Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales

by Sharon Lynn Fisher

  “What have I done to displease you, Master?” My voice comes out a frightened sob, but every nerve in my body is alive with want.

  He leans close, muttering in my ear, “I didn’t give you permission to come.”

  “I’m sorry, Master. Let me…” My breath works me so hard it’s difficult to speak. “Let me please you. Let me suck you.”

  He laughs and tugs me to my feet, reaffixing my leash above my rapidly rising and falling breasts.

  “You’ve yet to earn the granting of such requests.”

  He turns his back on me, almost pulling me down with the force he applies to my leash.

  Le Hameau

  I match Master’s pace as best I can as he leads me through the forest. A vine catches my ankle and I pitch forward, yelping as I anticipate the ground meeting my face—my hands are bound behind me.

  Suddenly, somehow, he’s there, catching me.

  My cheek presses against his sternum. His flesh is warm and brown, smelling of sandalwood. The animal lower half of him tickles my naked flesh, but the fur is soft as feathers.

  For a moment, I’m sure I feel him breathing into my hair, but then he’s righted me, not even meeting my gaze as he turns back down the path.

  The river accompanies us for maybe half a mile, and then again we break out of the trees.

  In the clearing, cozied around a picturesque lake, is a charming village from some previous epoch.

  “Le Hameau de la Reine,” says Master. “The private retreat of Marie Antoinette.”

  “The French queen? The one who—”

  Master shakes his head. “We don’t speak of it. Madame was maligned and misunderstood. Here, no one would dare threaten her.”

  I study the simple structures. “I thought she was a party girl. This looks like a farm.”

  “And so it is. Madame had Le Hameau built as a refuge from the constant pressures of court. A place where she could be herself, and see only the people she wished to see.”

  “Are we going to meet her?” I can’t help feeling curious about the woman he’s describing.

  “Yes. Madame is your second task. You must do something that surprises her.”

  My eyes move over his body, and again I consider refusing, just to feel his hands on me. But the way he caught me in the forest…the unexpected attentiveness, almost tenderness…it makes me want to please him.

  He steps around behind me and releases my wrists, and again he removes my leash. He gestures me forward, but this time as I walk toward my trial, he follows.

  “What do you mean ‘surprise her’?” I ask. Then add “Master” hastily.

  “That’s for you to discover.”

  He describes the various points of interest as we approach. A mill, a dairy, a house for the queen, a cottage that serves as a boudoir, and a farmhouse and barn. It’s a working farm, with laborers hired from the peasantry to give it an authentic feel. Madame herself milks cows in the dairy, along with her ladies. The grounds are beautiful in their half-cultivated, half-wild state—vegetable gardens, wildflowers, citrus trees, and the small lake around which it all is situated.

  We approach the cottage, where she is most likely to be found—the boudoir, or sitting room. A woman descends the stairs, running her hands over the tops of lavender stalks as her enormous white dress swishes from side to side. The illustrations I’ve seen of the queen all show her with hair arrangements double the size of her head, but today it’s pinned up simply, platinum curls falling softly around her face and neck.

  She smiles as she reaches us, holding out her hand to Master. He raises it to his lips and she purrs, “Bonjour, Leander.”

  So my sponsor has a name. I study his face as he returns her smile.

  The queen turns to me, eyes sliding over my body. “And who is this petit bonbon?”

  “A nymphet, Highness. I thought she might amuse you.”

  Lovely pink lips turn up at the corners. “Merci, Leander. You are too kind to us.” She reaches for me. “Come inside, mon chaton. You’ll take a chill.”

  The temperature is perfect. Idyllic. But I allow her to lead me inside.

  We climb the stairs to the cottage, leaving Leander behind, and the contrast indoors is striking. Instead of continuing the simple charm of the exterior, the interior offers all the luxuries a queen would require. Rich fabrics drape the furniture, windows, and walls. Everything is soft and plush. A low table bears a tray piled high with vibrantly colored confections too beautiful to sacrifice to an action so animalistic and crude as chewing.

  “I think we’re close to the same size, are we not, mon chaton?”

  I refrain from pointing out the size of her bust is at least twice the size of mine—though perhaps that has more to do with the machinery of her dress than her anatomy.

  She draws a curtain aside and studies a row of gowns, touching a pink one, now a mint one, and finally pulling a light blue one from its hanger and gesturing for me to join her.

  It takes a full ten minutes—during which time another lady joins us—and six hands to fit the dress into place and see to all its fastenings. I eye myself in the mirror they hold before me, and find that I am festooned like a wedding cake in a gown that perfectly fits me, even matches my eyes. But the lovely garment has one unusual feature: the straight bodice hugs and hoists, but the fabric above the bodice is missing. I am covered neck to wrist, hip to toe, but my chest and breasts are completely bare, except for the gleaming clamps.

  I’m a portrait of sexual suggestion. Moisture seeps from between my legs, dampening my thighs.

  “Isn’t she lovely?” cries Madame, clasping her hands like a child. “Come sit next to me, mon chaton.”

  Again I comply, sinking onto a sort of low sofa next to her. Her lady seats herself primly beside me.

  “Champagne?” asks Madame, pouring a glass without waiting for an answer.

  “Merci, my lady. Um. Your Highness.”

  Her laughter fills the room like music. She hands me a glass, and then drains her own. I follow suit.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks, lifting the sweets tray.

  My stomach growls in protest of the forgotten lunch.

  “Which would you like?”

  “They’re all so beautiful,” I murmur, intimidated by my elegant hostess.

  “Aren’t they?” Madame lifts a tiny iced cake crowned with a slice of strawberry that looks just like a heart. She takes a bite, moans and rolls her eyes, and then presses it to my lips. I open my mouth, and she pushes the rest inside.

  The sugary mess of vanilla, almond, and strawberry melts in my mouth, and I wash it down with more champagne. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  She laughs again, and this time picks up something that looks very like a cupcake, with a giant dollop of dark-chocolate frosting. She drags her finger through the silky mush and pushes it toward my mouth, but in transit the frosting falls from her finger to the descending slope of my left breast.

  “Oh dear,” she says, clucking softly. “Lady Elisabeth, will you help her? We mustn’t ruin her gown.”

  The lady seated next to me smiles sweetly, but instead of reaching for a napkin, she dips her head to my breast, where she proceeds to lick away the frosting. Even after the frosting is gone, she continues to lick at me, tongue dipping ever closer to my nipple. My pussy weeps, and I moan softly.

  “Elisabeth.” The queen laughs, slapping the lady lightly on the cheek.

  The lady blushes and rises again to her seat.

  I think about what Master has said. I have no doubt that I can easily pass a couple of very enjoyable hours in the company of these women, but surprise Madame? What does he even mean by that? I’m sitting on the queen’s settee with my breasts hanging free, her lady-in-waiting licking frosting from me. What can I possibly do to shock this woman?

  As I consider this, a dollop of whipped cream from a lemon tart flops to the top of my right breast and slides down to my nipple.

  “How clumsy I am!” Again
Madame laughs. “I’ll take care of it this time.”

  Madame’s eyes meet mine, and she presses me against the back of the settee. She dips her head, and I feel her soft, warm tongue licking at my clamped nipple, like a kitten at milk, while her platinum ringlets tickle my naked flesh.

  Inspiration strikes.

  “What base table manners for a queen,” I say sternly. “I am shocked.”

  Madame straightens instantly, blue-gray eyes wide. “My dear, I don’t believe you realize—”

  “Stand up, Madame,” I order, rising from the settee.

  Her eyes go even wider. She exchanges a glance with the doe-eyed Elisabeth.

  “Get up!” I bark.

  She rises slowly, smoothing the front of her dress, and I reach out and seize her wrist. She gives a little scream as I drag her to the center of the room.

  “Lady Elisabeth, help me remove Madame’s dress.”

  I can see Madame’s cheeks have gone flame red, even behind the whitening powder. Impossible to assess which emotion has caused this. No turning back now.

  We strip the gown from the milky white shoulders and push it all the way to the floor. There are layers and layers underneath, and Madame emits little squeals as I roughly relieve her of panniers and petticoats and bloomers until finally she stands in nothing but her corset. I unfasten the top hooks, peeling back the fabric to expose her full breasts, and she yelps as I pinch each of the raspberry sweetmeats.

  I draw close to her, so our breasts press together. I bend to her ear, feeling her little puffs of breath in my hair. I murmur, “I must punish you for forgetting your place, Madame.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she says tightly.

  I reach between her legs and she gasps. I hold on hard, squeezing the folds of her pussy together until my hand is wet, and she moans. “Wouldn’t I?”

  I wipe her moisture onto her bare buttock. “Bend over the back of the settee,” I order.

  Her eyes still hold a challenge, so I grab her arms and shove her against it, my hand flat against her back as I fold her body. With a grunt her hands go to the seat to support her weight, her ass angling into the air, breasts dangling above the corset.

  I turn to Lady Elisabeth. “Fetch the faun from outside.”

  She glances at the window and then shoots me a puzzled look.

  “The half-man, half-beast waiting by the cottage. Go on!”

  When she’s gone, I glance around the room until I find something that will serve—a hooked shepherdess cane leaning against the wall near the door.

  The cane is light in my hand as I grip it like a baseball bat, near the hooked end.

  Without warning I swing it against the queen’s heart-shaped hindquarters, and she screams.

  I don’t know whether the queen ever thought she’d need a safe word, so I pause to see if she’ll try to rise from her perch.

  “How dare you!” she shouts at me. But she doesn’t move.

  The delicate flesh of her ass is bright red, not just where the cane struck. I raise it and strike her again, and again she screams. But her ass angles higher in the air, and I watch as perfectly symmetrical beads of moisture slide down the insides of her thighs.

  “I think perhaps Madame is enjoying her punishment.”

  Engrossed in my task, I haven’t heard Master come in, and I jump at the sound of his voice so close behind me.

  “I think Madame is tiring,” I say to Lady Elisabeth. “Go around and strip off her corset and help hold her up.”

  The lady does as I say, and requires no encouragement from me to take two handfuls of the queen’s breasts as she supports her torso.

  “Now,” I say, angling my head toward Master, still behind me. “Madame has acted in a low, common way, so we must use her hard, as is fitting to her station.”

  “How will we do this?” asks Master, his voice deep and soft.

  “I will fuck her. You will help me.”

  Master makes a sound that is part growl, part groan.

  Moving to the other side of the settee, I knock the beautiful confections to the floor. Then I drag the low table to the back of the settee. I make the others wait while I remove my petticoat and hoop skirt. Feeling Master’s eyes on my half-naked body, my heart gallops on.

  I climb onto the low table, raising the skirt of my gown and kneeling down to push my bare pussy against Madame’s ass.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I say sweetly, “Fuck us, Master.”

  I hear Master’s hooves knocking against the floor. In an instant his hard abdomen is against my ass, and his cock passes between my legs as he drives into her. I shift higher onto her ass so he can penetrate her all the way. I grip her hip bones in my hands, and he grips mine, as he pumps hard in and out of her.

  Madame gives an agonized, hungry cry as Master slams against us. Lady Elisabeth holds her in place, kneading her breasts up and down. Master’s cock slides across the outer lips of my pussy, his head nuzzling at my neck and ear, until I almost explode.

  They come hard, with a high-pitched scream and a deep, guttural moan. He mashes against her, and I’m sandwiched between their spasms.

  He withdraws, both of them still panting.

  His eyes meet mine. “Come for me, sweet slut. With the first man you meet.”

  I’m dripping and pounding and quivering as I run out of the cottage. Maybe ten yards away I notice a man headed in our direction, carrying a large, round bale of something on his back. I run to him, breasts bobbing, and stop just before him. He’s a muscle-bound, suntanned young Adonis, and his wide eyes are fixed on my clamped nipples.

  “Put it down,” I order huskily.

  He drops the bale of wool, and I throw myself over it, lifting my skirt and angling my ass toward him.

  I glance back and see him tearing at the opening of his pants. A moment later his cock has slammed into me and I shriek with animal relief.

  “Fuck me!” I cry, and he pounds away at me, grunting and groaning until our bodies lock against each other. I start to come, and he peels my buttocks apart and jams in tighter.

  Moaning and convulsing, my ass sealed against his stomach, I come hard, for no one but myself.

  The Faun

  We leave Madame in the care of Lady Elisabeth. Flushed and exhausted, she exchanges a few lines in French with Master, and we take our leave.

  Leashed again, following Master down the garden path, I ask, “Have I passed my test, Master?”

  He doesn’t answer for a beat, but finally replies without turning, “She called you a surprising young lady.”

  I smile, interpreting this as a yes.

  We continue along the path until we arrive at a beautiful bower. The arch of greenery hangs heavy with honeysuckle and fat, purple grapes.

  “My third test?” I ask, growing bolder, as I haven’t incurred Master’s displeasure for a while.

  “Yes.”

  He moves to stand beside me, and I study his profile. “What must I do?”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t answer that. Only you can.”

  With that, he turns to me and removes the clamps from my nipples. They throb with the sudden release. Then he moves away and situates himself under an oak tree a short distance off, folding his arms over his chest.

  I’m tired and sore from my exertions, and my stomach has given up grumbling in favor of a hollow ache. But, unwilling to depart the garden without finding out what lies at the end of this quest, I rally my strength.

  Stepping closer to the bower, I reach out to touch a fat cluster of grapes.

  Hungry? whispers a voice, and I jerk my hand away.

  Don’t let me interrupt you. This time the voice is accompanied by movement, and I see a snake winding among the bower vines. It’s as thick as my upper arm, and I’m not sure how I missed it, though its coloring closely matches the greenery of the bower.

  “What happens if I eat them?” I ask, taking a step back.

  The snake shifts its head to meet my gaze, pink,
forked tongue darting in and out of its mouth. Eyes glassy black and inexpressive.

  You cease to hunger. For a time. Another tongue flick. Sweets satisfy, but don’t sustain.

  This is sounding suspiciously like another riddle. I breathe in the heavy perfume of the honeysuckle blossoms and consider this. “And where would I find something more substantial?”

  The first step is to know what you truly crave.

  I wonder if Eve and The Garden know one of the creatures inhabiting their world is sabotaging their product. But of course the creature, and the world, exist only in my head. And I am well aware that I need to do something about the stasis that has become my life and stop looking for ways to escape.

  “Going after what we truly crave can be risky,” I reply.

  Let us hope so! replies the snake, and I interpret the odd series of hisses that follows as laughter. If the real you were one to play it safe, you would have used your talisman by now.

  Good ol’ Dorothy. The archetypal bastard’s got a point.

  You have an opportunity before you, should you wish to practice.

  The snake’s head flicks in a gesturing motion, and I glance behind me. Master still waits, back against the oak tree, arms crossed, expression impassive.

  The third and final test. The thing I’ve wanted most since I arrived.

  “What can I offer him? What is his weakness?”

  Again the hissing laugh. Do you really have to ask? The question you should be asking is do you have the courage to offer it?

  Turning to face Master, I step back to stand under the honeysuckle arch. I feel the power of that shape, symbolizing both strength and opportunity.

  “I defy you,” I say simply. “I’ll do as I like now.”

  I watch the storm clouds gather in his expression. His hooves ravage the soft earth as he rushes at me. He thuds to a halt before the arch, gaze scorching me where I stand.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” I say.

  He grabs a handful of hair, yanking my head back so my chin juts in the air.