Bedtime Stories: A Collection of Erotic Fairy Tales

by Jean Johnson

  Viktor complied, smiling slightly. “That must be what you sound like when giving a massage. Does this mean you’ll take me on as a client?”

  “I don’t sleep with my clients . . . and I don’t know Haguaro physiology well enough to know what changes I’d have to make in my normal techniques,” she confessed as he settled carefully on his stomach. She sucked in a sharp breath, and he felt her fingers touching his ribs. His ribs had been surgery-shaved in a palm-sized swath around each wound. “Oh, your poor fur! Did they have to shave you so much?”

  “To keep it from regrowing down into the wound when they apply the regeneration salve, yes, they do have to shave it so much. I always look piebald after a battle if I get injured. We all do.” Reaching underneath himself, he adjusted his erection, then snagged a pillow and pulled it under his chest and cheek. A stray thought came to him as she spread her hands gently over his back, one which had to be voiced. “I, um, have something to ask of you . . .”

  “And that is . . . ?” Raisa inquired, finding and outlining the major muscles in his back.

  “I know your job is important to you, but . . . could you maybe restrict your efforts to female clients? It’s the smell,” he explained quickly, before she could object. “I know you’re very professional, and I do trust you, but . . . it bothers me whenever I visit and you have the scent of another man still clinging to your hands.”

  “I do wash my hands after each client,” she muttered, stroking the pads of her fingers through his fur.

  “Yes, but I have a very sensitive nose . . . and horribly jealous instincts,” he confessed.

  Her hands paused on his back, then resumed their stroking. “Really? Aside from that incident outside the theater, I haven’t seen any signs of jealousy.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be civilized to growl and snarl at . . . Ohhhh, right there.” He purred as her explorations reached the base of his tail. His hips lifted up into her touch, it felt so good. “Ohhh, yessss . . . !”

  Raisa giggled and rubbed harder, adding a bit of scratching from her short-trimmed nails. “This is classic. You’re actually doing the ‘elevator-butt’ thing!”

  Viktor couldn’t take her teasing, vocal or physical. Whipping around, he scooped her up and flung her onto the bed next to him, aiming so that she landed with a gentle bounce on her back. Eyes wide, she gaped up at him. He would never willingly hurt her, but he wouldn’t put up with being teased, either. Not like that. Unbuttoning her blouse, he tugged it out of her slacks and flicked the edges open, baring her bra-covered breasts and tender, pale abdomen.

  “The base of the tail is a major erogenous zone on an Haguaro,” he warned her in a growl, unfastening her trousers next. “Messing with it calls for retaliation.”

  Pulling the waistband open, he dipped his head and licked her navel, making her squirm and choke out his name. “Viktor!”

  Mock growling, he licked and nipped at her stomach, then kissed his way up toward her breasts. Her hands beat him there, but not to stop him. With a brief fumble, she unfastened the front clasp of her bra, baring her flesh to him. Purring in pleasure at her open acceptance of his intentions, he plumped her breasts in his palms, nuzzling them.

  Casual, recreational sex wasn’t unknown to him—nor was it frowned upon by Sullipin culture—but it had always been with willing Haguaro women before now. The feel of all that smooth, satiny, furless skin was undeniably erotic to him. Nipples, he had seen before, but never ones surrounded by so much hairless, creamy-pink skin. He groaned, wanting to touch and taste and smell every part of her.

  Tonguing her flesh in wide, hungry circles, Viktor reveled in her squirms and breathy moans, the encouraging way she dug her hands into his mane, tugging erotically on the fluffy gold and brown strands. Her scent, enough to make him light-headed on its own, blended with the musk of her rising, undeniably feminine desire.

  With his nostrils filled with the sheer scent of her, knowing—believing—that she wouldn’t ask either of them to stop this time, he abandoned himself to his instincts. The only self-controls he retained were just enough care with the remainder of her clothes to refrain from damaging them, and the vital care he took with her person. Mindful of his claws, he stroked her with the pads of his fingers and the warmth of his palms. Laved her with his tongue and nipped far more with his lips than his teeth. Loved her with every millimeter of his being.

  Not caring that she still had one sock partially clinging to her foot, Viktor nuzzled his way up her thighs until he could bury himself nose-first in her mound. Nothing else mattered once he was there. Not the groaning of her voice, not the squirming of her hips, and not even the hands that gripped and tugged at his mane, threatening to pull out tufts of his hair.

  Even when she grabbed at his sensitive ears, he only shook his head long enough to free them before diving back into her divine, desire-reddened folds. Rose-colored folds. His to devour and enjoy. Possessive instincts drove him, and he had no desire to resist.

  Overwhelmed with sensation, Viktor pursued every single action that caused her to react. He pursued them, licking, rubbing, even growling, listening as her moans turned into gasps, which in turn became panting cries. Even when she shouted hoarsely, undone by her climax, he continued to lick and kiss, though he gentled his touch. But he didn’t stop. Not even when she grabbed at his ears a second time, though it forced him to catch her hands and press them to the bed, leaving her thighs to flex and flutter like demented, overgrown butterfly wings while he gradually increased his efforts once again.

  There was nothing he wanted more in this world than the taste and the feel of his rightful mate, to hear her joyful cries, to see her writhing in bliss, to smell the scent of her, all of it weaving its way through his blood and his bones and his brain.

  Her third climax rendered her limp and nearly senseless. He could tell by the lax slumping of her legs, the way her flesh shivered but didn’t fully tense under his touch. Instinct said that now was the time to hold her, to bond with her emotionally in the aftermath of such intense pleasure. Crawling up the length of her, Viktor rubbed his furred chest against hers. Raisa hummed and lifted one limp arm, pulling him closer, so he did it again. A shift of his weight allowed him to settle onto his side; a lift of her torso allowed her to roll up against him.

  A subtle adjustment of his hips allowed his engorged shaft to slip between her thighs. Unlike the velvetlike fur on his face and the back of his hands, his erection was nothing but bare, naked, masculine skin, a point of familiarity he hoped she would enjoy. Unlike the soft tufts of fur decorating the mound of an Haguaro woman, her feminine curls were crisp and crinkly, a point of exoticness which fascinated and aroused him. Flexing his hips, he enjoyed the soft scrape of them against his flesh as he rubbed himself along her pleasure-damp folds.

  He couldn’t stop making love to her now that she had confessed she was his, but he could slow things down long enough to wait for her recovery. It came with a humming sound that was almost an Haguaro purr. She accompanied it with a press of her hand on his chest, tipping him onto his back. That allowed Raisa to slither up over him, rubbing her body from breasts to shins against his fur and nuzzling her face into his shoulder, neck, and mane.

  “Mmm . . . that was magnificent. Unbelievable . . .” Drawing in a deep, luxurious breath, Raisa grinned smugly at him. “So . . . How soon can you do it again?”

  Another time, he might have chuckled. Instead Viktor captured her mouth in a heated, tonguing kiss. Sighing, she cupped his face and kissed him back. The stimulation roused by her thumb gently rubbing the base of his whiskers was almost unbearable. He gently nipped the edge of her thumb, then sucked on it with instinctive hunger.

  It wasn’t enough; he needed more. He needed her, wrapped around him, holding him, loving him. His. Rolling them over, Viktor parted her thighs with his own. Feeling her tilting her hips up to his, welcoming him intimately, he growled his pleasure. The instinct to drive straight in, to claim what was now his warred with t
he need to be gentle with his chosen woman. Either way, his need to move, to mate with her, was undeniable.

  Nudging himself into the right spot, Viktor rocked into her, pressing in centimeter by centimeter. Elbows bracing his weight, he dipped his head. Not to kiss her, but to press his cheek against hers. He nuzzled her, purring into her throat in time with each advance and retreat. That purr increased to another near-feral growl when she raked her fingers through the short fur on his back. Clawing him in her clawless way.

  Encouraged, he thrust a little harder, a little deeper. That made Raisa moan and tilt back her head in subconscious submission, which made him glad. Sparing enough attention to lick the proffered skin, he increased his pace, until all he could feel was her warmth and her wetness enveloping him from tip to root with each long, smooth stroke.

  The bed creaked with each circling thrust of his hips, joining her soft, rhythmic groans and his panting breath. Vaguely aware that he was starting to push her physically with each stroke, Viktor wrapped his hands under her shoulders, holding his mate carefully in place for each controlled, considerate thr—She raked her fingers all the way down to the base of his spine and rubbed there. Right there.

  He broke. It was too much, too stimulating. Too sexy. Crying out—not quite roaring—Viktor snapped his hips in full passion. Raisa cried out, too, cried out and dug her short fingernails into his furred buttocks with each stroke.

  She wanted him? She got him. It was his last semi-coherent thought. Growling wildly, Viktor pounded into her, poured himself into her, fused every sense with her and absorbed everything that made her his mate. Mouthing her tender neck, he sealed his lips against her skin, passionately tonguing the rapid pulse of her heartbeat. Sucking on the vibrating thrum of her cries.

  The scent of her passion, the feel of her overwrought spasms—this time with her flesh rippling intimately around his own—drowned his last rational thought. Releasing her throat, he threw back his head and roared with triumph. Shaking with the bliss of his own release, he sagged slowly down over her, until some last vestige of consciousness prodded him into shifting to the side. Bringing her limp, sated figure with him, he rolled gently over until she lay sprawled against him. Only then did he relax fully, letting sense seep back in among his sensibilities.

  His fur clung to her sweaty skin. He could see the stray hairs clinging to the arm draped in a loose cuddle over his chest, most of them golden, some of them brown. As his strength slowly seeped back into his brain, Viktor chuckled. Raisa drew in a deep breath, but instead of actually asking anything, she merely hummed at him in an inquiring way.

  “I seem to have shed on you,” he pointed out, amused.

  “Mm. Marking your territory, I guess,” she murmured, nuzzling his chest with her cheek.

  Yesss . . . Pure happiness purred out of every last one of his pores. Not only was Raisa his mate, she willfully recognized it out loud. It didn’t matter that his back now felt sore from all that activity. The pain didn’t matter; he was unabashedly happy.

  The comm unit by his bed beeped, startling both of them. Ears flicking back, whiskers pulling down, Viktor gave it a disgusted look.

  Raisa chuckled. “At least whoever it is has good timing and didn’t call about two or three minutes earlier.”

  He grunted. Stretching out his left arm, he found the switch for audio-only, made sure it was pushed firmly to the left, and activated the call. “You’ve reached Viktor; who is this?”

  “Viktor Ragerip? This is Dr. Morrigan Galoise, psychobiologist. Having reviewed your actions during the incident on Thrasker’s Street the other night—as per standard debriefing procedure following any incident involving civilians—I went ahead and ordered a full workup of your genome.”

  His ears flattened further. If he hadn’t been lying on his tail, with the tip of it caught under the back of his knee, it would have flicked and thumped in annoyance. “What for? Just because I was involved in an almost-fight is no reason to examine my DNA for abberances. No one was severely hurt. Other than me, I’ll point out.”

  “The details we have of the Gengin Project records are sketchy at best, but after having studied your genome, and comparing it with the ferocity of your response to a threat toward the, ah, woman you are dating,” the doctor on the other end of the connection stated, “I have reason to believe you are harboring Phrodesian encoding in your genes. As I said, the records of what the full implications of this possibility could mean aren’t completely known . . . but I’d place the probability at or near seventy percent.

  “I therefore suggest, Mr. Ragerip, that you proceed with great caution when contemplating intimacies with this Miss Chavell. It wouldn’t do to imprint yourself on her without her knowing what this possibility entails.”

  Viktor wrinkled his nose. “I’ll take that under advisement. Thanks for calling.”

  Shutting off the unit, he looked at the woman in his arms, unsure how to explain what all of that meant without possibly scaring her off.

  Raisa lifted her head from his chest, curiosity in her blue green gaze. “Phrodesian? Is that another Gengin race? Or sub-race, rather?”

  “A sub-race.” He closed his eyes, reciting what little he knew. “The Phrodesian genome project was designed to biologically influence its inheritors, forcing them to comply with demands for breeding more of their own kind. It’s been presented as a classic case of nature overcoming nurture, since the biological imperative to mate drives the Phrodesian wild with lust, while other imperatives encoded in the genome encourage the sufferer to ‘imprint’ upon a specific person, ostensibly to keep a particular genetically engineered bloodline pure.

  “Unfortunately, the engineers never managed to key it to a specific Gengin race. Nor could they get the genes to activate on demand. They can lie dormant in the blood for years, even lie dormant for a few generations, and then they just . . . activate,” he finished, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. “Sometimes with very unexpected results, and usually about five to ten years past puberty. But utterly unpredictably.”

  “That sounds like it would be more trouble to the genetic engineers than it was worth,” Raisa observed idly.

  His ears pulled down, as did his whiskers. “No. It was considered worth it. You see, they enslaved many of the Psians that way . . . and it did ensure that at least some of their creations would have to breed, whether they wanted to or not. Most of the Gengin Project managers paid enormous sums for access to the Phrodesian genome, preserving and passing along each snippet of the code. It wasn’t ever predictable in the Haguaro line . . . something about our feline sides provoking a greater level of independence,” he half joked, opening his eyes to slits to gauge her sense of humor. It pleased him to see her smiling a little. Shrugging, he continued. “But there have been a few rumors of Phrodesian Haguaro in the past.”

  Resting her cheek on his chest, Raisa considered that for a little while, then sighed. “All right . . . I’ll bite. How do we know if you’re a Phrodesian or not?”

  Viktor grinned. “It’s hard to tell. A Phrodesian is possessive of his or her mate . . . but so is an Haguaro, when we finally pick someone we want to marry and settle down with. Phrodesians also want to make love frequently . . . but so do the Haguaro. Of course, the third way to tell a Phrodesian is a lot more accurate than that, and is usually the best way to determine if that person’s genome has been activated, regardless of which Gengin race is being tested.”

  “So what is this fail-proof third way?” she asked, curious.

  “Once fixated on a specific person, a Phrodesian literally can’t get aroused by anyone else. Not even if he or she actively tried.”

  “If you try with anyone else,” Raisa growled, “I’ll rip out your fur!”

  That made him laugh. Cuddling her close, Viktor kissed her disheveled hair. “As if I’d be interested in anyone else, ever again. But, um . . . Keisia did have a good point to raise, when we talked earlier.”

  “Oh?” Raisa asked. Then f
rowned warily. “You and she aren’t . . . ?”

  He shook his head. “No, just best friends. Or more like honorary siblings. No, she pointed out that the odds of, well, any children of ours being born Haguaro are rather high. That wouldn’t bother you . . . would it?”

  “Nope. Haguaro kids are cute . . . and so are you.” Squirming a little in his grip, she managed to get her lips up to his for a real kiss. Then pulled back and peered down at her fur-streaked chest, wrinkling her nose. “You’re furry, and I’m sweaty. Not only am I going to have to deal with your sheddings everywhere, as well as any from whatever kids we might have, you’re going to be a fuzzy furnace to sleep with when late summer rolls around!”

  “If you haven’t noticed, Raisa my love, my house is air-conditioned,” he quipped. Viktor paused, flicked one ear, and gave her a wry smile. “I trust, since you’re talking about liking kids and still being with me in a few months’ time, it means you’ll say yes when I ask you to marry me?”

  Her dimple appeared, accompanying her smirk. “Are you going to ask me, Viktor Rose?”

  “Raisa Chavell, will you marry me and be my mate?” Viktor asked her politely, dutifully, knowing the answer was a foregone conclusion. She was his mate, after all. Phrodesian or otherwise, she was now firmly his, and both of them knew it.

  She gave him a smug look. “No.”

  What? His mouth fell open and his whiskers pulled back. He couldn’t even find enough breath to ask her why not, he was so shocked.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” she repeated, flicking her fingers as if counting on them, “no, no, no, no, no, no . . . yes.”

  And then she giggled. The same muffled giggle she normally used when comparing him to certain fairy tale creatures. Breathing once again, he gave her a mock-dirty look.

  “You may be an undeniable beauty, my dear Raisa, but you are also a beast. Come here,” he growled as his mate’s giggles turned into outright laughter. Cupping the back of her head, he coaxed her parted lips back into range. “Kiss your poor beast back to life . . .”