Bedtime Stories: A Collection of Erotic Fairy Tales

by Jean Johnson

  “I’m a frog,” Henrik reminded her. “Unless you are green and warty, you will not be able to arouse me physically. The only part of me which is still a man is my mind, and as such, I will only be able to enjoy the view in an abstract, intellectual way at best . . . which makes it all the more imperative I regain my human form. Now, don’t be shy; I’m hardly going to tell anyone about this. Even a frog could be arrested if word got out I was tutoring you in such matters.”

  “Father’s dungeons are damp, but not that damp,” Gisette agreed. “You wouldn’t like them very much.”

  “Exactly. Go on,” he encouraged her.

  Biting her lower lip, she gathered her courage and worked the material of her nightdress up above her knees. Up until now, she had taken care to dress and undress behind the carved wooden screen in the corner of her chamber. Now she bared her calves and her knees, blushing as she did so. Beneath the finespun linen, she wasn’t wearing underdrawers. The rising hem hesitated and halted near the tops of her thighs.

  “Go on,” Henrik encouraged her. “You need to bare your loins, part your thighs, and position the mirror so that you can see what lies between them. Once you see what you have down there, I can explain to you how you and whatever man you choose can have fun with it. You do want to have fun, don’t you? Adult fun?”

  “Well . . . yes,” Gisette admitted. She firmed her conviction, nodding. “Yes, I do.” Bunching up the front of her nightgown, she lifted one foot onto the frame of the bed and lowered the mirror, angling both it and herself so that no shadows obscured the reflected view. “Um . . . now what?”

  “Use your free hand to part your folds. At the top, you’ll see a triangular bump of flesh. That is your Dear Sweet Heaven spot. You can touch it, stroke it, tickle it, rub it, and even lightly pinch it, and if you try several different things, you’ll figure out what touches are most enjoyable for you. As with everything,” Henrik lectured, eyes swiveling as he followed the movements of her free hand, “pleasure varies from person to person, so it is best to experiment.

  “Some things will be similar, others will be different. Some men prefer a firm stroke upon their rod right from the start, while others prefer to start with a feathery touch. The same goes for women—you might find that easier if you lick your finger to moisten it, so that it glides rather than drags.”

  “Right.” Trying to ignore the fact she was taking orders from an amphibian, Gisette squirmed farther onto the bed, curled up one leg so she could brace the hand mirror against it, rested her other foot on the edge of the bed frame so she could keep everything exposed for viewing, and stuck her finger in her mouth to moisten it. With her left hand now free, she held open her folds and gently petted the little peak of flesh with her right forefinger.

  It felt very good. Surprisingly good. She had cleaned down there when taking baths, but that had been a perfunctory touch, with no expectation of pleasure and no association with pleasure. This was an exploratory one, seeking that elusive Dear Sweet Heaven spot her friend Henrik had mentioned. Goodness . . . it seems he’s right! That does feel like a bit of Heaven. Particularly when I circle it, and . . . and rub a little harder on the downstroke than on the upstroke . . . Oh, yes . . .

  Feeling dry, Henrik ducked briefly under the surface of the water, but only briefly. While it was true his body wasn’t the least bit aroused by what his eyes were viewing, his brain remembered the sympathetic delights he had felt before when viewing a maidservant doing the same thing under his tutelage. The interest, the fascination, and the arousal. The delight of watching a woman find the path to her pleasure, and the desire to be a part of it, helping her to achieve her bliss.

  Gisette tossed back her head, making one of his eyes twitch up and focus on her face, while the other kept itself fixed on her loins. Her eyes had strained shut and her lips had parted, allowing her to pant a little as she rubbed and flicked. Speaking softly in his deep amphibian’s voice, Henrik praised her.

  “Yes . . . just like that. There is nothing more beautiful in this world than a woman seeking her Heaven-bestowed passions. Embrace the feelings,” he murmured, trying not to croak ignominiously. Right now he needed to speak as smoothly as he could, so as not to jar her out of her sensations. “Feel the pleasure. Dip your finger a little lower, into the deeper folds of your womb. Circle it, touch it, and stroke the pinnacle that stands guard over your pleasure. Yesss, like that . . .”

  Gisette sucked in a surprised breath; dipping her finger into her flesh felt good. There was an odd, hollow sensation rising low in her belly, but touching herself like that felt good. Plus it was quite warm, and rather wet. Enough that when she slid her finger back up to the peak to rub it again, the moisture made everything feel better, more sensitive, more responsive to her touch.

  “Oh, yes . . . oh, yes! More! Tell me more! Where else does it feel good?”

  “Both men and women like their chests caressed. Their breasts, their nipples—rub one of your nipples like you’re rubbing that little peak,” he instructed.

  Movement at the edge of his vision made his left eye swivel to the side. A moth had fluttered into the room. As much as his transfigured body longed to snap it up for a late-night snack—they were fuzzy and tickled going down, but were sweeter than mosquitoes—Henrik refrained. The last thing he wanted to do right now was remind Gisette of the frog in her boudoir.

  A gasp from Gisette drew his attention back to her. The fingers of her right hand were rubbing madly between her thighs, and the fingers of her left hand were plucking at her nipples, alternating between one and the other. There was no mistaking her targets, either; they pushed against the age-softened linen of her nightshift, taut and ready for the attention she was rapidly learning to give them.

  Her back arched and her muscles strained. “Oh . . . oh! Oh! Oh, yes! More! I need more . . .”

  “Gisette . . . fetch out the dildo,” Henrik coaxed. “Fetch your golden phallus and rub it between your lips.”

  She twisted awkwardly, halfway falling onto her right elbow as she reached for it with her left hand, and managed to fish the gilded icon out from under her pillow. Squirming onto her back, knees splaying wantonly, she licked the rod with her tongue. Henrik coughed, mentally stimulated despite the amphibious calm of his flesh. The sight of her sucking it into her mouth would have broken him, had he been a man. As it was, only the fact that he was a frog kept him in his bowl at a safe, gentlemanly distance.

  “I meant your other lips. Rub it up and down your folds until it is coated all over. Rub it and roll it against your peak,” he directed her. So much passion, he thought, enjoying the way she dragged it through her femininity, using her right hand so that her left could go back to playing with her breasts. I really hope this works . . .

  “Mmm . . . it’s still not enough!” she complained, breathing heavily.

  “Then dip it into your womb,” Henrik ordered smoothly, making use of his deep frog’s voice.

  Gisette strained, twisting the phallus in her grip. She prodded herself with the tip and wrinkled her nose. “It’s cold!”

  “If it were me, it would be deliciously hot,” he murmured. “Just soft enough to give and warm enough to soothe. But think of it as me anyway, because if I were a man, I’d want to rub our parts together. Because deep inside of you, there is a spot which only the head of a man’s rod can touch, a spot every bit as good as that Dear Sweet Heaven spot at the top of your folds. Push it inside,” Henrik urged. “Push it in a little ways, then pull it out again, and think of how I could truly pleasure you if I were a man. Think of my hands on your skin, of me pulling off your dress, of my lips kissing your beautiful breasts . . . Yessss, like that. Exactly like that.”

  It stung a little, but the girth of the rod wasn’t overly large. Her mother had explained in private that it shouldn’t be made as large as a man, so that she wouldn’t ruin her maidenhead by stretching it out too far, but Gisette didn’t care. The stretchy feel faded quickly as her wrist and fingers fo
und the right angle to push and pull on the bollocks, plunging the metal rod into her flesh, over and over, deeper and deeper.

  She wasn’t quite sure where that spot Henrik mentioned was, but the murmur of his deep voice continued, encouraging her efforts. His words wrapped around her senses. At his suggestion, she abandoned her breasts, switching the movement of the phallus to her left hand so that she could use her right one to play with her peak. All the pleasurable sensations building within her flesh swirled together, tightening her muscles.

  “Oh, Henrik—Henrik! Oh, Henrik! Oh! I’m going to . . . I’m going to fly apart!”

  “Leap! Leap into your bliss!” Henrik croaked, clinging to the edge of his bowl.

  “I’m leaping! I’m—leaping ! Hen . . . rik! Ohhhh . . .” Shudders swept through her muscles as the combination of thrusting rod and swirling fingertips shattered her composure. Her fingers lost their grip on the phallus, and the tension in her body caused it to slide out of her depths, but even that was a pleasure. Slowing the touch of her fingers, she panted heavily, drifting down from her leap of passion. “Oh, Henrik . . . thank you . . .”

  Energy sizzled across his body, burning his nerves. Henrik croaked, twitching from the pain of it—and suddenly expanded. The bowl tipped, the nightstand wobbled, and he pitched awkwardly off the suddenly too-small piece of furniture. Gisette yelped as he landed partly on her; Henrik grunted as the rest of him landed partly on the bed and partly on the floor. The candelabra wobbled on the nightstand, making the golden light cast by its flames dance around the room, but the candles didn’t tip over, thankfully.

  Left thigh bruised from the bed frame, right shin stinging from clipping the edge of the nightstand, booted feet thumping onto the floor, he scrabbled to keep from falling completely off the bed. Once again he was a man, clad in the green velvet, gold-trimmed doublet and breeches he had been wearing when he had been enchanted into an amphibian. Twisting, trying to find his balance, Henrik found himself with his left hand braced on the feather-stuffed mattress and his right hand clasping a deliciously soft, warm, linen-covered breast. His eyes—both of them brown instead of yellow, and both of them firmly focused forward—met her startled blue gaze.

  Clearing his throat, Henrik carefully eased back, gingerly shifting his weight off of her body. “Uh . . . thank you. Thank you very much, Your Highness. I, uh, apologize for the, uh, intrusion.”

  The feel of his fingers leaving her breast disappointed Gisette. His hand was warm and dry, his touch evoking more of the same feelings she had just experienced. Losing it now was unthinkable. Catching his wrist, she gently tugged his palm back to her flesh. She blushed as she did so, but she did it. He blushed, too, she noticed, and that made her smile. He was good-looking without it, but the gentlemanly blush made him look particularly cute.

  “Umm . . . care to show me how you’d touch me in person?” she asked, wondering if she was being too bold.

  Henrik parted his lips, ready to reply . . . and felt another tingle of magic against his skin. Being enchanted for a month seemed to have made him sensitive to it. Bolting up from the bed, he whirled to look for this new menace to his dignity, and spotted a sparkle of light.

  So did Gisette. Squeaking, she snapped her thighs together and yanked down the hem of her nightgown, sitting up quickly. The lump of her phallus dug into the underside of her left thigh, but at least it was hidden by her thigh. Grabbing the edge of the blanket, she dragged it up over herself as the sparkling light coalesced into a glowing silhouette, before solidifying into a matronly figure. One with several strands of silver streaking her sable hair.

  Blushing hotly, Henrik positioned himself between Princess Gisette and their unexpected guest. Clearing his throat, he addressed the older woman respectfully. “Fairy Tilda . . . this is an unexpected . . . honor. If you’ve come to accept my apology for offending you, I’m more than ready to give it, with heartfelt remorse.”

  Hands planted on her blue-clad hips, Tilda eyed the re-formed prince. “Are you willing to marry me?”

  Henrik cleared his throat again. “I think it best that a youth as young and callow as myself should not sully your chances for happiness. You deserve a man of maturity, thoughtfulness, and far greater intelligence than I possess. And I do apologize profusely for the insult and pain my thoughtless, careless words caused you. I’m quite certain that somewhere out there awaits a far better husband for you than I could ever be, and I know with all my heart that you deserve such a man in your life.”

  Green eyes gleaming with humor, the fairy quirked up the corner of her mouth. “Indeed. Your apology is accepted, Prince Henrik. You are a callow youth, and I do deserve better. As for you, young lady . . . you are rather brave, to be so willing to kiss a slimy little frog.”

  Kiss? Henrik thought, startled by the fairy’s words. She thinks we kissed? All we had to do was kiss?

  “But your compassion for even an unlovely creature such as Prince Henrik was shall not go unrewarded. Would you like me to whisk him back to his family before your virtue could possibly be compromised by this cad?”

  Blushing, confused by the older woman’s words, Gisette glanced at Henrik. His face was a little blotchy, half-red with embarrassment, half-pale with startlement. Her mind whirled, filled with the thoughts of how dignified he had been as a frog, and how genteel his manners . . . given what he had thought were the conditions to release his enchanted state. Her body still hummed with pleasure, but there was more between the two of them than what they had just done together. Sort of done together.

  It’s not just him teaching me how to find pleasure, she realized. It’s him making me laugh, and entertaining me, and charming everyone in Father’s court with his dignity and his good manners. It’s how intelligent he is, and how likeable, and how he enjoyed listening to me. It’s how we shared ideas and laughter so freely. And how much I don’t want him to go away . . .

  “If it’s, erm, all right with you, Lady Fairy,” she said as politely as she could manage, “I would rather he stayed. We are both young, and no doubt somewhat immature, but, well . . . We do get along very well together. I’ve come to think of him as a friend as well as a frog. Not that I want to keep him as a frog, since he’d be much happier as a man once again, but . . .”

  Gisette let her words trail out, not quite sure how she wanted to put it.

  Tilda folded her arms across her chest and rubbed a finger thoughtfully along the edge of her jaw. “So . . . you want to keep him as your companion, but not as a frog?”

  “Yes, milady,” Gisette agreed.

  “Princesses usually do not get to keep young men as companions. Even if he is a prince,” Tilda allowed. “I’m afraid the only way you could keep him is if you were to marry him.”

  “I could do that,” the younger woman agreed, giving it only a moment of thought. “I just, um . . . It’s my father, you see. He thinks of me as a little girl. I’m not sure how he’d take the sudden appearance of a man in my bedchamber, never mind a prince. Poor Henrik has already suffered enough, and I’d hate to see him clapped in irons.”

  “I suppose I could smooth things over with your father,” the fairy graciously allowed. “Since His Highness seems to have learned his lesson.” Lifting her hand, she snapped her fingers. Prince Henrik vanished, making Gisette gasp.

  “What—what did you do with him?” she asked, pulling the blanket more fully over her nightdress-clad frame.

  “You needn’t worry, my dear; I merely dropped him off at the front gate with a suitable entourage, a coffer filled with sufficient funds for a dowry, and a generous peace treaty between his nation and yours. Your father will find all of it irresistible, particularly as your two lands share a border along the mountains to the northeast,” Fairy Tilda explained. She smirked a little. “Almost as irresistible as you found his instructions just now.”

  Gisette didn’t think her face could get any hotter from embarrassment without bursting into actual flame. “Er . . .”

 
; “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. May the two of you live happily ever after.” A flick of her hand, and the fairy vanished, her figure dissolving in a swirl of golden sparks.

  Biting her lower lip, Gisette grinned. Beyond the shutters of her window, she could hear noises from the castle gates. Setting aside her blanket, she rose and fetched her clothes. As late as it was, she knew her father would still be up, and she wanted to be on hand when he received their “unexpected” guest.

  There were far worse things one could have besides a rather charming, educated, handsome former frog for a suitor.

  The Courtship of Wali Daad

  Author’s Note: This tale was simply too charming not to tell. At one point during the editing process, my friend Alexandra likened these stories to a box of assorted chocolates, each of a different kind and flavor; if so, this one probably would be the maple-walnut crème, sweet and wonderful. I simply could not pass up the chance to share this adorable, funny little romance—obscure though it may be for a fairy tale—with the rest of the world. Here’s hoping you’ll enjoy my version of it . . .

  THE trapdoor would not shut.

  Lifting the panel back up again, the owner of the small cottage poked at the contents piled into the hidden space. Normally his table sat over the door, hiding the trapdoor from casual view. Normally, it looked like just another piece of his floor, age-worn boards polished more by the passage of time and a scrubbing brush than by artistry and oils. But not today. Not even when he tried rearranging the cluttered mass of metal discs yet again, as he had carefully done for the last few months.

  The trapdoor would not shut.

  Sitting back from the opening, Wali Daad sighed and scratched his head. For sixty-seven years, he had lived in this house, and the lid of the hidden cache had always closed flat. That was part and parcel of how it remained hidden.

  There is no use for it, the aging man thought, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. I suppose I have too many coins.