The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales

by Hillary Rollins

  When they reached the miniature sofa, Davenport didn’t offer his guest a seat. Instead, he bent her over the back of it, her head resting in the deep cushions while her waist straddled the rising hump. Her hips, legs, and buttocks were isolated and displayed as if they were separate from the rest of her body.

  Quick as a ferret, Davenport had her legs spread-eagle, with each ankle tied to the polished wooden foot of the loveseat. He then shed his fancy Italian suit, lifted her tight skirt, and pulled down her silk panties, exposing the smooth cheeks of her ass. They shone like marble in the firelight, but when they caught blow after stinging blow from a rawhide horse whip, the quivering of these tender mounds proved that they were indeed vulnerable flesh.

  Goldie cried out in pain, even as the delicious commotion between her legs grew with each assault. Soon she began to buck with plea-sure as if she were the mare for whom the whip had been fashioned. But before she could reach her ultimate climax, Davenport spewed all over her buttocks, soothing the raised red welts with his fragrant balm, but, alas, softening his resolve to continue the frenzied act.

  As he sank weak-kneed to the floor, she mumbled into the loveseat cushion, “Another satisfied customer.” But what she thought was, “This chair is too hard.”

  Would any pursuit in Goldie’s life ever provide her with the sense of satisfaction she so craved? It was beginning to seem it was not, but the intrepid Goldie wouldn’t give up. She simply took a step back to regroup and figure out what went wrong. And what she concluded was that it had been folly to try to find fulfillment through careers of self-gratification. As a cook, she was catering to the gourmand’s overindulgent pleasures of the palate. As a decorator, she was aiding a preoccupation with form and surface beauty, which was a luxury only the rich and privileged could afford. Maybe, thought Goldie, I should turn my attention to more altruistic pursuits. After all,

  didn’t everyone say it was better to give than to receive? Perhaps the ultimate state of grace could be found in selfless service to others.

  So Goldie decided to become a nurse. She went to the Institute, studied hard, and when she graduated she was a skilled R.N. able to inoculate, defibrillate, and generally ameliorate all manner of pain and suffering. This expertise made her especially popular with the sort of men who thrived on gentle ministrations and the healing touch.

  One man in particular, Ted Ursa, found her way with a blood-pressure cuff particularly alluring. Ted was a patient in the critical care unit. For months he had been in a coma, the cause of which baffled the doctors. He had not been in an accident. He suffered no stroke. He was not the victim of a heart attack, overdose, or poisoning. He had not even been through a severe psychic trauma, at least not in medical terms. But Ted had suffered the loss of a love, and in his grief and pining, he simply slipped deeper and deeper into a profound melancholia until he reached a state of catatonia and practically ceased to function at all.

  This would have been a tragedy had it happened to anyone, but it was especially sad to see Ted in such a state, for before his decline he was an enormously vital, virile bear of a man—barrel-chested, furry-headed, with powerful hands like paws and an even more powerful penis that swung, never less than semi-erect, between his brazen legs as he loped and sauntered through the world.

  But now he lay in silent suspension, sapped of all his ferocious power, and Goldie felt an unusual degree of sympathy for the man. In fact, she was hopelessly attracted to him. Each day as she gave him his sponge bath she imagined what he would be like if he ever regained consciousness. Would his brow, now unnaturally smoothed by his tranquil condition, turn stormy with passion? Would those rich, full lips, ever so slightly wet and parted in their slackened state, draw into a furious grimace when he made love and then dissolve into an impish smile when he fell in love? She longed to know, as she gently soaped and cradled his flaccid organ in her capable hands.

  But what was this? It seemed this recalcitrant organ, which had lain in a state of hibernation for so long, was beginning to be roused from its dormancy. His hot juices were definitely beginning to engorge the thick knob of flesh in her hands. Goldie started to knead his penis faster and faster with her soap-slick fingers as if she were administering CPR to a dying animal, in, out, in, out, the rhythm building as his cock strained harder and harder against her palms.

  Before she knew it, she was rocking her pelvis in time with the massage, up, down, up, down, and feeling that deep, liquid spasm between her thighs. When his penis stood at its fullest erection, she was stunned by its animal proportions.

  “Ooh, Papa Bear,” she murmured, as she wiggled out of her nurse’s uniform and climbed into bed with the patient.

  Just as she was about to impale herself upon his rod, Ted gasped and opened his eyes! And the first thing he saw, after so many dark months in his strange cave, was this naked, panting angel of mercy. Their eyes met and, indeed, his sensual lips spread into just the sort of smile she’d imagined would signal his surrender to true and everlasting love.

  They explored each other for several perfect hours, repeatedly climaxing in perfectly timed mutual pleasure, and between each perfect kiss, Goldie whispered, “Now this bed is just right….”

  …I had long hair as thick and luxurious as a chenille stole. It hung down past my shoulders, back, buttocks, and calves, flowing almost to the floor. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now with my inch of spiky fringe, but back then this seemingly endless growth was my pride, my glory, and the locus of all my feminine power. Otherwise beautiful women who had, alas, been cursed with thin, mousy hair seethed when I entered a party sporting forty braids coiled around my head in an elegant Byzantine pattern. Little girls of six or seven worshipped me, convinced that I was an actual fairy princess who had just stepped off the frontispiece of their storybooks. Small boys wondered silently about where I put that crazy ponytail when I had to go to the bathroom, then blushed and had their first ejaculations imagining me naked and squatting.

  But it was the effect on men that pleased me most. When I danced and swung my hips from side to side the heavy pelt would sway in response and my partners were literally hypnotized by its undulations. When we made love, the snake-like strands flung across a man’s chest or wound around his erect dick. My hair shot sparks of static electricity that stung and aroused, driving my lover to the edge. As he wrapped himself in my golden locks a man became completely entangled—not only in body, but in mind, spirit, heart, and soul. He exploded in rivers of pleasure, pulling out to spray himself into my tresses as if to mark them—mark me—as his own. And I let him pour himself into that thicket because afterward, limp and sapped of all his fury, he became a slave to its care and maintenance. He spent hours washing and drying, conditioning and pampering each strand, massaging my scalp with fragrant oils and begging for permission to gently brush my luxurious cascade with a hundred strokes each night.

  Still, one day I grew weary of this game. My hair began to feel oppressive and like some ancient, vestigial organ that had long since ceased to be of use. In the summer I would sweat beneath its weight; in the winter the long hours it took to dry after a shampoo kept me housebound. And at bottom I never really knew if I was desired for myself or for my magnificent mane. I decided to cut it off.

  Several days later I found myself riding the elevator to the top of a steel and glass office tower that housed the exclusive hair salon of a stylist known only as “Razor.” If he had another name I’d never heard it, and his entire operation was cloaked in clandestine mystery. You couldn’t get an appointment without knowing someone; he only saw one client at a time in private; and you had no say in the type of haircut you received—he simply gave you “the cut you deserved.” By this I assumed he meant you got the style that most flattered your face, and I chalked up the odd phraseology to a simple language barrier. Razor came from some obscure part of middle or eastern Europe and was supposedly a deposed prince who had fled the Communists and come to America to shear the rich and famous
.

  I wasn’t sure I believed all this, but his way with scissors was legendary and my precious locks could not be trusted to just any old barbaric barber. So I wrangled myself an appointment and prepared to let him clip. I knew I couldn’t dictate the final length or shape of my style-to-be, but I hoped for a chic little bob and some bangs. What I got exceeded my wildest dreams.…

  Razor’s shop bore no resemblance to any beauty salon, store, office, or other place of business I’d ever seen. The elevator opened directly onto a small, round room (the security guard in the lobby had to unlock a special button for it to take you there) and after the doors closed behind you the entire apparatus seemed to disappear so that when you looked around there was no visible exit. The walls providing this camouflage were of rough grey stone held together by a crude sort of masonry paste, a mixture of lime, earth, and straw. There were no windows or electric lights and it would have been pitch black if not for a small opening at the top of the cylindrical roof through which a pale column of sunlight slid. This beam threw very little illumination on the general area, focused as it was on the only piece of furniture in the room: a curious barber’s chair situated smack in the middle of the floor like a throne. It had the usual foot and neck rests found on regular beauty parlor chairs and it swiveled and reclined like its standard cousin. But it was triple the normal size, both in length and width, so that when the operator moved it into the recline position it became more a bed than a chair! And instead of the usual vinyl or leather you might expect to upholster such a thing, this seat was covered in thick, luxurious black bear skin that seemed still redolent from the kill. At each corner of the contraption there was a solid gold handcuff that shone with an ominous glint in the pale ray of light. Other than this chair and a large mirror affixed to the wall, the room was as empty and bare as a tower of antiquity made to lock away unlucky virgins.

  It was altogether spooky and a tad too weird for my taste—especially the handcuffs (since when did a hair client need to be restrained for a wash and blow dry?) and I would have fled right then and there had I been able to discover some means of egress. But, as I said, the fissure that had been the elevator doors seemed to heal up into the cold stone walls; I was trapped.

  “Good evening,” drawled an accented basso voice. “Please, have a seat.” Seemingly from nowhere, Razor stepped out of the shadows. I was stunned to see he was so short for a man with such a resonant voice, and rather plain for a “prince,” except in one respect: he sported more fur than his pelt-covered chair! This was not animal fur but his own thick, abundant hair. A mass of dark brown curls on the top and sides of his head seemed to expand in all directions like the locks of a feral child, while an especially lengthy tail tumbled down his back. His face was carpeted with a massive beard, leaving only two ice-blue eyes, a pair of sensual lips, and a set of high-gloss teeth to provide touches of smoothness to the craggy landscape. And it didn’t stop there. I could see that his chest, arms, and legs were covered with a kinky dark growth that sprouted through all the openings of his clothing.

  Normally I am repulsed by men with too much hair on their bodies, but the attraction I felt to this woolly beast was undeniable. It was as if each tuft on his muscular frame had a tiny magnetic charge, and collectively they pulled me toward him with a powerful force that made me ache.

  “Why don’t you come over here and have a seat?” he repeated. Not at all under my own power, I floated across the room and levitated into the barber’s chair. I felt slightly faint from the rich odors of bear skin and masculinity that rose off my captor.

  “I am not just stylist, I am artist with hair. You must receive proper cut not only for face, but for body, soul, spirit. Whole woman must be known to achieve supreme result, yes?”

  And with that, Razor began undressing me, never taking his rapier eyes off mine. I should have resisted—I had come for a trim, not a tryst—but my fascination with his shaggy visage kept me pinned to the seat and the gentle, insistent pressure of his thick fingers as he unbuttoned my blouse and lowered my panties made me melt into the caress of fur that surrounded us. Before I knew it, I was nude.

  Of course my hair was long enough to hide most of me from view, but now that he’d gone to all the trouble to strip me naked I expected my seducer to pull it back out of the way and fully expose me to his lecherous desires. Instead, he arranged it in layers of waves all around me, covering my face, neck, shoulders, belly, and hips and allowing the very ends of it to pool up between my slightly parted thighs. I was completely hidden under a tent of hair and the silky rustle of it against my skin was exquisite.

  “First we must prepare area,” he whispered as he slipped his hands between my knees and pried them apart. Then he strapped my ankles into the shackles, pinning my legs open wide. Positioning himself between my indelicately splayed legs, he began what seemed like a languorous massage of my clitoris and the outer lips of my vagina. I moaned, and relaxed into the rhythm, expecting to be manually coaxed to a simple, pleasant orgasm. But when I glanced up through half-closed eyes into the mirror I saw that Razor was not actually massaging me but was meticulously braiding the ends of my head hair into the wiry tendrils of my pubic hair! I gasped, and quicker than you can say “buzz cut,” he caught my wrists in the handcuffs and locked them down with a resounding “click.” He then finished weaving the two manes into one, spun the chair around so he was standing at my head and I could no longer see the mirror, and pushed the recline lever on the savage apparatus. With a violent bump the chair shifted into a prostrate position and I was laid out, my arms and legs stretched taut and my head, neck, and spine forced upward in a semi-curl because of the unusual tethering of the groin.

  It seems like this awkward position should have been painful, but the stimulation of pulling action on my plump mound each time I moved my head drew an excess of blood to the area, treating me to delightful little spasms. If I could have just bobbed my head up and down a bit longer I would have exploded in a tremor of the most intense pleasure brought on simply by the tugging motion of the braided strands, the rubbing of lip against lip in my slick, wet labia. But Razor had a more elaborate treatment in mind. Suddenly I heard the terrifying “whir” of some kind of electric tool. A chain saw? A dental drill? My imagination conjured up the worst. Fortunately, my body was spared any gruesome demise, although my long hair was about to meet its untimely end, for the roaring implement turned out to be an electric shaver and its skilled operator began to steadily mow bald trenches across the top of my head with its oscillating blades. I could feel whole patches of my mane come undone from its moorings, could hear it fall away with a whispered sigh. With a voluptuous thrill, I felt my head grow giddily light and buoyant like a helium balloon and I savored the rush of cold air on my denuded scalp in such contrast to the heat in my slit.

  When my entire head had been thoroughly shaved, Razor lifted my hair at its newly liberated roots and pulled it all forward so that it streamed down from my pubis, attached as it was by the intricate weavings there. He separated the mass into three thick cords and then braided those into a giant twisted rope that hung down between my legs like a ladder leading to heaven. He spun me around again and raised the chair back just enough for me to see my “new look” in the mirror: I was a vulnerable, tender, breakable flash of whiteness from head to toe except for the long braid hanging like a bizarre phallus between my legs, gently rubbing its downy irritation against my thighs. Clean shaven everywhere but there, I was more beautiful than I could have imagined, and as Razor massaged warm oil onto my smooth dome I felt a complementary friction deep within my cunt.

  “You see?” he drawled. “You’ve been naughty girl with all that long hair on head. Using it for seduction, making men weak and emotional. Not Razor! Razor sees through cover of hair, sees real woman beneath. So I give naughty girl haircut she deserve, yes? Make her a naked angel, my naked angel, to possess….”

  By now he was completely naked himself, his giant erect cock as purple
, bald, and shocking as my shaved head, rising like a triumphant sword from the thicket that covered his loins. He mounted the chair, got on his hands and knees above me, lifted the giant braid that guarded the entrance to my insides like a curtain and grasped it in his teeth. Then rearing his head, he pulled my whole pussy up and out, opening the lips and exposing the pulsing pink inner flesh to his delicious assault.

  Afterward, Razor washed me, inside and out, and treated me to a second shave down below, this time with scented foam and a gleaming, hand-held blade. He was so expert in his machinations he didn’t even nick the skin and now I was left utterly nude everywhere: a satiated and smooth-skinned newborn cub curled up against the velvety fur of both bear and barber.

  Now a few inches have come in, leaving me with this unkempt growth on both head and hind parts. So I’m off to the top of the tower for another appointment with my stylist-prince with his own special brand of “shear pleasure.”…

  …there lived a kind and handsome prince who was struck by tragedy when early in his life he lost his dear mother and was left to be raised by his father—a brusque and barbarous man who did not understand his special child. The king mistook the boy’s acute sensitivity for weakness, thought he needed to be “toughened up” and properly seasoned in order to become a man. So when the prince was just thirteen years old, the king dragged him to the local whorehouse to simultaneously dispose of his virginity and his dreamy romanticism in one swift turn.

  The house of ill-repute the king chose for this task was no cheery brothel filled with large-bosomed, warm-hearted women of experience who might carefully nurture and guide a youngster across that most sacred of lines separating youthful innocence from sophisticated manhood. This was a rough and ungainly place, reeking of whisky and soiled sheets, cooled by the foul winds of corruption and despair that blew through the cracks in the clapboard walls. It was populated by an underclass of dissipated prostitutes in whose false embraces and manufactured moans could be heard the constant tick of the time clock and the avaricious “ka-ching” of the cash drawer. The callow prince was forced to sample every sort of sexual congress with these whores, every lurid fantasy and lascivious posture, and because he was a young man with the healthy physical drives that accompany youth, his body responded in full. But his fragile soul shut down and mourned for its loss, for in his heart he longed for the kind of lovemaking that would express tenderness, caring, emotion, and, above all, sensuality. In this cheerless den each act was lustful and violent, a dance of mastery over one’s subordinate, a contest in which the goal was possession, domination, and the finality of quick, self-centered orgasm. But where was the sweet give-and-take, the ardent passion, the spirituality and depth of meaning that was meant to back up these acts, meant to prolong, celebrate, and edify the process rather than shoot for the grunt-laden finish line?