Just ahead of her, she heard the rhythm of axe on wood. She was a woodcutter’s daughter. She knew all of them—Rolf, her father, even Hansel when he’d taken a brief turn at it—had a distinctive sound in chopping. The woodcutter she neared now was the one she’d longed for.
Her skin tingled as she dropped the repulsive woman’s black cloak, leaving her in the hip-grazing, breast-baring, sky-blue-to-match-her-eyes dirndl. She stood in a copse of trees, watching his long swing of the axe. His sun-browned arms bulged. sweat glistened on his broad, bare back and the golden blond hair competed with the sun for brilliance.
She stepped into view and he stopped mid-swing, staring at her in her scant costume. “Gretel,” he breathed.
She threw herself onto him, pressing her soft breasts to his hard chest. “Oh, Papa, I’ve missed you so.”
“Gretel, where have you been? Where’s your brother?”
With her arms still wrapped around his neck, she bent her legs toward the ground to stand on her feet, sliding strategically, but ostensibly innocently, down the front of his body.
“She said you wouldn’t love us or want us anymore. We had to go away and Hansel didn’t want to come back but I did. But this is all I’ve had to wear.” She stepped back and turned for a full inspection, noting with satisfaction the growth in her father’s groin. “But she’s wrong, isn’t she? You still love me. You want me, don’t you Papa?”
He slipped the axe handle through the loop on the side of his breeches. “Maria said you and Hansel…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
Gretel bit her bottom lip. This was part of her dream from the previous night. She could only hope it would go as well in practice.
“He looked like you, Papa,” she said with pouty lips and downcast eyes, moving close to him again. “He looked like you, but he didn’t have your strong arms…” She stroked his biceps and lower arms, pressing their bodies together. He was still growing beneath her. He dropped his chin onto the top of her head. “…or your strong, big hands…” She lifted his hand to her mouth and lifted her eyes to his heated, helpless gaze. She placed their hands on her breast. “…yours are the only ones I’ve ever wanted on me.”
“Gretel,” he said weakly.
She leaned her head on his chest, whimpering. “I want to come home, Papa.” He tentatively put his other arm around her. “I want to be there with you.”
“Gretel,” he sighed, tightening his embrace.
She took a breath for this most important step. She ran her fingers, feather light, over his chest. “I want to come home…” With her other hand, she removed the one he had on the small of her back and inched it to his axe. “…but I can’t, with her there.” She sniffled and lifted her face for him to see her tears. Understanding and crippling desire were a maelstrom in his storm-tinted eyes.
She grazed his groin again, as she stood on tiptoe to place a nearly imperceptible kiss on his throat and squeeze the hand he’d still not removed from her breast. “Do you want me home with you, Papa?”
Resolve clouded over all the emotions in his eyes. “Wait here.”
She wrapped her arms around her father’s neck and opened her mouth on his, teasing him with a tongue she wouldn’t yet give him. Staring at his beautiful, grown daughter, he gulped and turned in the direction of their house.
“Please, don’t be gone long,” she cried. “Someone might come and you see how I’m dressed.” She swept her hands over her body again, hoping she looked irresistible but vulnerable, not calculating and completely in control. He slung the axe over his shoulder and hurried away.
Sighing with contentment, Gretel wandered the small area that carried the sharp smell of newly-cut wood. She spotted clusters of red berries on a bush and plucked them to pop into her mouth. She bit down on them, savoring the juice bleeding down her throat.
In an impressively short amount of time, he returned and lifted her into his arms. She pretended not to notice the streaks of red in his blond beard and continued her barrage of soft kisses on his chest and neck all the way up the hill to their home. She pretended not to notice the red-streaked axe by the door. “I love you so, Papa,” she said.
He winced at the name as he carried his daughter over the threshold. “Call me Leopold.”
***
“She’s fucking our father,” Hansel growled as he pumped his outrage into Mistress’s rear. He thrust with each word. “She’s. Fucking. Our. Father!”
Bent over the rocking horse she’d conjured earlier, Mistress howled, all illusions of power over him gone. He’d been venting his hate and fury for hours, in every position imaginable. She was exhausted and ecstatic. If she’d only known he was so capable when they’d first arrived…
“Don’t worry, my beautiful man,” she panted as he shot boiling liquid into her and she collapsed to the floor. “When Cygna returns, she’ll find the key and release us, then I’ll send her back. She’ll take care of them.”
Hansel, still in his tight shorts with open flap, stood over her, the senseless suspenders straining against his heaving, bare chest. Slightly mollified, he helped her to her feet. “How?”
She rested her head against him. “Trust me.”
***
Delighted to be back in her own room on her own bed, with the late afternoon blaze of color filtering through her father’s impregnable wall, Gretel rotated her hips over him, the ends of her maple braids cupping her bare breasts. She’d enjoyed the feeling of breaking tabu with Hansel, but it was nothing to her current pleasurable debasement. She smiled down on him. “Do you like me like this, Pa—Leopold?”
He rose from his prone position, to hold her sweet face in his hands, pushing ever deeper into his daughter. “I love you, Gretel.” He kissed her with more passion than he ever had any woman, even her mother. He leaned her back for a long lick of her prefect torso, stomach to sternum. The world be damned.
The world responded with a beating of giant wings and a massive, flapping silhouette on the other side of the wall.
“Cygna,” Gretel cried, as the bird broke through the fabric and bit the vein in her neck as Mistress had said. The man flailed his arms uselessly. Cygna bit him too, pulling skin from his thick neck. With blood dripping from her beak, she flew back out the window, to return to Mistress. Leopold groaned with agony. He fell back on the pillow with Gretel in his arms and kissed her one last time.
***
Drawn by the strong smell of the smoke puffing from the chimney in the middle of the summer, the villagers came to investigate. They found the naked father and daughter in one bed in a congealed but contained lake of blood.
The carnage in the other bedroom, however, led more than than one stalwart man, including Rolf, to run outside and vomit their revulsion. Easy to determine in a woodcutter’s home that it was done with an axe. When they extinguished the fire, they found enough bones in the ashes to identify a woman, Maria.
“Must’ve been the brother,” they deduced. But, where was he?
***
Sometimes, Hansel preferred the cage to the bed, especially when Cygna brought them young guests and Mistress ate too much. Green-eyed boys seemed to give her the worst indigestion. He also retreated there when it had been too long since they’d had protein and she’d wrinkle, her voice reduced to a croak, her body plumping then shriveling, becoming stooped and creaky.
Then they would think how sad it was that they’d been reduced to their impoverished, hungry state because they’d loved and lusted for Gretel too much.
Occasionally, they’d share a few cupcakes, lick the frosting and crumbs off of each other and give in to the memories. They recalled her flitting around the cottage from chore to chore in her tiny blue dress, how adorable she’d been playing with the bubbles, and how unearthly beautiful in orgasm.
But usually, Hansel would nibble just enough roof to push her face and body from his mind. He’d plaster on a caricature of his once bright smile and return to a rejuvenated Mistress for the deprav
ities they both craved. They even donned veil and jacket in a mockery of a wedding.
And together they lived, not happily ever after, but…not so bad.
Snow White, Rose Red and Bear Gold
Rose Red had wanted Snow White for over a year. She wanted to kiss her plump lips and run her hands over Snow’s body to see for herself if it was all as beautiful as her face. Every night, as they lay together in their summer bed, naked but for thin, filmy gowns, poor Rose itched to touch the princess. She stiffened like blonde marble, her eyes sneaking glimpses of the luscious black-haired lovely next to her—the slope from her high, round breasts to the flat stomach and then the shadowy puff between her legs.
Rose’s mother worked at the castle as a seamstress. Rose had occasionally gone with her when she was younger and played with the princess so close to her age. When the king remarried, Rose was no longer allowed to be there. So she was surprised when her mother came home with Snow and said she was going to live with them.
Rose’s mother hadn’t explained that she’d begged the king, after witnessing his new queen’s cruelty to his daughter, and that even when she’d told him, he’d demanded she submit to his six personal guards in front of him, before he’d agreed. He required only that Snow return to the castle for a week once a month, a schedule kept as the girls reached adulthood.
In the first winter month while she was gone this time, Rose walked across the frosted pasture to the magistrate's house, the bundle of men's shirts and woman's dresses shielding her from the morning wind.
In the magistrate's wife's bedchamber, Rose helped the woman, Bertha, out of her every-day dress to try on the silk gown she'd helped her mother make.
At 30, Bertha was closer in age to Rose than her husband and still thin, her skin still soft, with maids to do all the drudgery and expensive creams, lotions and perfumes available to her.
Rose breathed in Bertha's undefinable but delightful scent as she crouched to fluff the hem of the gown and then rose, eyes lingering on the older woman's chest, until she stood at her full height, just below Bertha's chin. She lifted her gaze to the woman's sparkling green eyes, flushed cheeks and parted lips.
“You’re so beautiful, Rose,” she whispered while she pressed her hip bone against the younger girl. It was the third time Rose had been there that week and they'd both known what would happen this time.
Bertha untied the front laces of Rose’s corset for the marblesque breasts to tumble out, like crystals of sugar to be tongued and nibbled. Rose moaned as the young matron fumbled under her skirts and palmed her mons venus, tickling a fingertip at Rose’s opening.
The virginal blonde kneaded her breasts and closed her eyes, breathing out her pleasure and desire for more. She licked her lips and threw back her head, unaware of how bewitching she was.
“Bertha?” called a voice from beyond the closed door of the matron’s dressing room. Heavy footsteps on the stairs halted Bertha before plunging her fingers into Rose Red’s wishful well. “Where’s my pretty wife?” the magistrate asked. “Come in here and make an old man feel like a young one.”
The women quickly adjusted their clothing and Rose hurried to the exit after hearing the footsteps pass the door, only to run into the chest of the man who had doubled back, still looking for his young wife.
“Hello,” he said, clutching Rose’s arms, “and who are you?”
“This is the seamstress, Dear,” Bertha explained, pushing herself between her husband and Rose. “I only trust your shirts to her and her mother.”
Rose took the opportunity of the intervention to back away from the man, groping for the wood of the staircase behind her. She inched down a couple of steps.
“What’s your hurry?” asked the magistrate. “Why not join us?” His smile was a leer, a look of expectation and entitlement, as he draped an arm around his wife and squeezed her breast.
Rose gulped, noting Bertha's face red with embarrassment. She turned to sprint down the rest of the stairs and out of the house, slamming the door on the man’s earthy laughter. She hied across the magistrate’s pasture, dusted with snow, as the freezing rain began falling. She ran into the woods, seeking shelter from freezing gusts. Leaning against a thick oak tree, she dragged air into her body, suddenly aware she’d left her cloak in Bertha’s room. The woman could keep it. Rose was never going back there, with the chance of seeing that man again.
A roar emanated from the copse of trees in front of her. Shivering, Rose crossed her arms and stared at the source of the sound, prepared to run if necessary. A massive brown bear plodded into view, grunting and tossing his head.
Rose ran. “Bear, there you are,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. His thick fur warmed her immediately and she wished she could crawl into the skin with him. “I’ve had such a terrible morning. Please take me home.”
The beast dropped low so Rose could climb onto his back then he turned to amble through the woods, knowing where to go to avoid the onslaught of weather beyond. Straddled over him, Rose’s thighs rubbed against the warm, scratchy fur. In her haste at Bertha’s, she’d forgotten her girdle, as well as the cloak. The coat prickled where the woman’s fingers had been, before interruption. Rose pushed forward and back on the bear’s spine, recreating that sensation.
“Oh, Bear,” she sighed, “only you know how I long for her.” She lay across the animal’s back, connecting the rest of her body to the rest of his heat and whispering in his ear, “But I can’t make love to a princess.”
She lifted her head as they came out on the road, nearly colliding with a royal entourage. The door of the carriage opened and Snow White looked out. “Rose Red, where is your cape? You would freeze if not for Bear.”
Rose smiled at the sight of her friend, who climbed out of the carriage, tall in her dark blue cloak, regal in tone to her guard. “You’re dismissed. I shall go with them.”
Her grinning dimple danced in her left cheek, close to the tantalizing mouth, as she walked toward the bear and girl, holding a heavy blanket. “Thank you, Bear,” she said as he knelt for her to mount. She wrapped the blanket and her arms around the suddenly rigid Rose. “Take us home.”
***
He might look like a bear, walking on four legs with long claws and snout, but inside the blubber and fur, he was still a young man, with two sweet, pretty girls sleeping with him in front of the fireplace. Their cottage had been his refuge for years and they had often lain with him but now…
Every bump and curve of Rose Red’s body, stretched over his back, tortured him with desire and Snow White lay before him, resting her head on his furry brown arm. He scanned the form made even more enticing in the firelight and brushed a single claw across the bottom of her foot. Her eyes remained closed, her chest continued its rhythmic lifting and lowering with her sleep, but her little sound of approval at the gesture encouraged the bear to go further.
He extended his long, rough tongue to lick the bottom of her foot. It twitched in response but the slight smile across Snow’s ruby lips pushed him again. The tongue slid across her other foot, then up her leg. She sighed and parted those luscious lips. Her eyelids flickered.
Bear allowed himself a low hum as he opened his mouth on her kneecap. On top of him, Rose shifted, her hip bone teasing a softer part of his back where her warmth could penetrate. His eyes rolled in the back of his head. He was crazed with lust for the women who’d befriended him when they were little girls, soon after that miserable little gnome had transformed him from a handsome prince into a lumbering mass of animal.
Admittedly, he’d thought at the time that it was a small (and temporary) price to pay for the days-long sex with the gnome’s daughter. She was so adorable, with dimples and a china doll face, and she’d ridden his teen cock like a hobby horse, squeezing her pretty pink breasts as though they were puddings, with the sweetest cherries jutting from them. She was tiny, tight and tart and the first-timer couldn’t get enough of her, until her father had come home in a rage
and exacted his revenge.
The prince had offered the gnome gold and a promise to never touch his daughter again to change him back, but a couple of accidents that had resulted in his beard being maimed had hardened the little man’s anger. He’d taken the gold but left the cocky, handsome young prince less than desirable or suitable for pretty young girls.
Snow and Rose weren’t your typical young girls though. They had come upon the gnome when his beard had been grabbed by large fish and birds. They’d saved the ingrate by cutting his beard to free him and Bear had made the mistake of laughing about it, which had doomed him to remain the four-legged creature that most girls would fear. But not Rose and Snow.
They had loved rolling around with him in the meadow or riding on his bare back through the forest and had offered him the warm fire during cold winters. A number of winters had passed. The girls were young women, whom young men would want to claim. Bear had taken to dragging himself in the snow to cool his desire. Tonight, Rose’s mother was gone, he was a prince…and not going anywhere.
But he realized the limitations, as he inched over to Snow’s side. He would never want to hurt them and knew he was simply too big so, he could warm them but would primarily be encouraging them. He shifted to lower Rose next to Snow. She turned to spoon the soft body.
Snow had complained to him all about her return to the castle. Her blue eyes had blazed with fury as she’d told him her evil stepmother had spanked her again and dug her sharp nails between Snow’s tender legs, piercing her labia.
He’d been unable to comfort her then but had an idea now. Her gown was pushed up, revealing the high, firm buttocks with red marks from a cruel but enthusiastic hand. Bear ran his tongue over them and Snow sighed as the marks faded and the stinging ceased. She turned on her back and looked up at him with a small smile.
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