That night I danced with girl after girl, hoping one of them would meet my requirements and ignite my desires. But no one even raised a spark. And it was not for lack of trying on their parts. Most ladies wore gowns so low cut that the edges of their brownish-pink areolas peeked over the top of the neckline, and I knew this was intended to make me grow rock hard and completely irrational. I knew, too, that they expected me to bury my face in their bosoms during a dramatic dip in the gavotte to take a surreptitious bite out of these flesh-apples pushed upward beneath their bodices like offerings at a banquet. So to satisfy their expectations, and perhaps their cravings, I ran my long tongue deep into each maiden’s perfumed décolletage and nibbled with gusto on their breasts. I felt their nipples tighten and wrinkle up like ambrosia berries until the tips grew purple and throbbing. One after another, I would sashay my partners behind the camouflage of some marble column or velvet drapery and there I would greedily reach inside their gowns and pull their tits up over the scoop necks to suck on their protruding nipples with the grunts and sighs of a madman. As I pressed an insistent knee against the heavy brocade of their skirts, searching for the hidden “v” between their legs, I would run my tongue up their chests to the delicate arch of their necks, their chins, their waiting mouths, and then back down to their aching nipples. This made some women delightfully agitated; they returned the pressure of torso against torso, they rubbed their thighs together beneath their sumptuous petticoats and squirmed in my arms like exotic fish. Others—those with the tiny, exquisitely sensitive, almost translucent nipples of a teenaged virgin—simply swooned when I tasted their delicacies, rolling their eyes back in their heads and collapsing in a seductively limp tangle in my dancing arms. I enjoyed administering these love bites, enjoyed seeing the milky complexions of the maidens flush red and bloom with shame and desire. But as for me, I felt no fire within.
Then she entered, seeming to float to the top of the golden staircase. She hesitated, surveying the undulating dance floor below, then slowly, purposefully, like a giant cat, stretched one long leg out from beneath her ankle-length gown. For just a moment before her descent, that extended limb hung poised above the first stair, and that is when she slew and felled me like a lovesick dragon. At the end of this shapely leg was a rosy, naked foot the likes of which I had only dreamt in my dark, secret little daydreams. The tender foot beckoned me to come to it, to sniff it and suckle it and venerate its arch and instep and tiny fresh-water-pearl toes with all the passion of a zealot....
Ah, but perhaps I’ve confused you or led you astray. I said the dear foot was naked, and you must be wondering what sort of a low-rent trollop comes to a ball at the palace with feet unshod and au naturel! My mistake. You see, I remember this foot as naked because I could see every curve and coloring of its perfect form. But this charming appendage was not actually nude. Rather, it was clad in a unique sort of footwear, a shoe that visually exposed all the vulnerabilities of the naked foot to an admirer’s ravenous eye yet held that cherished nakedness encased in a clear coffin, thus keeping the foot aloof and always just slightly beyond his grubby reach! For this maiden’s slipper was made out of glass—fine leaded crystal that rang like a church bell when heel tapped against heel—and it was seductively and maddeningly transparent as it gleamed in the light of the candelabra. All five toes were visible, like fat little piggies lined up for slaughter, but they were squeezed together and locked away behind their tiny glass enclosure designed to frustrate my overwhelming urge to bite them one by one. The shoes were shaped like standard dancing pumps, except for the fact that the heels were so extremely long, high, and spiky that they made my loved one tiptoe on the tender balls of her feet and forced her instep into a severe and exaggerated arch that could have curled itself around my throbbing penis. This extreme bending and arching of her supple tootsies had a superb effect on the rest of her lower extremities, forcing, as it did, the lithe, rounded calf muscle to flex and shape itself into its most feminine and enticing lines. I could see glimpses of this exciting lower leg, and sometimes even a tease of knee or thigh, whenever she lifted her skirt during the minuet or kicked out her well-turned ankle during the spirited rondelais.
Oh, to prostrate myself beneath such a foot! To feel the smooth sole of that slipper grind itself into my heaving chest, to kiss the rounded toe of the pump and taste the neutral covering of glass while I could only imagine the rich flavor of hot, moist flesh that lay within its confines! I would massage my lady’s exhausted calves and ankles after she’d been dancing all night long, I would anoint her fragile skin with fine creams and oils, I would clean between her toes with my tongue and mix my tears with exotic lacquers to paint her seashell nails. Then, to repay me for my devotion, my cruel mistress would dig the glass heel, like an icicle shard, into my spine and buttocks, roll my hardened but helpless organ between her heels, make me scream for mercy as she stomped all over my defiled royal personage….
But as suddenly as she’d walked into my life, she was gone. At the stroke of midnight, my high-heeled dream flew to the top of the palace stairs and ran out the door. I’d never even gotten her name. All I had of the extraordinary woman was one glass mule, for as she ran it slipped off her foot, flew through the air, and fell into my outstretched hands. The silvery glass, still fogged up by the scented sweat of her delicious instep, did not shatter. My heart did.
Who was this creature whose brutally beautiful feet had danced their way into my life, only to disappear as swiftly as she’d come? No one seemed to know. Every flat-footed nag in the neighborhood who’d shown up at the ball could be accounted for. But the mystery nymph with the crystal slippers seemed to vanish into the midnight mist.
And so I undertook to find my lady at any cost. I began an arduous journey, traveling from house to house with the matchless shoe, searching for the foot that could wear this trophy of my lust and love. Time and again I was disappointed. The shoe was either too large or too small for every instep I cradled during these frantic fittings, although many a lass took extreme measures to try to fit into the transparent pump. Some of them slathered up their chubby, stubby toes with cooking lard in order to squeeze into the slender box, others sought to stuff the shoe with tissue when they thought I was not looking so their scrawny and bunioned appendages would appear to measure up.
And several took pains to distract me from their inferior feet by giving me their audience sans undergarments. I would bend to place the shoe upon a maiden’s left foot, only to find she’d extended her right.
“Oops!” she would giggle, then ceremoniously recross her legs, making sure that in the fanning motion of these limbs her flimsy skirt would be raised just long enough for me to catch a dark glimpse of hairy cavern and breathe in a whiff of feminine musk.
It was not that these teasings left me entirely cold; I could feel slight stirrings of desire whenever I had my face buried between some mademoiselle’s knees as I tried to slip the shoe upon her provocative, dangling tootsie. But at no time were these vague arousals comparable to the ardor I’d felt for the feet at the fete—those sensual and dainty pink doves I longed to feel wiggle their toes against my testicles or drive their heel between the globes of my buttocks. And nowhere did the shoe fit.
I came at last to the final house, a modest dwelling on the fringe of the peat bogs. There I was met by a monstrous woman so anxious for one of her two querulous daughters to fill the shoes of the intended princess that she’d cut whole chunks of tissue off their repugnant hooves in order to cram them into the slipper! Alas, there was not a fit to be had in this pitiful household, and as this was the last cottage in my dominion, I despaired of ever finding my true love.
“Isn’t there any other person in this house, my good woman?” I cried in desperation. “Some niece or cousin I’ve not yet seen?”
“The only other member of this household is my senile husband,” the gargoyle-matriarch cackled. “And I doubt his gouty old foot would fit!”
But at that mome
nt a sparrow of a girl, dressed in rags and clodhopper work boots and covered from head to toe with the black soot of cinders, crept into the room. She began to clean the fire pit.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Nobody! Just a little gutter slut who mops our floors and licks our sandals clean—”
I cut off the crone with a sharp gesture of my left hand and with my right I held out the translucent high-heeled pump toward the blushing waif.
“Please. May I see your foot?” I begged.
She crept toward me and sat upon a wooden bench to loosen the laces of her preposterous boots. And then, as if in slow motion, she lifted out one perfect, polished foot that shone like a beacon in the firelight.
“Oh God,” I sighed, feeling my head lighten and my groin tighten with the rushing blood. “My mistress, my princess, my love….”
I fell to my knees and began to kiss and lick every nook and cranny of that plump bit of flesh until it was covered in my slick tribute to her pretty pied and it slid effortlessly into the glass slipper for a perfect fit.
...there was a beautiful young girl called Goldie, named so because she sought perfection in all things and wanted every experience she had to be “as good as gold.” Of course, life being what it is, Goldie was often disappointed and frustrated. Since she couldn’t control the wayward acts of others nor get the rather chaotic universe to cooperate, she felt the ever-widening gap between her lofty idealism and the vagaries of an imperfect world.
And so poor Goldie lived with a chronic sense of hopelessness, a general sort of morbid dissatisfaction. Wherever she went, whatever she did, she was plagued by the sense that things were simply “not right.” More than anything, she longed to have an experience that would live up to her gold standard, and with that in mind, Goldie set out looking for the perfect career.
The first profession in which Goldie sought satisfaction was that of culinary chef. Since food was such a fundamental pleasure, she thought she might find a truly basic experience of pure and absolute perfection in a job that catered to this fundamental need.
She enrolled at the Institute, studied hard, and when she graduated she was a gourmet epicurean of the highest order. She could make stacks of delicate blini, bowls of steaming pasta, strings of herbed bratwursts that crackled and spit when they yielded to the fork. This expertise made her extremely popular with the sort of men who are said to conceal their hearts at the end of the proverbial path through their stomachs.
One man in particular, Tom Fowler, found Goldie’s way with a whisk especially alluring. Tom arrived at Goldie’s house for dinner wearing nothing but a long trench coat and lace-up military boots. He was completely nude underneath the coat, presenting himself as a sort of tabula rasa on which the exotic cook might whip up any number of treats to satisfy her voracious appetite.
Goldie lay Tom out across her long dining room table, naked as a plucked turkey, with only his boots still on. First she bent his knees to his chest and tucked them under his arms, exposing his soft rump, puckered anus, and bristly balls. Then, with all the technique of an haute chef, she trussed up that giant bird using the laces from his boots to tie his hands to his ankles. Now he was ready for stuffing.
“Tom-Tom,” she whispered in his ear, “I’ve got a gold medal recipe cooked up for you. By the time I’m finished, you’ll be nothing but a soggy puddle of porridge.”
And with that, she smeared her fingers with slick white lard and began to lubricate and ream his tight cavity with brisk strokes as if she were tenderizing a tough cut of meat. At first Tom winced in pain, but this quickly gave way to a deep, pleasant ache as his sphincter softened and yielded to the intrusion. When he was opened wide enough, she took small handfuls of a thick mixture of sweetmeats, roasted chestnuts, and bread crumbs and pushed them deep within his dark crater. Tom moaned with pleasure.
“Tasty?” she asked.
Tom couldn’t answer because he was afraid he would explode. His bum was now packed with the stuffing; there was no way she could force anymore. But still she pressed on, shoving more and more of the savory mix up his hole. The heavy feeling of fullness in his pelvis made his cock respond in kind; it filled and expanded each time her thumbs dug into his hollow.
“I see you like organ meats with your stuffing, Tom-Tom.” She bent over and took the velvet head of his penis in her mouth, running her tongue around it in a slow arc.
“Mmmm. The temperature tells me you’re almost ready to eat. But the juices,” she drawled, tasting a drop of salty fluid from the tip, “aren’t running clear yet. We’d better wait a bit. I know! I’ll baste your skin until it’s good and crispy.”
Out came a rubber spatula and whack! She smacked his up-turned buns until they were a lovely pink color. With every roasting his rump received from the pitiless spatula, his balls quivered like a pair of wattles and the throbbing knot of his dick swelled to the limit.
“And finally, the pièce de résistance,” murmured Goldie, “the preparation of the breast meat.” Slowly she poured hot, melted butter over his nipples and belly as he writhed against his truss bindings, trying his best to hold off his orgasm and not erupt in a saucy discharge all over her lacy Irish linens.
In a flash, Goldie removed her clothing, leaving nothing on but a chef’s apron, and climbed on the table to mount her prey. As she poked the full length of his dick into her boiling slit, she licked the sweet butter from his chest. He could resist the urge to come no longer, and before Goldie had a chance to satisfy her own cravings, he shot a torrent of gravy deep inside her, leaving her once again disappointed and hungry for the perfect experience.
“Bon appétit,” she mumbled. But what she thought was, “This dish is too cold.”
If she couldn’t find satisfaction in things that tasted good, Goldie thought maybe she could find it in things of good taste. She turned her aspirations to the field of interior design. She went to the Institute, studied hard, and when she graduated she was a home decorator of the highest order. She could pick out a pile carpet, hang a curtain flounce, mix and match moldings with the best of them, and this expertise made her popular with the sort of men who appreciated the aesthetics of order and discipline in their environment.
One man in particular, Woodruth Davenport, found Goldie’s way with an ottoman particularly alluring. The multimillionaire hired her to do up his luxurious getaway in the woods. But since he’d conducted the interview and negotiations by telephone, and since she’d worked out her decorating scheme using only measurements and photographs he’d sent in the mail, she didn’t get to meet her mysterious client until the day she arrived with a truckload of furniture.
And what unlikely furniture it was. Davenport’s house was spacious, exquisitely equipped, and enormously comfortable, as befitted his wealth. But it was still more of a lodge than a mansion, in the style of a rustic cabin—simple and rather plain, in keeping with the natural surroundings in which it was nestled. Goldie thought she would fill it with simple, elegant furnishings of raw wood with clean lines and modest proportions to complement the architecture. Instead, Davenport requested she supply massive tables with elaborately turned legs, ornate wrought-iron bedsteads with looming canopies, crimson velvet drapes, and brocade divans. And since the client always has the final word, Goldie followed his orders right down to the curious collection of horse harnesses, bone-handled riding crops, and braided leather whips he hung on the walls in place of art.
When she entered the house, she found Davenport pacing the anteroom, impatient to get started. He was not a very large man, but he made an impression with his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, sharp, gray eyes, and long, manicured fingers, which he carefully held tip-to-tip before his navel in a prayer-like gesture of precision. He wore an expensive Italian suit that was as out of place in these surroundings as were the furnishings he was about to receive.
“Ah, you’ve come,” he said coldly. “Please begin in the bedroom.” And with that—and nothing more—he dis
appeared, leaving Goldie and the movers to transform his modest country home into a magnificent castle. When they were finally finished and the moving men had all left, Goldie stood in the center of the drawing room and took a good long look at her handiwork. It was not exactly to her personal taste, but she had to admit, there was something sort of exciting about all the velvet, lacquer, chintz, and brocade. Not to mention the wall of leather whips.
“Provocative, isn’t it?”
She spun around, stunned by the chilly ring of her host’s voice. But this chill did not last long, for she saw he had somehow managed to get a fire started in the fireplace without her noticing he’d entered the room. The flames pitched warmth toward her with violence.
“Oh, Mr. Davenport, I didn’t know you were—”
“Silence,” he whispered, as he led her to the camel-backed loveseat.
Was it a spell cast by his unblinking eyes? Was it the effect of some hypnotic vapor rising off the burning logs? Or was it simply the surroundings—all that hard iron, soft velvet, and musky leather and their associations with lurid medieval rites of extreme sensuality—that had her so aroused? Perhaps now she would get to experience a moment of absolute perfection.
The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales Page 3