The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales

by Hillary Rollins

  The woman followed the toad’s instructions, and sure enough, nine months later, the couple had their hoped-for child. They named her Aurora and held a magnificent party to celebrate her birth. Among the invited guests were twelve accomplished oracles who read the spiritual secrets of the babe and predicted her auspicious future. The first saw lifelong health for the young maid. The second predicted incomparable grace and wit. The third felt sure she would never want for money or material possessions. And on they went, prophesizing a charmed future of happiness, extreme beauty, and goodwill for little Aurora.

  But before the twelfth oracle could confer her prediction upon the child, a furious old woman crashed the party, looking like a demon and screaming about how she, too, was a seer of souls, and why wasn’t she invited to celebrate along with the others? The truth was, the happy couple, in the excitement and confusion of the whole affair, had simply forgotten to invite this thirteenth oracle. Now she was insulted, and in her outrage she cursed the tiny lass with an evil prediction for the future: “When she reaches the age of consent her innocence shall be pricked and she shall bleed to death before tasting the fullness of womanhood!”

  Aurora’s parents were heartbroken. Could it be their lovely daughter would not live past her chaste adolescence? Just then, the twelfth oracle, who had not yet shared her omen, stepped up to the bassinet where the infant lay.

  “I cannot completely dispel the prediction of the thirteenth oracle,” she told them. “But I can soften the blow by telling you what I see in Aurora’s future. She will indeed be pricked by the arrow of an unworthy suitor. But she will not die! Instead, she will fall into a deep, unconscious slumber and nothing but the most passionate kiss of tenderness shall awaken her to the full joys of womanhood.”

  Aurora’s mother was relieved to know that at least her child would not perish prematurely, but would only sleep in the dusk of a nether world. Still, her father could not bear to think of his darling girl losing her consciousness in such a manner, and he vowed to keep from her any who might pierce her innocence. He built a massive fortress and confined his family to its inner bowels. The food, entertainment, and education were provided by elderly gentlewomen, and under no circumstances were any men permitted to cross the threshold for fear of meeting the wrath of the protective patriarch.

  Then, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, Aurora began to feel a strange discontent. For all these years she had never questioned the sanctity of her home or her way of life, but now she wondered if perhaps there was something beyond the fortress walls, something out there in the world that her dear father so assiduously shunned, that might be worth discovering. She decided it was time to venture forth despite her parents’ warnings about the horrors that awaited beyond their cozy stronghold. She began to scour the castle in the hopes of finding some unsecured chink or forgotten tunnel that might open her way to freedom, and while on the hunt for such a place, she wandered into a forgotten room at the top of a tower.

  Opening the door (one of the only unlatched portals she had ever encountered), Aurora entered a windowless, unlit room and gingerly felt her way in the pressing darkness. Suddenly she lost her balance, and flailing her arms in front of her to break the fall, she expected to hit the dusty floor with her outstretched hands. But instead her palms landed on the heaving torso of an unknown man. She couldn’t see his face in the blackness that surrounded them but she could feel his acid breath burn her cheeks as a pair of muscular arms pulled her close. She would have screamed, she should have screamed in shock and fear, but her curiosity quickly overtook the impulse. She did, however, gasp with surprise and a kind of aroused verve, for until now she’d never felt the embrace of any man except her flaccid, aged father and she’d never smelled the heady musk a young man exudes when he’s full of longing, need, and fire. There, in the protective cloak of darkness, she was pinned against a hard, naked chest unadorned by the smooth curve of a woman’s breast but wild with a mat of woolly hair that tickled her nostrils and irritated her cheek, and the newness of these sensations excited and seduced her into a willing acquiescence. Aurora opened her mouth to receive the lips and tongue of her mysterious stranger, thinking that this first kiss would begin a languorous journey into the whole array of sensual delights.

  But he eschewed her offered lips, and without her desired kiss to soften the way, he kicked apart her legs, ripped off her panties, and impaled her upon his pointed prick. Now the scream she’d failed to let forth before broke from her open mouth and curdled the blood that flowed. But she did not feel the pain for more than an instant, for all at once she fell into a deep sleep, just as the twelfth oracle had predicted.

  An eternity passed, and the sleeping beauty lay in the same stillness that had overtaken her at the moment of her deflowering. Nobody, not even her loving parents, could awaken her. It was as if she was waiting in a state of suspended animation for the special kiss the seer said would break these bonds and restore her to a full life.

  Then one night, when the rest of the world was asleep, a young prince found his way to the tower room where Aurora slept. He had heard many stories about the maid who lay in wait for her true love’s special kiss to enliven her, but he also heard that numerous men had tried, to no avail—all their best efforts fell on lips as pale and cold as moon stone. Still, he felt he had to attempt to wake the angel whose first taste of love had turned so bitter.

  As he crept into Aurora’s chamber, he carried a scented candle that cast just enough light for him to see the face and form of the dreamless one, and now it was his turn to gasp; her high cheekbones, elegant chin, flawless complexion, and ripe lips so surpassed the usual description of beauty that it almost made him ache. Her youthful figure, forever preserved in its slumbering state, showed long legs, a tiny waist, soft shoulders, and the firm fleshy mounds of perfect, untouched breasts that seemed to invite the onlooker to handle them with abandon.

  The prince set down his candle and leaned over to kiss the vulnerable, bloodless lips that lay before him. But just before his mouth met hers, he stopped, deciding on another approach entirely. He moved down to where her dainty feet lay motionless and slid them up, up, up, bending her knees until they fell open, exposing the full view of her other lips. Then he crawled between these unguarded thighs and brought his face way up close to her velvet slit until he could smell the delicate, briny perfume from within. He parted the brier patch of pubic hair and then slowly, ever so slowly, he reached out his tongue and traced the edges of flesh with its wet tip. Moving in even closer, he began to gently nibble on the reddened lips, feeling them plump in his mouth as he sucked and suckled. Soon he moved to the pink nub of her clitoris, using his tongue to alternately encircle it with its tip, then press and release against it with the wider center, until it grew from a tiny closed rosebud to a blooming, pulsating trunk. Dew began to stream from her, moistening the entire length of her engorged organ and covering the prince’s nose, mouth, and chin with a slick, salt-sweet coating. On and on he went, kissing, licking, sucking, and nibbling, feeling the heat gather in her juicy parts until the whole region seemed to be quivering with liquid incandescence. Finally, when he felt her very close to the edge, he sunk his long tongue deep within her scooped out vagina and pressed his upper lip and teeth against her throbbing, raging clit. He exhaled his soul into her opening, she ingested it through her very center, and returned his love by sending out her soul in wave after wave of orgasm, and with the rhythmic flow of these intense contractions, her entire face transformed—her eyes flew open, her throat and mouth and tongue uttered guttural moans, her head rolled side to side in vibrant ecstasy, and at last, from receiving this most passionate and tender kind of kiss, the sleeping beauty came fully alive.

  …there was a refrain chanted by smart-mouthed little girls to taunt and tease any boy who might be slovenly, rambunctious, or otherwise badly behaved. “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf?” the girls would sing, and then they’d throw
themselves, limbs akimbo, upon the offender. Shiny patent leather Mary Janes would dig into his groin as long hair flayed out in a web of static electricity. White cotton underpants with cornrows of lace or the days of the week embroidered upon the seat would be flown like a victor’s flag and the ravenous little she-wolf would pin her prey to the ground and pretend to eat him all up, “mmmm mmmm good, yummy in my tummy.”

  It may seem strange for the girl to be the aggressor, tackling the hapless fellow in a cascade of giggles. But as often as not the female of such an age is bigger and better coordinated than her male counterpart, and during this unique time in her development may enjoy a dominance over her quarry that she’ll never experience as a fully grown adult. Unless, that is, she is still forced to assert this big bad part of herself because some little boys simply refuse to grow up….

  In the small town of Hoggs Corners, tucked away far from civilization on the ridge of a remote cluster of impenetrable mountains, lived three men. While quite different from one another in physique, lifestyle, and personality, they were very close friends who were brought together by the fact that they shared one overriding trait: Each one behaved like a naughty little piglet and each one was very much in need of a she-wolf’s corrective instruction.

  The first man, Mister Hayman, suffered from one of the deadliest sins: He was slovenly beyond compare. His sink contained unwashed dishes dating back years, his bed was nothing but a pile of straw with a filthy rucksack tossed upon it, his floors were so covered with soil and dust that they appeared to be the dirt floors of a rustic cottage even though underneath was a layer of shoddy linoleum. Hayman was incomparably lazy, refusing to work or do any physical activity, and so he mostly just sat around the shack all day long drinking beer and eating cold, greasy hash straight out of an encrusted kettle. He had no friends or social life, had never had a lady friend (what woman would venture into such a pit?), and was so indolent and reclusive that he rarely even got dressed in the morning, preferring to lie about naked, scratching his belly and playing with his greasy penis in the privacy of his own mess. Over the years this sedentary lifestyle caused him to balloon up into a ludicrous sort of corpulence complete with puffy calves, a fleshy chest, and two gigantic porkchops for hind quarters. But even though he was a big fat pig whose pectorals were so flabby he almost looked womanly, his maleness was clearly established by his possession of a big fat penis, which he employed in frequent bouts of self-gratification.

  Just down the road from Hayman’s sty lived the second fellow, Mister Woodman. Unlike his corpulent young neighbor, Woodman was an older man who was slender to the point of being slight, with long, tapered fingers and a dick like a paring knife. He also differed from Hayman in that he kept his house beautifully and filled his home with alluring things—divans covered in animal skins, vases filled with exotic orchids or bouquets of rare feathers, music boxes that played hypnotic tunes, and hampers filled with a luscious variety of rich foods and intoxicating drink in every room. But like Hayman, Woodman could also be called a pig because of his incorrigible womanizing. His opulent, excessive, sensual lifestyle was intended to lure a limitless parade of young women into his bed, and not in the manner of the so-called “serial monogamist” in which the lover is at least faithful to one woman at a time. No, Woodman’s game was to romance several women at once, on the sly and behind their backs, betraying them all and breaking each and every heart. No matter how much he claimed to want to someday settle down and be faithful to “the right woman,” he continued to gorge himself upon a feast of female flesh, with no regard for the women as he racked up an endless string of conquests like so many links in a sausage.

  Finally, just across the way from Woodman, resided Mister Brickman, the alpha-swine among the brood. Unlike his two cohorts, Brickman’s boarishness could not be found in the fact that he was too sloppy or too fat or too onanistic or too rapacious. In fact, Brickman was the ideal man—handsome, sexy, smart, witty, kind, generous, talented, caring, dependable, passionate, well-endowed, wealthy, and single. But “single” does not necessarily connote “available.” Where Hayman and Woodman would have liked to find mates if their bad habits hadn’t precluded it, Brickman, despite being perfect marriage material, was happily and contentedly committed to remaining uncommitted, safe, and invulnerable behind a wall of bachelorhood. Which, in the minds of a number of women, made him the biggest pig of all.

  One day, when they least expected it, these three porcine pals were visited by a certain Miss Canidae Wolfe—known simply as “Candy”— who turned out to be another kind of animal altogether. Statuesque and voluptuous, with a feral gleam in her eye and a scent about her like a beast in heat, Candy was unlike any woman the men had known (or, in Hayman’s case, imagined). Her beauty was extreme and frightening; her age was impossible to determine because while she had a face as ruddy and unlined as a newborn’s it was crowned by an anachronism of silver-white hair that frizzed out in a furry halo about her head. She also declined to shave the soft sterling down that covered her legs and sprouted from her fragrant underarms and this made her seem even more like an untamed creature reveling in its bestiality. But the most striking thing about Candy’s appearance had to be her outrageous mouth: A pair of oversized lips, always moist like a canine’s chops, curled easily into a crafty smile and then, in a lightning flash, would suddenly pucker up in a mocking pout that could elicit a dizzying breathlessness in even the most stoical of men. If she was aroused her long, wet tongue would slither out of her mouth with remarkable agility and finesse from between a set of the most stunning white fangs. And it seemed she could almost dislodge her jaw from its hinges, much as a snake does, allowing objects of massive proportion to slide easily into her hungry maw.

  This fabulous predator arrived first at Hayman’s house.

  “Knock, knock, Mr. Hayman!” she cried.

  “What do you want?” squeaked the little porker within.

  “Why, to eat you, of course!”

  “No, no! Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin!”

  But it was not the hairs on his chinny chin chin that she was confronted with when she pushed against the corroded doorframe and forced her way into the house. It was an entirely other set of hairs that met her gaze, the proverbial “short hairs” that sprouted around the thick, bald joint of meat that was Hayman’s much-abused organ and which he was once again cradling and worrying in his busy little paws.

  “You are disgusting,” she drawled. “Just look at you! You lie amid this squalor with nothing better to do than tug at your pathetic cock all day long! Stop playing with yourself and clean this place up, little piggy, or pay the price!”

  But Hayman was simply incapable of changing his dirty ways and Candy had no choice but to teach him a lesson. In a trice, she had him hogtied and naked, kneeling on his fat haunches and begging for mercy. But no lenience could be shown to such a grotesque violator of all that is clean and decent. He had to be punished, and punished well. She began with an open-handed spanking of his naked, blubbery hams, slapping the slabs of white meat like they were less-than-prime cuts in need of tenderizing.

  “Filthy pig!” she shouted with each resounding smack. “Let me hear you cry ‘oinkle!’ ”

  “No, stop, please!” cried the unfortunate Hayman, but he was powerless against his foe. Large, glutinous tears dropped from his beady eyes as a crimson flush of pain and shame spread over his quivering globes, but nothing could sway the lady butcher from her self-appointed task of curing his meat until his rump was well roasted. Finally, when she was convinced that his hide was properly tanned, she stopped to catch her breath.

  “Please,” the chubby little shoat whined. “Untie me, I beg of you!”

  “Not until you cry ‘oinkle!’ Until then, you’ll have to bear the pain. Unless living a life of shiftless self-indulgence made you too soft to take a little pain, pig boy.”

  But when Hayman moaned and rolled over on his fat back, trussed up arms and legs sticking stra
ight into the air like a slaughtered wildebeest, Candy saw that it was not the pain of the spanking that was vexing him as much as the queer ache from a mighty case of blue balls. His penis, as broad and blunt as a bludgeoning shillelagh, was fully erect. It stood out from the folds of his fluffy belly like a shiny, hard goat horn in the midst of a flock of lambs. His giant testicles had tightened into an enraged fist, and the whole affair—cock and balls alike—was vibrating with an anticipation that made it seem separate from the rest of his person, an independent critter writhing with unfulfilled needs, stuck like a powerful but tottering phallic root into the mushy quicksand of his groin, defying gravity and the laws of physics to rise monumental above the bog. The air around this tremulous organ seemed to shimmer the way the atmosphere of a desert landscape does in a heat wave, distorting one’s vision and making it seem even more autonomous from its owner, more alive, more keenly sensitive, more tortured.

  “Aha. I see,” murmured Candy through her drooling smile. “That’s why you want me to untie your hands, isn’t it? So you can beat your juicy sausage to a pulp, like you usually do. But it’s time to grow up, pig boy, time to wean you off of playing with yourself and introduce you to the way the big boars play!

  With that, the long-legged she-beast stood over her kill and exposed her glistening cunt to his view. Slowly she lowered herself into the heat-infused ambiance around his dick, lowered herself gingerly onto this rotisserie spit, seared her tender cut with its blazing fire while his cool, flabby torso cushioned her gyrating ass. She could barely straddle the entire breadth of him, but once she was settled in the saddle it was a very comfortable ride indeed. She rode and rode like a stuck pig, bouncing up and down on his curly tail, grabbing handfuls of his fleshy midriff to use as reins while she steadied herself for the shattering climax. She felt the delightful opposites of his burning volcanic rock penis on her insides and the cool, shifting sands of his ample belly sloshing beneath her. She wouldn’t let him come, the avaricious Miss Candy Wolfe, but she came all over him, basting his ham hocks until the juices ran clear. Then she quickly rolled off her perch.