman who pleasured him in his dreams. It was a dreadful fix to be in, but that's what happened, she mused gloomily, when a mouthy dairymaid with a saucy tongue and a bad temper made an enemy of a mischievous witch, whom she'd accused of making the milk sour with her ugly face.

  Her master picked up a strip of left-over wood and began to file it, running his finger over the curve he made, much as he ran his hands over her at night, in that narrow bed under the window. While he apparently thought he dreamed.

  She walked into the basket by the fire, turned in a tight circle and lay down again, her eyes wide open, watching him.

  What did it matter if he was distracted now by another and thought himself in love? Cat could simply leave and make her home elsewhere, find another master as she'd done before.

  Ah, but she wanted to keep this one. It was a feeling stronger than any she'd ever known. Tonight she's have to please him more than she had before. Perhaps, somehow, she could win him away from the vision he'd seen that day.

  Chapter Two

  Peter turned over at once when he felt those soft, yet masterful hands around his balls. His dream lover was back again. Christ, he was a lucky bastard to have such vivid, sensual dreams. Smiling, he let his body fall into it, his wide shoulders sinking against the blanket of fleece. Eyes closed tight, he spread his thighs wide to make room for her. A ghostly voice inside his head always warned him that the dream would end abruptly if he opened his eyes, so he let the air rush by him with her scent, felt her kisses tickle his eyelashes, but he never gave in to the temptation and looked. Why would he want to wake from this? Heated waves of visceral delight lapped over his body and through it. A mouth, hot and wet, slipped over his glans, squeezed gently, massaged. He sighed, felt the familiar rush of his seed, the giddiness that emptied his mind as his sac filled.

  That small tongue swept out, circled his crest, crossed over it, lapping at the tiny hole through which his essence would spill. But not yet.

  He arched, his arms reaching down for her, that silky hair that fell through his fingers like warm water. Come to me, my love, he whispered, in his dream. Come over me; let me drink from you as you drink from me.

  He felt the air move as she obediently turned to straddled his face and then he smelled her musk. She lowered just enough so that the tip of his tongue, when stretched out with no guidance from his sight, could finally lap at her delicious, creamy cunt. For the last few months she'd invaded his dreams, taunting and teasing like this. No real life experience had ever fulfilled his needs as this apparition could and did.

  The pleasure was almost too much. Those moments, when his body lifted, left that narrow bed and soared into the moonlit sky made his heart beat too fast. He did not like losing control, even in his dreams.

  As he ran his tongue along the soft, silky folds of her twat, Peter wondered if the woman he'd seen that day would taste like this—as sweetly addictive as his fantasy wench? Would she even let him touch his tongue to her pussy? She seemed too refined and proud. She was beautiful, a golden light that blinded him that day as he stopped to sip from the stream. He'd looked up, shielding his eyes from the glare, and that was how he saw her on the other bank side, dabbling her fingertips in the water. Behind her waited a carriage with a broken wheel, fine horses standing idle and puzzled servants in fine brocade livery—none of them knowing what to do. She'd looked up and met his gaze. Then she'd smiled.

  "Good fellow, perhaps you can help us."

  His heart quaked when he considered that most wonderful smile. Even if it didn't quite reach her eyes, it was so bright it was almost blinding and he could see nothing but her. And a full pair of bubbies. All else was lost in the glare.

  He felt like a man who found gold in a stream. Fortune.

  As he mended her wheel, a brief conversation with one of the weary grooms told him that she was the Comte de Falaise's niece and on her way to his castle, not half a day's ride from Peter's village.

  When he watched her mended carriage pull away, he felt the loss of her light as if the sun had gone in forever. He'd fallen in love. What else could excuse the intensity of—

  Ouch. The dream woman between his legs sucked hard tonight. His cock submitted to her mouth like a lamb to the jaws of a wolf. Her hands squeezed his balls as if they hoped to wring forth liquid gold. He groaned, legs spread, hips lifted. Should a dream woman treat him this roughly? Should it feel this good?

  Now, suddenly she was tender again, licking along his hot veins, her lips puckered to kiss his seed bags, almost in apology.

  He grabbed her hips, jerking her down to his mouth and jabbed his tongue deeper into her cunt. Two could play at that game. He wouldn't let her go until she climaxed twice into his mouth. By now he knew what she liked, his dream spirit. When this woman began winding into his dreams, he was not innocent by any means, but, as he soon found, quite a novice. He'd learned since then, thanks to her. Now he knew how to tease. How to thrill

  Just like... this.

  He closed his mouth over her pussy and sucked her sweet honey as it flowed, pried out of her by his deeply questing tongue.

  ****

  Sh
e purred for sheer joy, back arched, face raised to the moon. His cock, now free of her greedy mouth, bobbed between her breasts, sticky and scarlet. While his mouth lavished her sex with attention, she bowed her head, stuck out her tongue and ran it again over his swollen head, tasting the salty bead of juice. His cock was one of the finest she'd ever seen. Ever had.

  If she'd never angered that witch in the market place, she would not have to come to him only in dreams. But then she might never have traveled to this village, met Peter. She knew she would certainly never have enjoyed all the lusty adventures she'd known since she took cat form.

  Peter's trembling cock thrust into her mouth, like a hook to catch fish and she swallowed it from crest to root. Over and over she sucked and released, while he flexed his lower body, fucking her throat. Groaning, his mouth stretched over the lips of her cunt, he came hard, shooting his thick, delicious seed into her throat. She drank it down, licked her lips and, after one more cleansing suck, released his prick and smiled broadly at the moon.

  She was the grinning cat that just drank the proverbial cream.

  Turning, she lay down over his body and he curled his thick arms around her, pressing her full, tingling breasts to the solid muscle of his chest. She gave the bristles of his cheek a quick lick and felt a purring content vibrating in her throat. His large hand could almost cup both cheeks of her bottom at once and he squeezed, then patted them. Yes, she was a good girl.

  In the low light of his smoldering fire, she studied his still profile. All this to him was naught but a dream. The moment he began to wake, her body would return again to its other form. So she made the most of her time inside this woman's body, flinging her long leg over his thighs and then higher across his groin, pressing her wet cunt to his hip, holding it there. For a while they laid thus, her head nestled into his shoulder while she waited for her master to play again. She was not tired at all. She could play all night and sleep all day. That was the beauty of being a cat. Moonlight fell through the rustling tree branches outside, stole in around the crooked shutters and danced over his gently heaving chest in a pattern of silver filigree and shadow.