In Sleeping Beauty's Bed

by Mitzi Szereto

  Concerned for her safety—for the great hairy thing had been hissing at her ever since her first glimpse of it—the disowned daughter of the Kaiser had little choice but to comply with her mistress’s wishes. Placing herself where she could best reach the spitting creature, Krasomila promptly set to work, employing her tongue as one might a cloth, albeit with far more delicacy and pliancy of touch. Perhaps if she did an especially fine job and distinguished herself from her predecessors, the creature would see fit not to harm her, and she might then be allowed to remain on in service. Although Krasomila did not comprehend this obsession with cleanliness by her employer, what did it matter as long as it put food on the table and a roof over her and her husband’s heads?

  At the thought of her dear Miroslav, who was probably right at this very moment also engaged in servile pursuits not entirely to his liking, the new maid applied herself to her duties with greater enthusiasm, closing her eyes to the hirsute visage before her. She swabbed and swabbed and swabbed again, traversing the same slippery terrain several times and from several different angles to ensure that her mistress could find no fault with her work. To be as thorough as possible, Krasomila smoothed back the shiny black fur with her thumbs to reach any hidden folds or fissures that might have been obscured, the creature’s tongue fluttering with a companionable friendliness against her diligently licking one. In fact, she was pleasantly surprised at how tame it proved, although this in no way lessened the labors that had been foisted upon her. But no matter how exhaustively her tongue searched, not a particle of dirt was to be had. Nevertheless, the grand lady continued with her sharp harangue, ordering her frantically licking servant to clean a bit lower, then higher, and then lower again.

  This eventually accounted for how Krasomila was gotten to extend her fastidious lavings to the gaping red maw that was clearly the source of so much discommode. Its sticky dribbles had been growing steadily more profuse by the moment, thus necessitating frequent and skittish forays of the domestic’s tongue into the hissing mouth. By concentrating her ministrations below the location specified by her mistress as being the most heavily soiled, she hoped to put a halt to the problem before the woman took note of it and offered up yet another vitriolic scolding.

  Krasomila spent a long time in the application of her duties, her neck and jaw aching with the strain of washing the hairy denizen that lived between her employer’s thighs. Every time she lifted her head to smooth out the knot into which her neck had tied itself, her mistress boxed her on the ears, only to push the maid’s face right back into the furry black nest with its serpentine tongue and frothing mouth and vigilant eye. More than half the night was passed in this fashion, with the lady barking out instructions and her flustered servant following them to the letter. “Clean me there!” shrieked the undulating figure on the bed, her breath coming faster and faster, her fingernails digging painfully into Krasomila’s furiously moving head. “Do not cease for an instant, for I am so very, very dirty!” However, no sooner had the maid’s weary tongue located the spot her mistress had specified than an entirely new one would be proposed.

  The Kaiser’s daughter knew full well that she was being hoodwinked by her employer, for, unlike those who had come before, she had not been born into the ignorance of domestic servitude. As tears of injustice filled her eyes, the lady of the house began to emit a series of mournful wails, followed by a violent thrashing. Her actions were very much like those she had performed in the bath, only instead of sudsy water, fluffy goose feathers went flying to the floor, having been summoned out from the pillows and coverlet by her pounding fists. Indeed, Krasomila’s mistress was truly very, very dirty!

  At the conclusion of her trial period as lady’s maid, Krasomila returned home to her husband, weakened and defeated and having no intention of remaining in domestic service a moment longer. Upon being queried by Miroslav as to her reasons, she flushed hotly, replying that the work demanded of her had been far too difficult—as was the lady herself. Why, just because her employer had riches and possessed a grand title, she was not therefore superior to others.

  Not even a week passed before Miroslav informed his wife that the Czar had chosen a bride. “The palace shall be in need of cooks to prepare food for the celebrations. Perhaps you might offer your services.” Krasomila found herself in agreement. The couple could do with the money and, besides, kitchen work would surely be easier than being lady’s maid to some titled virago. As for the irony of being in the employment of the Czar, so much had happened to her that his proposal of marriage had become less than a distant memory—as had the proposals of the others she had spurned.

  Not surprisingly, the daughter of the Kaiser had never been inside a kitchen before, and she nearly wept when her husband deposited her in the toil-worn hands of the head cook. Without so much as a sip of water to sustain her, she was placed into service. As in her previous post, Krasomila labored so hard she scarcely knew whether the sun or the moon lighted the sky. The splendor of the arriving guests gave her much reason to bewail the lowly position to which her pride and hauteur had led, and she hung her head in shame, which was how the new kitchen maid came to collide with a grandly attired gentleman in the process of descending the stairs. “You!” he bellowed. “The laces of my shoes need tending.”

  The regal finery of his clothing told Krasomila that this majestic figure was none other than the Czar himself who addressed her. She dropped to her knees to perform the task, not even daring to sneak a glance at his face. Afterward as she squatted in a dim corner of the kitchen peeling her fourth bushel of potatoes, a manservant arrived to inquire as to the identity of the comely young kitchen maid who had tied the Czar’s shoelaces. Raising her hand in humble identification, Krasomila discovered herself being escorted upstairs to some exquisitely furnished rooms that, with a heartfelt pang, reminded her of those she had occupied in the palace of her father. It was apparent they had been prepared for the bride. Could it be that the new kitchen maid had been drafted into personal service for the future Czarina?

  Before Krasomila would be given a reason for her presence in such luxurious surroundings, a lady’s maid appeared. “Select a gown and some jewels to accompany it,” she invited the kitchen maid, indicating with a sweep of one leg-o’-mutton arm the magnificent garments and glittering gems that had been laid out upon a luxuriously outfitted bed. “In reward for your earlier courtesy to him, the Czar requests the pleasure of a private dance.”

  Krasomila could hardly believe the woman’s words. She stood docilely by as she allowed the maid’s expert hands to dress her, her heart pounding with excitement. It had been so long since she had worn such finery, not to mention being attended by a servant. By the time the gown had been laced and the jewels clasped into place at her ears and throat, the kitchen wench resembled the beautiful young woman she had once been. Alas, such fleeting joys did not come without the proverbial caveat attached to them. “You must not look His Imperial Majesty in the face,” cautioned the lady’s maid, her tone chillingly ominous. “It is considered a sign of disrespect and therefore worthy of the penalty of death. Now stand facing the wall and remember: Under no circumstances must you look upon the Czar till he bids it.”

  How strange it felt to be the recipient of these instructions. It had always been Krasomila or her father who granted such a permission to others and, indeed, meted out the penalty to transgressors with generous discretion. With a nervous swallow, the Kaiser’s daughter took her designated place at the foot of the bed with her elegantly draped back facing outward. As she waited for the great man who desired from her the simple merriment of a dance, she studied the tapestry hanging above the bed’s ornately carved headboard, her drastically diminished status making her appreciate the labor that had gone into creating so many colorful stitches. It depicted a soldier in uniform riding on horseback, his crop raised high to strike the fleeing half-clad figures of his slaves. The scene had been executed with such fleshy realism that it inspired an icy shive
r to slither down Krasomila’s spine. Before she could ponder her reaction to the tapestry’s disquieting subject matter, she heard the door through which the lady’s maid had exited creak slowly open, followed by a sumptuous swish of satin as a stately presence came to stand behind her. All at once she began to tremble, for she could feel the closeness of the Czar and smell his grassy scent—a scent that stirred something familiar within her.

  Without so much as a cursory greeting, the Czar urged the tremulous kitchen maid forward until she was bending over the bed. Had Krasomila not been quick to put out both hands, she might have fallen on her face. Nevertheless, it would not be her face in which His Imperial Majesty displayed an interest. A sudden coolness gusted over Krasomila’s thighs and backside when the beaded hem of her gown was flung up to her jeweled neck, exposing her to the waist. A deep, masculine sigh shook the room, sending another shiver through the young maid’s stooped form. Unlike its icier predecessor, this one was made of fire.

  Within moments a sharp crack fractured the static silence, leaving in its wake a stinging burn. Its recipient yelped in surprise as a swarm of leathery tails raked over the twin hills of trembling flesh the Czar had unceremoniously uncovered. Krasomila had not even recovered from their first application than a second ensued, crisscrossing the crimsoning tracks that had already been laid and creating the pattern of a draughts board. Although she wished to flee from this terrible torture, an exit would have meant turning to face her assailant—and she could not forget the portentous warning given her by the lady’s maid. Hence Krasomila remained bent fully forward over the bed, staring through a salty curtain at the tapes-tried scene of the slaves trying to escape their fates as she relinquished herself to hers, enduring lash after lash and wondering when it would ever cease.

  For apparently the dance the Czar had in mind was a dance that could only be performed solo. The Kaiser’s daughter wriggled about in a frenzied waltz of pain as the punishing tails licked over her wildly shimmying backside, which had turned the shade of a setting autumn sun. A sticky substance similar to that which had earlier bedeviled her when she had been in the demanding employ of the fine lady coated the insides of her thighs, increasing with each searing crack, as did the igneous heat in the place of their convergence. When Krasomila glanced down at herself to investigate, she saw a fiery red flame extending out from her body. To her astonishment, it looked exactly like the vermilion tongue belonging to the furry creature that lurked between her former mistress’s thighs. Had it somehow managed to follow her to her new post?

  Before she could shoo it away, something hot and wet sprayed the kitchen maid’s smarting flesh, inflicting additional distress as it insinuated itself within the raw striations that had been carved by the sizzling tails. The liquid trickled steadily downward, making its way through the quivering archway of Krasomila’s thighs and toward the flickering, tongue-like flame to the fore. “You may now turn to face me,” came a familiar, albeit strangled voice.

  Krasomila gingerly hoisted herself up from her stooped position, only to learn that the one who had wielded the weapon that caused her such torment and, indeed, such intensity of sensation was her husband, Miroslav. “Why?” she gasped weakly, the fire between her thighs demanding further fuel from his lash.

  “Because I am Czar Miroslav,” he said simply, the leather tails in his hand twitching in their desire to prescribe still more of their rousing remedy for prideful young daughters of Kaisers.

  At last Krasomila recognized the suitor she had so cruelly spurned. From that day forward, she remained in the palace, since it was the palace of her husband the Czar, as were these elegant rooms those of the Czarina. All concerned lived happily ever after—especially the local whip makers, whose services would be required on a weekly basis. For Miroslav wore out many a lash on his beautiful and once-prideful Czarina.

  A TALE OF THE PARROT

  Acknowledged as the home of some of the oldest stories in the world, India is considered by many scholars to be the original birthplace of all folktales. Indeed, one of the oldest collections of folktales can be found in the Jakata, which contains fables and stories in the ancient Pali language that date back to the time of Buddha. However, there also exists a collection of lesser prominence in another ancient language—that of the Sanskrit Sukasaptati, or The Seventy Tales of the Parrot.

  The folktales of India have traditionally been told by singers and tellers who traveled from place to place as well as by bardic troupes, family members, and servants. Like the French literary tales presented in the Court of Versailles, these stories eventually came to be set down in writing for the sole amusement of royalty. Despite their primary function as a form of entertainment, one could often find more lofty purposes at work, for it was standard practice in Hindu medicine for the mentally disturbed to be told tales, the contemplation of which would help overcome emotional disturbance.

  “A Tale of the Parrot” is believed to be part of the much larger Sanskrit work called the Sukasaptati, which possibly dates back in written form to the sixth century. A sacred language, Sanskrit was used by the educated class, therefore the Sukasaptati would likely have been enjoyed by the highborn rather than by those of common blood. Like the stories contained in The Arabian Nights and The Serendipity Tales, those in the Sukasaptati were used as a form of distraction and, as such, often proved extremely erotic in nature. The Indian folktale can be characterized by its distinct sense of candor—a candor that manifested itself in matters pertaining to the sexual.

  In the frame story of the Sukasaptati, a garrulous parrot relays a string of stories to a woman as a means of preventing her from committing adultery. (Conversely, many of the parrot’s stories involve faithless women.) The theme of woman as fickle creature forever waiting to cuckold her husband is widespread in Indian literature, therefore much emphasis has been placed on the importance of a woman’s chastity. Serving in the Sukasaptati as an instrument of this chastity, the parrot has become a popular central character in Indian folktales. In fact, speaking animals have appeared in some of the most ancient Indian texts, many dating back centuries before the birth of Christ.

  The Sukasaptati traveled out of India, reaching the Middle East by about the fourteenth century in the form of the Tutinameh—a translation of the Sanskrit into Persian. Unfortunately, the Tutinameh does not contain all seventy tales from the Sukasaptati, and the plots and characters of those it does contain have been so altered that they have become unrecognizable. However, the Tutinameh has at least managed to retain, if not exceed, the original erotic spirit of the Sukasaptati—an excess I, too, have endeavored to create in my refashioning of one of the parrot’s many tales.

  A MAGNIFICENT GREEN AND GOLD PARROT had been sitting on the branch of an acacia tree for many days, observing the activities of those who passed. Annoyed that no one paid it any heed, the parrot finally decided to speak. For it had a tale to tell about the only child of an emir who received a message indicating that the great Khan who ruled the Turks desired to marry her. A dutiful daughter, she had vowed not to leave behind her widowed father, therefore she made it abundantly clear to anyone who would listen that she had no interest in the Turk, let alone his presumptuous proposal.

  Within days of declining the Khan’s offer of marriage, the Emir’s daughter lapsed into a strange illness—an illness made all the more extraordinary by the fact that the young woman had never suffered a sick day in her life. Those of a superstitious nature entertained the belief that the rejected Khan had had a hand in it, although no evidence could be found to corroborate such meddlesome prattle. In his desperation, the Emir called out doctors from far and wide, yet none could agree on a diagnosis for the malady plaguing his daughter. Finally the wise men were summoned, their clever counsel providing the anguished father with his first real glimmer of hope. Apparently what would be required was the presence of the imperial daughter of Spain—the Infanta who had aided in the rescue of so many royal children from the clutches of an evil c
ult. No corner of the world existed where her name was not uttered without wonderment. If she could liberate someone from the crazed members of a cult, then surely she could help the Emir’s stricken daughter.

  The Emir ordered his entire fleet to set sail at once, vowing to wage war against Spain if her leader refused to relinquish to him this miracle-producing offspring. For no amount of spilled blood would have been too great in the quest to cure his daughter, who now languished by the day in her sickbed, shivering and moaning in heart-wrenching misery. There was not an eye in the emirate that did not overflow with tears for this much-adored young woman.

  When the King of Spain read the message that had been dispatched to him by this faraway Emir’s envoy, instead of compassion for an anguished father, he experienced a powerful rage. He, too, was willing to pick up arms rather than allow his daughter to undertake so dangerous a mission. Having already been informed by a personal spy of the distressing news that had arrived by way of a foreign emissary, the Infanta insisted upon offering her aid to this distant sister, assuring her apprehensive father that she would return swiftly and without harm. Hence she departed with the Emir’s envoy, sailing across the sparkling sapphire sea to a place whose name evoked exotic images of desert caravans and black-eyed houris.

  No sooner had the Spanish Infanta set foot onto the arid soil of this strange, sun-baked land than its aggrieved leader came forth to greet her with offers of tremendous riches and even his crown—if only she could cure his beloved daughter. Naturally, she politely declined such effusive generosity. The King of Spain’s daughter had her own crown, not to mention the vast wealth of her entire country at her disposal. Indeed, her motive for coming was one of pure philanthropy.