Bedtime Stories: A Collection of Erotic Fairy Tales

by Jean Johnson

  “Of course I do! Why else would I want to avoid endangering her, even at the expense of Althinac’s future tranquillity?” Migel asked.

  “And do you love him?” Cotter prodded, tucking another spoonful between his wife’s lips.

  Not wanting to choke on a purée of pungent, raw vegetables, Nevada merely nodded.

  “Good. All else is just a matter of logistics. Here, you feed her,” Cotter ordered, holding out the bowl. “I’m putting you in charge of overseeing her recovery. Rogen and I need to go start getting our co-husbands organized for the move to Althinac.”

  With a polite nod to both of them and an air of smug satisfaction at having settled everything for them, Cotter left the bedroom.

  Bowl in hand, Migel sat down on the edge of the bed. He stared at the smeared contents and sighed. “Do I have to be husband number seven even after we’ve returned to Althinac?”

  She managed a small chuckle. As unappetizing as the uncooked mush was, it had given her a smidgen of her strength back. “No. You and I will marry, and they and I will divorce . . . and they’ll still come along. As friends.”

  “They do make good friends,” he allowed. Scooping up a bit of vegetable paste, he offered it to her lips. She made a face. Migel wrinkled his nose as well, but didn’t remove the spoon. “I know this stuff is awful, but you still have to eat it anyway. That Nightfallite mage was very strict about your diet and recovery schedule.”

  “Migel . . . what will happen to her?” Nevada asked after she swallowed the next mouthful.

  “Socorro?” He shook his head. “Sheren and I worked it out. She’ll be tried here in Menomon for attempted murder and tried again in Althinac for murder and for breaking the truce, and then she’ll be jointly punished. Even if her surface personality didn’t know there were poisons and spells in the things she gave to you, her true personality planned and executed everything with the intent to kill. We’ll find out who her accomplices were, who trained her, what she has done in the past, and all of them will be dealt with,” he promised. “Even if they’re my own kin. I’m not proud of what my family has done, particularly since I’m the one left cleaning up their messes.”

  “You have new kin,” Nevada reminded him, pausing to breathe between sentences. She felt as limp and mushy as the vegetables being spooned into her mouth, but she would regain her strength. “You can be proud of them instead.”

  “Ah, yes, six co-husbands,” Migel muttered.

  “And a wife—give me a kiss,” she demanded as he lifted the spoon to serve her another mouthful. “I need something sweet to clear the taste from my tongue.”

  “You mean you just want to torture me by sharing it,” he murmured. He leaned down anyway, brushing his lips against hers. “Don’t ever leave me again, Nevada. You broke my heart when I thought you were dead.”

  “Not of my own free will, Migel,” she promised, and kissed him back as thoroughly as her weakened body would allow. “Never of my own free will.”

  Sleeping Beauty

  Author’s Note: My editor and I weren’t sure if this series would be called Sleeping Beauties or Bedtime Stories. Since I needed an eighth story to put on the list—yes, I know it’s placed as number five in the book; just go with it—I decided to toss this one in to be on the safe side. Once again, I’m going to flip this over to the science-fiction side of things, because it’s fun to do this tale in sci-fi. And, being a rabid equalist at heart, I’ve decided to flip the story a second time, too. Enjoy!

  THE computer controlling the derelict laboratory and its defenses was not actually mad. Leo Castanides patiently reminded herself of this fact yet again as the projections from her headset showed a surrealist’s fusion of security codes and bramble vines. It’s not insane. It’s merely under the mental control of one of the greatest electrokinetics to ever come out of a Gengin lab . . . or rather, to never leave that lab.

  Lifting her gloved hands, she tried prying two of the bramble vines apart. Once again, the vines writhed and sprouted wicked thorns, trying to scratch and pierce her electronic intrusion, cutting into her code. She reached again, but the protection protocols thickened under the instincts of the dreamer she had been hired to awaken. Beyond the three-dimensional projection overlaying her view of reality, she could see the defensive turrets of the lab’s security lasers swiveling her way, and backed off physically as well as electronically.

  . . . Which means I am completely outclassed. I’m only half the electrokinetic this guy was rumored to be, at my very best. Hiding behind the corner of her last secured safe-point, Leo paused to take a drink from the flask at her hip. It contained water only; she never drank while she was on the job. Liquor dulled the wits and the reflexes, inevitably leading the drinker into greater peril. Just because the Raider Clan hired me to free this man from his stasis prison doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to risk my life heedlessly. They’re not paying me enough for that.

  Then again, she couldn’t just drop this quest; not everyone had her particular combination of talents. Leo was just barely good enough in reflexes and combat training to have qualified as a Minutemaid by her homeworld’s strict standards. If she took on the normal sort of body-guarding and one-man-army mercenary contracts most Minutemen and Minutemaids took, she probably wouldn’t survive long enough to go back home at the age of thirty-five and breed the next generation. Assuming she wanted to go back, which she didn’t.

  What she was really good at were the old computer languages. Ancient tech fascinated her; it was a hobby she had turned into something of a career, raiding archaic tech sites on war-torn worlds and in abandoned spaceyards, places laced with unstable, deteriorating security measures and decay-worn traps. This, the Borgite Project, was the epitome of what she loved. Except this wasn’t some moldering, hundred-year-old piece of abandoned technology. This was a self-sufficient, still functioning piece of hundred-year-old, lethally guarded research lab.

  Not all the Gengin research programs had ended when the original subjects of the Genetic Engineering Project had rebelled against their captor-creators centuries ago. Enough of the various projects had been segregated in isolated pockets on different worlds to ensure that some of these programs would continue for hundreds of years more. But as each of those projects was discovered, the Gengins targeted the research labs, freeing the captives wherever possible and inciting those inside to rebel if they couldn’t be freed directly.

  It had caused a lot of tech to be crippled, abandoned, and lost, with the outer edges of the known galaxy locked in constant pockets of warfare. Only in the Core Worlds was there a long history of peace and stability . . . but in the Core Worlds, there weren’t many Gengins living among the Normals. Differences often meant unfamiliarities, and that led to fear and distrust. As much as even the Normals deplored the Gengin Projects, the average Core citizen didn’t go out of his or her way to help look for hidden, illegal genetic manipulations.

  Sometimes, the Gengins had spontaneously rebelled, and sometimes they had succeeded. The Borgite Project was one such internal rebellion. The researchers’ mistake had been to put one of their own creations in control of the security measures. Leo had already seen the evidence in the outer edges of the complex that it had been a fatal mistake for many.

  Shen Codah was the name of the man she was looking for, the man with the mind controlling this entire facility. According to the historical records from the escapees, he had wired himself fully into the facility’s systems to ensure that his fellow Gengins could escape, but only at the cost of being trapped in the machinery. Some of the researchers and their security personnel had tried to converge on his integration chamber while the others escaped, only to be locked out of his particular lab. Others had tried to pursue the escaping victims of the Borgite Project, or had tried to flee for their lives, only to be locked in.

  Only the Gengins had gotten out. Almost all of them save for Shen, and whoever might have died during the escape.

  A brave and honorable act
on his part, but a damn foolish one, too. He shouldn’t have acted until he had constructed a means of his own escape, too. Now he’s stuck in this bizarre, programmed dreamscape, metaphors merged with machinery. Until I came along, no one had the right combination of talents to get even this far . . . and I’m not even halfway to rescuing him.

  She had some electrokinetic abilities as well as an affinity for old programming languages. Just not the strength of this man’s mental might. Still, an analysis by the Raider Clan had proven it would take a combination of physical and mental dexterity to breach Shen’s defenses, and she was their best shot. Possibly the only one who could do it. Considering the pool of talents the Raider Clan had at their command, it was something of a compliment. Maybe.

  She had the strength and the speed to dodge some of the physical traps, and the skills to avoid being destroyed by the independently patrolling robots, but even the best of Minutemaids couldn’t dodge a dozen simultaneously firing lasers. If she tried to press forward, that was what she would have to face. Lasers which were far more than the original, rough tally cited by the escapees in their accounts of what the place had been like. Which left her with trying to get through the coded defenses, since the physical ones were able to thwart her.

  Psychic abilities were rare, though the Psians had been the first of the Gengins to successfully break free of their genetic breeding programs. Like many victims of the various projects, they had retreated to a fringe colonyworld of their choosing, and had kept to themselves. But some had been interbred with other project strains in the early days, in the hopes of broadening the gene pool of psychic abilities. Some of that interbreeding had included the Minuteman Project. For that reason alone, Leo’s services came with a very high fee, despite her comparatively mediocre physical skills as a Minutemaid.

  Half up front for trying, and half at the end for succeeding. Enough creds to buy myself a small planetoid if I want . . . plus the ultimate prize, political asylum. If I didn’t trust the Raider Clan’s intentions toward all free-roaming Psians, I’d question why they’d be so willing to pay so much for this particular one.

  Checking her chrono, Leo synched up with the less sensitive lab systems, the ones that weren’t as likely to kill her. Ears straining for any noise that might come from a patrolling sentry bot, she reviewed the list of places she could get into. Supplies lists, entertainment library, researcher personnel files . . . though not the files detailing the genetic experiments that were done. Not that I blame him for locking out any information on how he and the others were made.

  A glance around the corner showed the turrets still actively sweeping and the illusionary bramble vines still firmly in place. She eased back before they could flag her as an intruder, and wished she could just wave a truce flag at the security sensors built into the walls. Turrets and brambles and flags, oh my . . .

  Wait . . . turrets, pennons, brambles, entertainment files . . . She scrolled quickly through the file lists, checking the status of the latter-most. Yes! He’s dreaming right now, and he’s still connected to the security systems as well as the entertainment files. I’m seeing actual activity patterns, and recent ones at that. Now the only question is, can I hack into his dreams via those files? Oh, please, let it be so . . .

  It wasn’t an overly complex system compared to modern entertainment programs, but it did include full stimuli programs. It also made sense that he would be using the files to keep his mind stimulated and occupied. He’s probably living the ultimate fantasy life, plugged into these entertainment files like a holovid addict. He’s not going to welcome me into his sanctum . . . unless . . . Yessss, there it is! There’s the holoprogram I want.

  He’s trapped and he knows he’s trapped, or he did know it at one point. The only way he’s going to let me in is if I join in one of his virtual dreams and ride to his rescue like a legendary hero. All I have to do . . . is program . . . some suitable weaponry and armor out of this old code . . . borrowing from this story, and this one . . . integrate it into this file over here . . . and lure him into playing it. And survive the occasional automated patrol, she added silently, hearing a faint hum approaching her position. Supply files, come to my rescue . . . yes! There.

  One of the doors in the hall slid quietly open. Moving near-silently on soft-padded slippers, Leo ducked into what had once been an office and tucked herself into the closet at the back. Shutting the door behind her, she settled cross-legged on the floor of the tiny space and continued her reprogramming.

  I’ll need some helper programs, in case I get into trouble. I can’t tie those directly into the security system, but I can program them to prompt Sleeping Beauty in there to give them access anyway, as a subplot of the story line. Ah, good, as I suspected, he does have a random selector program set up to offer him story suggestions from time to time. If this works, he’ll be helping me to rescue him, without being the wiser. And I know he likes this file; he’s accessed it several times over the decades, though I don’t think he’ll be expecting the role-reversal I’m about to pull, let alone like it.

  Of course, if this doesn’t work, I won’t stay alive long enough to uncover his opinion on the matter . . . I’d better hurry; it looks like he’s three-quarters of the way through the current accessed file. I’d hop into that one and try to contact him that way if I didn’t think his personal security programs would fry me on the spot. Far safer to integrate myself into a dormant program before he accesses it, and just go along for the ride . . .

  SHEN Codah stared at his face in the mirror with just one thought running through his mind. I’m running out of time.

  The list of supplies needed to keep his sealed existence going was running dangerously low. He had three years’ worth of nutrients in the dwindling storage bays. The power source that supplied energy to the research lab had maybe five years left. The suspension gel hosting his body, that was down to just two years, maybe three if the recycling system didn’t break down again. He didn’t trust the backups. It didn’t matter that he had another seven hundred years’ worth of regenerative medicines to keep his body young and fit; the aging of an adult human body could only be slowed by so much.

  Here in the Administration Hall—which was nothing more than a simulated projection—he had long ago programmed the system to display his body as it actually was. His short-cropped hair was salted with gray among the stark black, and there were more fine lines beginning to form around his eyes and mouth than he could recall from his last self-examination. As always, his legs, arms, and chest were banded with metal from the sensor probes. Visible reminder of his self-incarceration.

  His muscles were still in good condition, since his body did move at least somewhat in response to the scenarios playing through his mind, and the gel provided a decent amount of resistance, keeping his muscles reasonably strong. But while he still felt young enough, he looked middle-aged. Shen wasn’t quite sure how many years had passed. He remembered giving up counting somewhere around fifty-six or fifty-seven.

  And how many bodies lie dead all around? You couldn’t count them, either . . .

  Turning away from the mirror, Shen snapped his fingers, summoning up the Realm List. It hung in the air, a familiar holographic projection. He wanted something fantasy this time. Scrolling down through the hovering list, one of the filenames caught his eye; it seemed different, maybe a little bolder in its colors. Not sure if he wanted to enact a fantasy romance right after living through a western scenario, Shen continued down the list . . . and found the same filename coming up again.

  That’s odd . . . Maybe I just scrolled the wrong way. Again, the colors for the scenario’s advertisement looked a little brighter and more lively than the rest. He stared at it, then shrugged. Why not? I’ve usually enjoyed this one, with its bit of swordplay and some decent lovemaking. But I’ll opt for some extra random variability this time. I know all of these programs too well by now on their normal settings.

  Opening up the file, he flicked his h
ands, tapping hovering check boxes and shifting holographic sliders almost randomly. Slapping the start lever, Shen watched as the marble and glass hallways of the Administration Hall swirled and dissolved. But instead of the green meadow he usually appeared in, he found himself standing in a castle bedchamber—the castle bedchamber, in the highest room of the tallest tower, where the sleeping princess usually lay.

  Frowning, Shen turned around, examining his surroundings. The fanciful canopied bed was over there, neatly made with crisp white sheets and a blue velvet coverlet. The chests of gowns and jewels sat neatly against the walls, which bore brightly woven tapestries, and in one of the window alcoves sat a spinning wheel, waiting for the princess to prick her finger upon it. Only he couldn’t see the princess.

  A glance down at his body showed it neatly clothed in the ancient garments that went with this setting, a red and gold doublet and matching striped hose. Red leather slippers protected his feet, and his waist was girded with a gold belt. But he wasn’t wearing armor, and he wasn’t carrying a sword.

  “Computer! How am I supposed to rescue the princess like this? What role am I playing?”

  Even the voice of the computer was different, feminine instead of masculine. “You are playing the role of the Sleeping Beauty. Your rescuer will enter gameplay once you prick your finger and lie upon the bed.”

  “And wait a hundred years? No, thank you,” Shen muttered. “But at least this version is different . . . Computer, override any protocols which would automatically put me to sleep as the main character, Sleeping Beauty. Plus any protocols which would try to make me play out the hundred years of enchanted sleep in real-time. I’m doing enough of that on my own.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Glancing at his fingers, he shrugged and crossed to the windowed alcove. Touching the distaff needle with the smallest of his fingers, he felt the mild sting. Virtually, he could see and feel the little bead of blood welling up, but he knew that nothing much had happened to his real body, other than that it had probably moved a bit in the pale blue goo supporting him physically.