Bedtime Stories: A Collection of Erotic Fairy Tales
Page 37
Sagging with relief, Jack nodded. “Thank you. And thank His Majesty, too, for such deep generosity.”
The Wee Man tapped the side of his nose and smiled. “Oh, you’ll have cause to thank him again. Just teach your children to respect the Wee Folk . . . and we might have a boon for your firstborn son one day, too.” He paused and glanced to the side, then nodded. “Your wife is coming, and I can tell she has an interesting question on her mind. You’d best attend to her needs—and don’t be forgetting that bowl of milk, if you please.”
“Every night, for as long as my cattle and my goats give milk,” Jack promised, clasping hands with him. “For you, while you visit, and for the court of this Prince of the Lake, for as long as I shall live and milk cows—you may tell him his Wee Folk are most welcome by me. And they would have been welcomed properly all the sooner had I known they were about!”
Chuckling, the Wee Man tipped his hat. “First, they had to be sure what kind of a man they had on their southern doorstep hereabouts. You’re a good man, Jack King. A good evening to you!”
“And to you,” Jack whispered, watching the Wee Man fade literally from his sight. A few moments later, he broke from his daze, aware that his wife was on her way out. The Wee Folk were never wrong about such things. Rising from the hay, he dusted off the chaff, wondering what question she might have for him.
A moment later, he almost sagged back onto his knees again, for his wife appeared in the barn doorway clad only in her shift. A shift which clung in visibly damp patches to her freshly scrubbed skin. Desire gleamed in her eyes, though her cheeks were slightly flushed. “Husband . . .”
“Yes, Wife?” he asked, devouring the sight of her curves through the thin, summer-weight muslin of her shift. Even her feet, bare on the soil at the barn entrance, were gorgeous to him.
“I was wondering . . . why did you laugh so hard the other day?”
Dismay snapped his gaze up to her face. For a moment, he forgot what the Wee Man had just promised, and horror that Ellen would go back on her word so soon churned and clenched in his gut. Then the King of the Tor’s promise caught up to him and he relaxed. But only by a little bit. Licking his lips, Jack carefully asked his now pink-faced wife, “Do you not remember what I promised you, Ellen, should you ever in your insolence ask me that question again?”
Her blush brightened. Slowly, seductively, she strolled closer, until she stood in front of him. “Oh, I do remember. I remember how you swore you would . . . spank me . . . again.”
Lifting a hand to his chest, she dragged it down over the sweat-dampened thatch of hair, outlining each of the muscles her fingers passed, until she reached the waistband of his doeskin breeches. Her fingers slipped to one side, toying with the buttons of the fall. The near-caress of his masculine flesh made that flesh twitch and strain in the direction of her hand.
Beyond her, out in the yard between barn and house, he could see a certain barn cat plopping her backside down on the ground, tail curling around her haunches and whiskers perking in smug, self-satisfied humor.
Ellen recaptured his attention with a shift of her hand straight to the bulge of his groin, and a sensual purr of her own. “I remember all of it very well . . .”
Love and lust blazed within him hotter than the midsummer sun. Wordlessly, Jack dragged his wife to the nearest pile of freshly strewn hay. The animals could wait just a little longer to be milked, as well as the rest of their chores. He had a deliberately insolent wife begging for penance.
And Jack loved his wife far too much to say no.
JEAN JOHNSON
The best part about being a writer is the joy that comes from entertaining others. Whether it’s sad or scary, silly or sexy, I love knowing that one of my stories has given someone a good time. I hope this collection contains one of those stories for you, too. I currently live in the Pacific Northwest, but the easiest way to chat with me is to drop by my website at www.jeanjohnson.net.