Bedtime Stories: A Collection of Erotic Fairy Tales

by Jean Johnson

  She grinned, thinking of her sixth husband. He was rather cute when he blushed. Actually, they were all reasonably good-looking. Unfortunately, she sighed, looking out over the stained glass waters of the city, they’re all besotted with each other. Not with me. The only man I know who I’m pretty sure likes me in that way . . . doesn’t even live in this city.

  Other women might give her arch, knowing looks and sly little winks whenever she went out from the house, but Nevada was envious of them. They had husbands who loved their wives. Nevada—on the advice of her “co-father” Sierran—had taken husbands who were only interested in one another.

  Because, “It wouldn’t do for the heir-presumptive of Althinac to marry for the wrong reasons, or to the wrong persons,” she thought, silently mocking her mentor. Even though I had to get married.

  Unlike the four lovebirds, paired off in two of the tenement’s handful of bedrooms, the author of that piece of advice was sound asleep in the overstuffed chair by the radiant block prominently placed in the center of the parlor. Life under the ocean meant living with perpetual dampness, and her mentor’s aging joints needed frequent doses of soothing heat.

  Nevada loved him all the same; Sierran had literally rescued her from death at the hands of the insurgents. His hands, for he had been the one assigned to kill her and bring her family’s rule to a resolute, final end. Instead of killing her, he had fled with her, escaping across the vast, treacherous waters in a stolen under-wave ship. He had told her that he couldn’t bring himself to kill an innocent young girl just because she had been born a Naccaran.

  He had also told her the facts of her family, how her next-mother’s greed and influence on her father had caused the city regent to impose increasingly harsh taxes on the people. Other laws had gradually oppressed their rights, and building projects to “beautify” the city had instead spoiled formerly pristine views. Particularly as some of the land for those building projects had been seized on the flimsiest of excuses, infuriating their rightful owners to the point of fomenting a rebellion.

  Moving from the partially underwater city of Althinac to the fully underwater city of Menomon had been a calculated move on his part, or so Sierran had explained. Nevada needed to know what life in an oceanic city was like, since at the time they had left, loyalists were fighting back against the rebels . . . and in the twelve years she had been gone, there were still reports of fighting going on. Until Althinac was politically stable, she had to remain in a safe place. But on the off chance that the loyalists won, she had to remain capable of returning to the city, which meant maintaining no permanent ties to Menomon. And on the off chance that the rebels won, but wanted to make peace with the loyalists, she had to remain politically available for negotiations of one sort or another.

  But in the meantime, she had to live in Menomon, under Menomonite customs and traditions. Since she had no magical or medical reason to counter the local customs, the City Council decreed that Nevada still had to get married after she turned eighteen and have three husbands by the time she turned twenty-five, the same as any other woman.

  . . . Aaand there goes Baubin. He does that growling thing whenever he and Cotter go at it. Then again, Cotter’s a good lover; he certainly made Rogen happy, at least for a while. She smiled again. First she had picked Cotter for her husband, then Rogen, because she had been best friends with Cotter, and he and Rogen had been lovers. Since she wasn’t interested in Cotter sexually, it made sense to pick a second husband who would keep Cotter happy.

  But then Rogen had met the handsome Dar-shem and fallen in love, which meant Nevada had ended up marrying him, too, and cheerful, easygoing Cotter had hooked up with Kristh, who had become husband number four. Only Cotter had met Baubin a year later and decided he was much better off with the short, blond land-butcher than with the tall, redheaded leatherworker. The two were still silly over each other, though it had been two years since they had fallen in love. It was cute. Kristh had wanted to get a divorce after being dropped by Cotter for someone else, but had met Dar-shem’s friend Talladen, who had secretly fallen for him back when he was still with Cotter . . . and there went another heart caught up in the maelstrom of masculine romances filling Nevada’s life.

  Dar-shem used to have a thing for Talladen, which makes Rogen irritable from jealousy, she thought, counting out the pairings on her fingers. As their wife, it was her legal responsibility to keep abreast of potential family tensions, so she made a point of reminding herself each day of her marriage’s dynamics. Particularly since they’re on split shifts over at the desalinator and don’t get to see each other as much as they used to. I really should talk to the Aquamancy Guild about getting them reassigned to the same shift. Even if they are really good coral masons, and really good coral masons are rare, they’ll be happier and thus work better if they’re paired together.

  Three explosive sneezes made her grin. And there goes Kristh, with his allergies. I always know when he’s having fun . . .

  Her smile slipped a little. She didn’t know if she had any little quirks during lovemaking, like Talladen with his shy wailing, or Kristh with his sneezing, or Baubin with his growling. Cotter had gladly shared all manner of secrets with her about the mysteries of what men liked and wanted; they had met in primary school, being the same age, and had made friends with each other as they grew. Cotter worked in the Mage Guild as a generalist enchanter like her, albeit a few ranks lower. But being told what men liked wasn’t the same as being shown what she liked. In that much, Nevada envied her husbands.

  A shadow loomed on the horizon, distracting her. Not a figurative one, either; a large ship had drifted into view while she had leaned on the railing of her tenement balcony and listened to four of her six husbands making love back in their bedrooms. It took her a few moments to realize why it looked so strange and yet so vaguely familiar; it wasn’t an oblong, fish-shaped udrejhong, the kind with the raisable fin-sails preferred by the Menomonites around her. No, the long, triangular-hulled ship was starkly Althinac in its design.

  Alarmed, Nevada peered through the rippling green-glass light of the ocean, beyond the layers of hydrostatic barriers separating the city from the sea. The sight of several smaller, fish-shaped vessels surrounding the foreign ship reassured her a little. Good . . . the Wavescouts are up there, giving it escort. And . . . yes, they’re docking it at the new Flame Tower. Sheren’s apprentices will be the first ones to examine the newcomers for any potential threat to the city.

  Craning her neck, she looked back at the white-haired figure sleeping peacefully in his overstuffed chair. Sierran had negotiated asylum for the two of them twelve years ago; the final word on whether or not their request was accepted had come from the lips of the Guardian of Menomon herself. Even after having studied with the redoubtable woman, Nevada was still a little in awe of the elderly but imposing, formidable Guardian Sheren. She also respected the guardian’s new, official apprentices, but she was more in envy of them than in awe.

  Sometimes it seems like all the world is happily married, except for me . . . Talladen wailed a second time and Kristh sneezed twice, then twice again. She smiled wistfully. Even if some of them are supposed to be married to me. If the boys haven’t woken up Dar-shem yet with their fun, I should go wake him up anyway. He’ll have to eat and get ready to go to work soon. Which means I’ll have to start getting dinner ready, since it’s my turn to cook.

  I’d better wake up Sierran and let him know an Althinac under-wave ship has arrived. A particularly large one. She gave the large, prism-shaped vessel one last, worried look before moving inside. Normally we get our news from Althinac via mirror-scryings. Something big must have happened to have prompted them into traveling halfway across the Western Ocean without warning. Something most likely involving Sierran and me.

  ROGEN came swimming home in time for supper. Pausing only long enough to run one of the suction wands that hung along the balcony wall over his leather clothes in order to eradicate stray dri
ps, he headed for the kitchen and kissed Nevada on the cheek. Then he kissed Dar-shem on the lips and dragged his co-husband away from prepping the rice rolls, hauling the taller, darker-skinned man by the hand to the refreshing room to “help” him rinse off the saltwater that had soaked his skin for half the day.

  He banged on the bedroom doors of the other four as he went, ordering them to help set the table, making Nevada smile. Cotter might have been her best friend and first choice in the face of Menomonite custom, but Rogen made the best lead husband.

  The long tile table was set in rapid order, the last of the rice rolls fixed by Baubin, and the dishes carried out to the table by Talladen and Cotter. Kristh fetched and poured the drinks, shielding the occasional, lingering sneeze into his shoulder. Once everything was ready, the seven men in Nevada’s life took their seats around the long table, with Nevada at one end and Sierran at the other.

  Just as she took her first bite of butter-fried dulse, the reddish brown seaweed cooked the special way Cotter’s mother had shown her shortly after her first marriage, someone rang the bell-chime. Mouth full, Nevada glanced around the table. It wasn’t unusual for such a large family to have visitors, though usually friends and family visited later in the day. The look in Sierran’s eyes echoed her worry that their unexpected visitor had something to do with the two of them.

  Rogen set down his fork with a scowl. “It’s probably for me. Yet another problem with wedding the coral seed stock to the base granite, no doubt.”

  Dar-shem smothered a yawn and rose at the same time his co-husband did, unfolding his tall, dark brown body from his chair. “I’d better listen in. If it’s something a coral mason has to fix, it’ll be done on my watch, after all.”

  Swallowing her mouthful of seaweed, Nevada cut into her pepper-and-onion-smothered halibut. Baubin could and did get them choice cuts of land meat from time to time, since he worked as a butcher and that was one of the perks of his job, but feeding eight people took a lot, and fish was a cheaper protein to cultivate under the sea than birds or beef. Land animals required a lot of feed, and that took a lot of space from the harvest caverns deep below the city.

  It was no good. She couldn’t distract herself with thoughts of food. Setting down knife and fork, she strained to hear any actual words coming from the front hall. The only things audible over the sounds of the others eating were the low rumble of Rogen’s voice, the slightly lighter one of Dar-shem, and at least one other, unfamiliar male.

  She didn’t have to strain for long. She heard Rogen speaking firmly as they came toward the dining room. “But she’ll finish her meal first, and take the time to properly dress. In the meantime . . . I offer you the hospitality of our family; you may dine with us if you wish.”

  “No, thank you,” the gray-uniformed man following between him and Dar-shem stated as he entered the room. Though the upper half of his face was hidden by his guardsman’s helm, the wavescout’s eyes could be seen taking in the number of men at the table. He faced Nevada after a moment and gave her a polite bow. “Good evening, mistress; I am Wavescout Tiels. May I presume you are Nevada of the family Naccara, born in the city-state of Althinac?”

  “That is correct,” she agreed, glad she had given up on the pretense of eating, leaving her mouth clear for speech. “What can I do for you, Wavescout Tiels?”

  “A delegation from the city of Althinac has been sent to the city of Menomon to speak with you regarding the means to bring an end to the last of its civil war. The Guardian of Menomon and her apprentices have interviewed the delegates and believe it is safe for you to meet with them under their supervision. The city council has generously offered the use of its facilities for hosting this meeting.”

  “No doubt they hope to wrest some sort of trade advantage out of this from the Althinac,” Talladen murmured. “Now that they’re finally getting their heads out of the sump pump about keeping in contact with outsiders.”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head, Talladen,” Rogen chastised him.

  “I’m a bard; I’m supposed to speak the truth,” Talladen shot back, though he blushed as he said it.

  “Gentlemen,” Nevada said soothingly, lifting her hand slightly. That was all she needed to do; both of her co-husbands settled back down.

  One of the few reasons Sierran had been in favor of her marrying so many men—for all he had discouraged her from marrying any of the ones interested in her romantically—had to do with the hands-on teaching it would give her in how to manage disparate personalities. Although he had merely been the equivalent of a wavescout lieutenant back in Althinac, the aging man had paid attention to city politics. Nevada had to agree; she had learned quite a lot about how to manage people just from managing her personal life.

  The wavescout waited for her reply. Nodding her head, Nevada complied. “I would be honored to accept the council’s generous offer. My lead husband is correct, however; I really should eat and change into something more suitable first. You are welcome to join us, as he offered.”

  “Thank you, but it isn’t necessary, mistress,” the wavescout replied politely, giving her another bow. “I ate before coming on duty. I’m willing to wait while you get ready, and will be your escort to the Congregation Halls. Guardian Sheren has sent her personal gourami vessel for your use, to make sure you arrive safe and dry. In the meantime, the Althinac delegation has been invited to enjoy the delights of the Aviary.”

  Cotter rose from his seat, giving Nevada a half bow as he did so. “I’ll show him to the parlor, mistress.”

  “Thank you, Husband,” she murmured. Rogen and Dar-shem sat back down as Cotter led the wavescout out of the room. Nevada concentrated on cutting into her halibut. Her appetite had vanished from nervousness, but she knew she would need the energy to deal with this sudden visit from Althinac.

  A few seconds after they were alone again, Baubin snerked, shoulders trembling with the effort to keep his laughter quiet. “Did you see the look in his eyes? He was clearly wondering what our wife had that his didn’t!”

  Rogen jerked in his seat, as did Kristh a moment later; Nevada heard a thump from under the table. She didn’t have to peer under the furniture to know the chain of discipline was being passed from nan to man. As she watched, Kristh twisted and smacked Baubin on the back of his head. “Keep a civil tongue in your head regarding our wife. She’s the one who gave us this lifestyle.”

  “That’s enough,” Nevada told both of them. She kept her tone light and was pleased when they settled down. It hadn’t always been this easy, particularly when her co-husbands’ relationships had been breaking apart like a crumbling reef, but she had earned their respect over time. Particularly since all six of them were now very happy with their choice of mates.

  “You will wear the blue dress, won’t you?” Baubin asked her. “The one with the bits of lace? The dye in the scales really brings out the color of your eyes.”

  “She’s meeting with people who, from the sound of it, are from the other faction in the Althinac civil war,” Rogen pointed out. “Not going off to marry husband number seven. She should wear black, so she’ll look intimidating.”

  “Then she should wear a bold red, so she’ll look like a force to be reckoned with,” Talladen countered.

  “Black is more intimidating,” Rogen countered back. “With her black hair and a black dress, she’ll look like someone who cannot be easily threatened.”

  “Gentlemen,” Sierran interjected, “if this is a chance for reconciliation and an end to civil strife, then she shouldn’t be trying to frighten them out of it. If anything, she should look like a princess, since that is what she is. She should wear gold, to remind them of her heritage.”

  “Gold?” both Kristh and Baubin protested. Kristh continued for both of them. “Gold doesn’t go with her eyes. I agree she shouldn’t look quite as beautiful as she does in the blue dress with the lace, but too much gold would make the dress more visible than her.”

  “He has a point,�
�� Talladen agreed. “Perhaps a compromise?”

  “How about her long gold skirt and one of her blue tops?” Dar-shem offered.

  Talladen and Rogen both winced, and Baubin wrinkled his nose. Cotter, coming back from showing the wavescout to the parlor and its balcony view of the city, rolled his eyes. Nevada stepped in verbally before they could continue.

  “Your suggestions all have merit . . . but I’ll wear black pants and a gold top for this first meeting. It’ll give an impression that I still have access to wealth and thus power, yet cannot be easily intimidated.”

  “Pants? Why pants?” Sierran asked as the others nodded in agreement. “You know as well as I do that noblewomen in Althinac wore skirts, as a sign of their status. Commoner women who had to work for a living wore pants. I’m sure nothing has changed that drastically fashion-wise in the last twelve years.”

  “Because it’s a compromise. My good black leather skirt is barramundi leather, and my good gold blouse is stingray. The two scale patterns clash. Not to mention I seem to remember Althinac having a lot more access to land leathers and actual fabrics,” Nevada pointed out. “If I walk into this meeting wearing blatantly fish-scaled leathers, I’ll look more like a Menomonite than an Althinac. I have a pair of trousers made from manta, which is close enough to stingray that it’ll match the blouse. And the blue dress, lovely though it may be, was made from parrotfish hide. It matches the salvaged lace for the trim, but otherwise it looks too Menomonite.”

  “Never mind what she’s wearing,” Cotter said dismissively, cutting into his own steak now that he was seated again. “We need to figure out what we are wearing.”

  “You?” Sierran scoffed. “This is an Althinac matter, not a Menomonite one.”