The feelings in her belly now were incredible - and yet… and yet they did not go far enough. All of Talia’s instincts told her that this was not the end of such an education, and she lifted her head angrily, hissing out: “More! More! I want more you bloody bitch! Can’t you go any faster?”
For a second, this response seemed to make Bella angry herself but her temper was soon under control. As she pulled the toy from Talia’s slit, covered with the princess’s juices, she flung it to one side before lifting up the black beast.
“You want more, do you - you young hussy?” She smiled evilly. “Like I said, you really are your mother’s daughter. Well, let’s see how you handle this!”
As the tip of the monstrous dildo pressed into Talia’s nethers, the princess gasped in fear: perhaps she had gone too far - perhaps this really was too much. Yet while her mind considered the possibility that this was all a mistake, her cunt was hungry and her body cried out for more.
Bella, realising that the toy would not fit immediately, lowered her own head and began to lap at the princess’s loins, sliding her tongue in and out of her pretty slit, sucking on the young clitoris and making Talia moan and forget her reservations. When she replaced the head of the cock against the opening once more, Talia was watching her with lustful eyes.
It took a great deal of pressure on Bella’s part to force even the tip of that monster into the princess, and after a few seconds Talia was alternating between desire and fear once more. “No, please, no!” she began to whimper. “Stop! Please! It’s too big! It won’t fit!”
At this, Bella grasped the young woman’s chin with her free hand, holding her head steady as she increased the pressure on her other hand. At last the lips of Talia’s slit opened wide enough to accommodate its end and the princess’s eyes opened even wider than before.
“By the gods!” she howled. “Oh, hellfire! You’re splitting me!”
“I’ll split you like a ripe peach, you little slut!” Bella hissed. “I’ll fuck you till you can’t walk again.”
Receptive even in this state to the requirements of her education, Talia seized on this new addition to her vocabulary. “Oh yes!” she cried. “Fuck me! Fuck me hard! Split me in two!”
Grinning, her own pussy utterly wet at the sight of this lascivious young girl rolling around on the bed as she was penetrated, Bella pushed in harder with her hand. Though Talia’s cunt was able only to swallow half of the dildo, for her part the witch considered that impressive work on the virgin’s part and she pulled the toy back out before moving it back into the greedy cunt with a steady rhythm.
Talia was moaning now, struggling in her bonds, incoherent as she cried out. Her legs twitched and opened before clamping shut around the toy in Bella’s hand. Her face was bright red with the experiences flooding through her body, and her arms were taut as she pulled against her bonds.
“Oh, gods!” she began to cry out as waves of something completely new swept over her. “Oh by all the fucking gods in heaven! Have mercy! Fuck me! Fuck me harder!”
And, as Bella willingly complied, that was the last thing that Talia could scream out before her orgasm exploded with the force of a thousand storms inside her and darkness descended over all.
Chapter Eight
That scream - at once both terrible and somehow wonderful - was heard all through the court. Many of the servants and courtiers looked up at the sky, wondering where the thunderclouds were, but as she rushed to her husband’s private chambers, Queen Isis knew exactly what had happened.
“My poor daughter!” she cried out to King Magnus who was sitting at a table by the window, staring out somewhat sleepily.
“What?” he asked, rubbing his eyes and forcing himself awake. “Oh dear, I seem to need a nap. Has something happened?”
“It’s Talia! What we feared would come to pass!”
The mention of their daughter jolted Magnus and he stood up, stumbling slightly against the table. “My daughter!” he bellowed, realising immediately what his wife was referring to. “What man dares touch her! Bring him to me at once and I’ll tear off his privates!” Almost immediately, however, he crashed back down onto the chair.
As she came into the bedroom, Queen Isis felt as though her feet were lead and sensed that the curse on Princess Talia had consequences that none of them had foreseen. “Yes,” she said feebly. “We must find him, at once.”
“Yes, at once,” Magnus echoed weakly. “Or perhaps a bit later. I just need to rest a little first…” Lifting himself wearily from the chair, he staggered to the bed and flopped down on his back next to the queen.
She shoved him, an action that seemed to require all her effort. “Magnus,” she said. “We must… we must…” She felt so tired, however, and simply remembering what she had intended to say drained all her energy. Slumping beside her husband, she felt his arm close around her shoulders and she snuggled against him. “Later,” she sighed. “We can do it later.”
“Yes, later,” mumbled Magnus, squeezing her softly. “I missed you,” he said, his eyes closed.
Isis turned her face to kiss him. “I miss you too,” she told him, wondering why on earth they had stayed away from his bed for so long. The king, however, was already snoring loudly.
Across the palace similar scenes were occurring. Servants put down their pots and brooms and promised themselves that they would continue their work as soon as they’d had a snooze, while courtiers in deep discussion or entertaining themselves began to yawn, wondering whether they would be able to make it to their beds in time (and in just about every case they couldn’t). Even the animals lay down in their stalls and stables, drifting off into a deep and pleasant sleep.
The only one who came close to the castle that day who wasn’t affected by the curse was the Queen’s other sister, Serena. Though her visits to the palace were rarer since it had become a somewhat dismal place, nonetheless she had decided in the morning to see how her niece was doing.
Travelling on an old but faithful ass (which she found much more comfortable than all the fine horses her sister sent), as soon as she came in sight of the castle Serena knew that something was wrong. Sniffing the air she sensed magic abroad, a suspicion made all the deeper by the fact that no sound came from the palace. Even in these more sober times there had always been the noise of daily business, but as she drew nearer on the road that led to the gates there was no hint of the usual hustle and bustle.
Pulling a small mirror from a pouch, she brushed off some dust that had collected on its surface and said in a sharp voice: “Peeping Tom!” It wasn’t much of a magic word, but it was one that worked well enough and a few seconds later the mirror changed its reflection. With a gasp, Serena saw dozens - hundreds - of men and women asleep in the castle, while up above them all in a tower lay Princess Talia - naked and violated, and with the sweetest smile on her sleeping face.
“Oh, my poor, poor dear,” Serena sighed. “It happened at last.” She returned her attention to the silent castle walls and stared up at them. She had no magic that she could use to lift this spell, but she was sure that leaving the palace in this state was not a very sensible idea at all.
Sliding from the ass, who looked at her with his usual stoic expression, she pulled another pouch from his packs. Striding purposefully towards the castle gates, she looked at them long and hard for a while. “Damn you, Bellatrix!” she said finally.
After this, she cast her spell. It was long and complex, and when she had finished singing the words beads of sweat covered her brow. With a final flourish, however, she cast the contents of the pouch in front of her and took a step back.
For several long minutes, nothing appeared to happen, and Serena wondered if she had said the right words. Her ass, however, gave a raucous bray causing her to step back - just as the first of several tendrils and brambles began to shoot from the earth.
They grew at an incredible speed, twining and snaking up from the ground and seeking the castle walls hungrily,
clambering over each other as they thickened and swelled. Each tendril was covered in sharp, dangerous thorns that grew bigger and bigger as the brambles grew, and the undergrowth became first a thicket and then a dense forest of solid trunks and thorny spines through which no man could pass.
Exhausted and saddened, Serena slowly returned to her mount and, hauling herself onto his back, began her weary return journey.
It didn’t take long for news that something had happened at the palace to spread through the kingdom. Visitors and tradesmen encountered an impassable forest where once there had been fine, fair walls, and panic and dismay filled the subjects of Nysa.
And they had good cause. Osiman the Mighty had renounced all claims to Nysa, fearing as he did the power of the witches who lived there (and also regretting that they did not come to live with him). Although he had not exactly become a gentle ruler, much of his old fury had passed as he grew older.
The same could not be said of his son, however, and when Osiman II came to the throne his first act was to march against Nysa. This time there were no witches to oppose him. Serena kept herself to herself, hidden away and protected by her magic in the forest at the heart of the kingdom, and Bellatrix was not to be seen while Queen Isis lay under a spell in the palace. The younger Osiman conquered Nysa easily, although the evil woods that covered the old castle were such that none of his armies were able to penetrate them, and the vast brambles that grew there seemed impervious to both fire and axe.
Those were dark days for the subjects of Nysa. Those who did not flee became slaves to the conquerors, and all the spoils of the once bountiful kingdom were used up by its new masters.
And yet, such was the nature of Nysa that it could not help but soften its cruel rulers. The memories of the old kings and queens who had once ruled a land of fun and frivolity were forgotten, as were stories of the kindly witches who watched over them, but at the same time the conquerors intermarried with their slaves and became softer natured themselves. As for the two woods that no-one could enter, one fair and verdant but a place of dangerous illusions while the other was dark and impenetrable, everyone simply said that these were haunted places and avoided them at all costs.
And so it came to pass, a hundred years after the curse came to its fulfilment, that a new king sat on the throne of Nysa. His name was Osiman VII (for originality in naming kings was not really a thing among the new rulers of the country), and unlike his forefathers he bore no desire for cruelty and power. The slaves were freed and all the bounties were to be shared equally among his subjects, giving rise to much rejoicing and something like the old joy that had not been seen in the land since Princess Talia was a young girl.
Osiman VII was a young and virile man, tall and darker skinned than the natives of Nysa, though not as dark as his forebears. Standing over six foot in height, though he was no stranger to the pleasures of women his dalliances had been those of youth and he still retained a tender heart. Not a few of the women of his kingdom wished that he had been a little more corruptible, as they giggled and swapped rumours as to how well-blessed he was below the waist. His hair was jet black and his eyes dark, and his love of the hunt and of sports meant that he was a strongly built man, athletic and virile.
It was while he was out hunting one day that he and some of his courtiers came to the forest that surrounded the old castle. They had been chasing a deer on their horses, enjoying the sensation of the wind through their hair as they and their hounds followed swiftly behind, but as they drew near to the forest all of them came to a halt when they saw the barbs and brambles that filled the wood.
The deer was a beautiful creature, elegant and graceful, and the regent’s hounds had given it a hard chase so that its flanks were flecked with sweat. Although the forest was as forbidding to it as it was to its pursuers, yet desperate to escape it leaped over a stream that ran at the edge of the trees and, spotting a break in the thickets, darted into the wood.
Something about that place was so dark and foreboding that it took the young king all his skill to bring his horse close to where the hind had vanished, and he could hear the neighing and calls of his followers and their own steeds behind him. Dropping to his feet beside his gelding, he patted its back and looked into the shadows that filled the forest even as the sun shone brightly ahead.
“Come!” he cried out in a loud and masterful voice. “We follow now on foot!”
Many of his fellow hunters were fearful, though they dared not admit it, and for all the strength of his voice Osiman understood their concerns. Yet more than his desire to capture his prey, the king had long been intrigued by the stories that surrounded this mysterious forest and saw this day his chance to satisfy his curiosity.
As they pressed into the trees, their clothes caught in the branches and evil-looking spines that sprung from the undergrowth, one by one the king’s fellows were caught up and trapped, each one of them losing their way until at last Osiman alone pressed deeper into the forest. Now the shadows were so deep and dark that he was no longer able to tell whether it was night or day beyond the forest, and all around him the trees seemed to move with their own, malevolent purpose.
His clothes were torn by this point, blood prickling his skin as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hack back the rank growth with his sword, resorting at last to a smaller knife. Despite his fears, however, Osiman was valiant enough and full of determination to press on and find out what secret lay at the heart of this strange place.
He had no idea how long he had been fighting his way through the woods when, at last and to his surprise, he saw a wall in front of him. The grey stones looked very old and thick, stout granite blocks piled high on each other though the tops of the wall were hidden by the trees overhead. Forcing his way through, he eventually came to a gate. It was large enough for several men to pass through on horseback and Osiman realised that this must be the castle that had once been the home of the Nysan court that had vanished so mysteriously a century before.
Torn and ragged, he climbed past the final brambles that blocked the way into the palace and was astonished to see that inside the castle walls there was none of the thick growth that sprung up everywhere outside. Instead, he saw peasants, servants and the occasional courtier lying on the floor, some of them slumped against walls as though they had just settled down for a quiet nap on a pleasant afternoon. Overhead the air was clear and he could see that the sun was still shining, while his skin prickled with the sense of a bizarre and unusual magic.
“Hello!” he cried out. “Is anyone awake?”
No sound answered him, and he crossed over to one of the nearest men who was lying against the wheel of his cart. The man was dressed head to foot in thick, woollen clothing, very different to the Nysan style of light, diaphanous fabrics that had returned to fashion, and his mouth was open slightly. Gently, Osiman prodded him with his toe. The man stirred slightly, snoring as he did so. Curious, the king leaned down and shook the man, increasingly harder, but nothing appeared able to make him wake.
Similar scenes confronted Osiman wherever he went. The kitchens and halls were filled with servants who seemed to have fallen asleep in the middle of whatever task they had been doing, and food and water was left on tables and surfaces. Tentatively, he lifted up a piece of bread and nibbled it and was surprised that it tasted as fresh as though it had been baked that morning.
The stables were full of slumbering horses, and pigs, goats and chickens lay down in their stalls. Elsewhere, courtiers were resting against each other, some of them snoring softly. From time to time Osiman would attempt to wake one of them, but always with the same result that they would mumble and shift and then fall more deeply into their sleep. Everywhere it seemed that the entire palace had been preserved exactly at the moment when this magic had been cast.
Eventually, the young king came to a stairway that led up into a high tower. Unlike the rest of the palace, which appeared spotlessly clean other than where various odds and ends had fallen fr
om sleepers’ hands, as he climbed the stairs Osiman saw that this part of the castle had not been disturbed for a very long time - other than by one visitor. He corrected himself. In the thick dust that lay on each step, there were two pairs of footprints: one set, very dainty, led upwards; the other, slightly larger in size, led down.
Frowning to himself, Osiman climbed higher and higher. Here no doubt would be the answer to this mystery, and he desired more than ever to have an answer to the questions that crowded his mind. At last he came to a thick, heavy door, on which were frankly erotic carvings that made his eyebrows rise. Tentatively, he placed one hand on the thick wood and pushed it open.
The door swung to easily, revealing a room that was dark but for the flickering of flames in a hearth at the other end. The wood had burned down low, but it seemed as though the fire had been made up only a few hours before.
Though the room was plush, richly adorned in every way, none of the riches there held the young king’s eye. Instead, he stood and gaped in astonishment at the bed, on which lay a young woman, naked as the day she was born, asleep with her hands bound by the wrist by manacles that were chained to the bed.
Osiman’s heart stopped in his chest. The woman was more beautiful than any other he had ever seen, her body lithe and adorable, with pert breasts that rose and fell as she breathed softly in her sleep. Although her position could not have been the most comfortable, with her arms pulled above her head, she had curled up her legs and seemed to be sleeping peacefully, her face angelic in its tranquility. From where he was standing, the young man could see a tuft of auburn hair between her thighs that was the same colour as her head and, despite himself, he blushed.
Crossing very quietly to the bed, he stood beside her in silence for a few moments. This close she was even more perfect, her face an exquisite oval and her mouth pouting slightly as the breath escaped her. Osiman was aware of a feeling of discomfort in his trousers, which suddenly felt too tight, but despite the fact that he had encountered no-one else awake in this strange place he still had no intention of dishonouring this young, sleeping beauty.
Fifty Shades of Sleeping Beauty Page 8
