Bedtime Stories: A Collection of Erotic Fairy Tales

by Jean Johnson

  That was all the warning he gave her. Lifting his hand off her rump, he brought it down with a sharp, painful smack! Ellen yelped, shocked that he would do such a thing. Not even her own father had punished her like this, preferring instead to make her do her least-liked chores and to write essays analyzing chapters from exceedingly dull-witted books. Never had any man lifted his hand to her like this, and—smack!—she did not like it!

  “Jack! Let me up at once!” She struggled to get off his lap, but he bowed himself over her, caging her in place with his left arm wrapped around her chest. “How dare you!”

  “I dare, Wife, because you dared!” He spanked her again, stinging her rump painfully, then switched his next blow to her other upturned cheek. He didn’t pause between strokes, either, but rained them down with a steady smacksmacksmack, sometimes on her left buttock, sometimes on her right one. He spanked her in spite of her protests, her squirmings, and her yelpings as the stinging became a burning.

  Finally, his hand feathered down over her skin instead of whapping. Overwrought with pain and humiliation, Ellen shivered at his suddenly gentle touch. Within moments, her cheeks burned for a different reason as his fingers soothed her thrumming skin. While the sting of each slap lingered painfully, there was also a newfound sensitivity to her skin, one which magnified the tenderness of his caress.

  It confused her, that she could feel such pleasure from his touch when he had just given her so much pain.

  “I am sorry I have to spank you, my dearest,” Jack murmured. She couldn’t look up at him very easily, given her ignominious position, but she could hear the sincere regret in his voice. “But you have given me no choice.”

  “No choice?” she spluttered, craning her neck to look up at him. “You did so have a choice !”

  Slap!

  “I hear defiance in your voice, Madam Wife!” Jack scolded her sternly, ignoring her startled yelp. The authority in his voice, deep and commanding, made her shiver anew, for he had never spoken like this before, like a man whose very life depended on her understanding and compliance. “Defiance, which is disrespect! While I will never raise my fist to you to beat you bloodied and blue, as Cowslip did to Parsley, should you choose to continue to behave like a spoiled child, you shall be dealt with like a spoiled child! And spoiled children are spanked !”

  With that, he rained his palm down upon her backside once more. His hand fell like a fierce summer storm, lashing her skin with a whipping from his own. Ellen yelped and squirmed, but he kept her in place, paddling her mercilessly. Pain and confusion mingled with the burning in her rump and even down onto the backs of her thighs when her writhing to escape made his aim occasionally slip.

  This time, he didn’t stop until she was sobbing. Slowing his blows, he finally brought his hand to a standstill atop her burning bum. It hurt so much, she couldn’t help but move her hips in the futile attempt to escape the pain . . . and the circling of her hips made his lightly resting fingers shift on her skin. The sensation evoked by the inadvertent caress was so strong, it made her gasp and shift her hips even harder. This time . . . not to escape, but to arch her buttocks further into his touch.

  More than that, in the gyrating and the parting of her thighs . . . she could feel how moist her feminine folds had grown. How very, very slick and moist. Normally it took her husband many minutes of kissing her on her lips and her breasts, of playing his hands over the hills and valleys of her femininity, even of rubbing that special spot that felt so good, before she grew so wet that she noticed it. But now all he had done this time was assert his will, tell her he loved her, scold her soundly, and spank her thoroughly. And gently touch her afterward.

  I cannot believe how good this feels! God in Heaven, how can this feel so good?

  His hand skimmed over her burning skin; she knew he did love her and that he was trying to soothe the traces of each impact . . . but all it did was further arouse her. A whimper escaped her throat. Unable to lie still, ignoring the stiff wooden busk of her stays still digging into her ribs, the bunching of her skirts over her hips, the fact that it was broad daylight, with untold chores awaiting both them, Ellen circled her hips, trying to get him to touch more of her overwrought, impassioned flesh.

  “Are you repentant?” Jack asked her, almost petting her rump. “Will you now give proper weight to my wishes, honoring them and thus respecting me as your equal? As much as I love you, my dearest, if you ever treat me like an inferior again, I shall turn the tables on you exactly as I have just done, time and time again. You will respect me, as I will respect you. When you are worthy of my respect.”

  She whimpered, stuffing the knuckles of one hand into her mouth. She knew she was supposed to be punished, not pleasured—and she could reluctantly admit to herself that her husband did have a point—but those soft strokes on her sensitized skin were inflaming her senses almost as much as the spanking had, if in the opposite direction.

  Smack! “Answer me!” Smack smack slap whap! “Are you repentant?”

  With the splaying of her thighs, the raising and circling of her hips, his last blow landed on the folds of her quim. Her naughty, wet, wanting quim. She yelped around her knuckles, then moaned when he left his hand resting right there. Almost as if claiming the territory he had just tamed.

  Her body shuddered in pleasure a mere moment later; liquid trickled from her depths, seeping copiously past her nether-lips. Both of them froze as it dampened his fingertips. Mortified yet aroused, Ellen held her breath, wondering what her husband might do next.

  WET.

  His wife, whom he had just spanked, and spanked thoroughly for what was probably the first time in her life . . . was wet. Very, thoroughly wet. Dimly, as the blood rushed first to his face, then promptly reversed course and headed for his loins, Jack realized her whimpers were the sounds no longer of a woman in pain, but rather of a woman in need.

  Sensual need, the sort of sounds he normally only heard at night. Sounds which he hadn’t heard from her since before this whole mess started, given her angry, cold treatment of him this past week.

  A sense of power, heady, primitive, and primal, rushed through his body. His loins, halfheartedly stiffened at the first exposure of her tender, beautiful skin, now tightened and thickened to the point that the fitted front of his breeches pinched his flesh from the strain of being confined. For a moment, he knew how Cowslip felt, dominant and powerful, superior and in control over his mate. Except the billy goat had actually, deliberately hurt his mate with the force of his anger, going well beyond merely refusing to give in to her nagging about getting Jack to save himself by driving his wife away.

  Guilt followed on the heels of that rush of feeling. Sliding his fingers out of her folds, he gingerly ran his hand over Ellen’s reddened skin. He wasn’t completely sure, given the rosy hue of her rump, but he was fairly sure she would only have a few minor bruises at best by the end of this. He didn’t want to hurt her . . . God, how he didn’t want to hurt her . . . but he did need to drive his point home somehow.

  She moaned again, hips twitching under his touch. Twitching upward , as if offering herself to him. Lust boiled in his blood. Corralling it sharply, Jack stilled his hand on her heated flesh. He had to remain in control until she admitted she had done wrong.

  “I love you,” he repeated firmly, for he couldn’t not tell her; he didn’t want her to forget why he was doing this. “But until you repent your sins against me, you will continue to be punished.”

  Lifting his hand, he spanked her three times, each one harder than the last, making his palm sting. Letting his hand linger on her flesh after the third one, he deliberately caressed her, hoping she was indeed able to accept that he could punish her and still love her at the same time. Two more swift, sharp swats, and he rested his smarting fingers again.

  “Until you swear you will never again ask me why I laughed, or expect an answer . . . I must keep punishing you,” he stated as firmly as he could. “Even if this hurts both of us.
”

  With that, he steeled himself with a deep breath and swatted her rapidly. After a dozen or so blows, when her whimpers became grunts, he switched to glancing blows, as if vigorously dusting dirt from her rump. Ellen gasped and arched in his lap, her legs flailing at the new sensations being imparted by his swatting attack.

  “Swear it,” Jack ordered when he paused again. She moaned loudly and clung to his thigh and calf, legs squirming and splayed wide. “Swear you will never bring up these questions again! Swear it!”

  “Please . . . oh please!” she groaned.

  He swatted her again, whapping the globes of her flesh back and forth with the palm of his hand. “Swear you will respect me, and never again ask why I laughed!”

  “Please, Jack! Please! ” she begged. He heard her voice break and paused in his spanking. Her breath caught in her throat. Jack thought she might be sobbing, but the pins holding her black hair in a bun had come loose, leaving clumps of her dark locks dangling over her face in a concealing ebony curtain.

  A wriggling squirm of her hips slipped his fingertips into her cleft. She was so hot and wet, his manhood strained at the fall of his breeches, striving to get out of the confines of mere cloth and into the confines of her flesh. Pure lust overrode his control for a moment, making him seek out the folds of her femininity, then circle and flick the little peak of her pleasure. His wife cried out, arching her back. He did it again, making her shudder, and thrust two fingers into her depth without warning.

  “Jack! ” she shrieked, bucking up into his touch.

  No! No pleasure! Not yet, he warned himself, forcing his hand to withdraw from her. She whimpered and moaned in protest. He struck her rump twice more in emphasis, then left his hand hovering in the air just a thumb-width from her flesh. He knew she could feel the heat of his palm, because she strained up into it, though he didn’t let the two connect. However much he longed to stop spanking her and instead plunge into her, to claim his mate in the most primal of ways, she had to submit first. Nothing else would spare his life, or keep them together as husband and wife.

  “You know what I want!” he ordered sharply. “Swear on your life you will never ask me again, or you will continue to be punished over and over. You will obey me in this, Ellen. You will never again disrespect my wishes!”

  When she didn’t swear, he spanked her again. He spanked her until she was sobbing openly and his hand was burning and his rod was throbbing, until she finally cried out the words he needed to hear.

  “Yes! Yes, I swear it! I swear I’ll never ask it again! Oh, God, Jack—take me! Take me! Love me! Please! ”

  Hauling her off his lap, Jack pushed Ellen onto their bed. Ripping at the buttons of his trousers, he unfastened the fall, yanked up his shirt and undershirt, and faced his wife. Impatient, he shoved up the folds of her skirts, which had fallen halfway back down her limbs, only to find her thighs spread wantonly wide. Blatantly waiting to be claimed by him, Ellen moaned his name into the quilt covering their feather-stuffed bed.

  Pulling on her hips, he got her to knee up on the edge of the bed. It took only a moment to aim his stiff flesh at her glistening folds, and then—Heaven on earth—he pushed inside. He pushed in so hard and deep, his groin snugged up against her hips, until he could feel the burning heat of her punishment-warmed flanks against his belly.

  He could also feel the contracting ripples of her flesh in that special way that signaled his beloved wife was about to climax. Groaning, he pulled back and slammed home, without finesse or care for any spanking-induced bruises. It just felt too good; this felt too primal, too right, to slow down or deny. Knowing she was enjoying it—grateful she so clearly enjoyed this—Jack let his self-control go, rutting with the full force of his victory over her while she—his blessed wife—accepted, craved, and even demanded it from him with each sobbing breath, responding just as passionately.

  It was primitive and yet primal, and when he spent, he roared like a bull. His wife, clawing at the covers under the force of his claiming, screamed hoarsely herself with the force of her bliss, like one of the mountain lions he had occasionally heard in the distance of the untamed hills to the north and west of his home. Pride surged through him at the sensation of her flesh squeezing him senseless, encouraging him in a few, last, pleasurable thrusts, until fierce pleasure faded, dragging his strength in its wake.

  Panting heavily, Jack slumped over his wife. He covered her not only from exhaustion, but to enfold her in his arms. Nuzzling through the tousled locks of her hair, he kissed her tenderly, lovingly on her nape.

  “Now we can be equals again . . . Mind your promise, my dearest,” he breathed, inhaling deeply to restore some energy to his limbs. He heard her sniff, face still pressed to the bedding, and kissed the back of her neck again. “I hope you will. I never want to hurt you. I just want to love you and live out the rest of our lives together for a very long time, happily and in harmony.”

  Carefully, he eased out of her, backing off of her prone body. Unfortunately, he couldn’t finish his intent to rise and resume their day, for his limbs threatened to turn into jam preserves. The force of their coupling had drained him just that much. Sagging onto the floor, he rested on his knees and heels, his breeches bunched up over his calves.

  The position brought him down to eye-level with her rump. It was strawberry red from the force of his blows. The black hairs dusting the folds of her flesh were matted down with their combined juices. In the clear light of day, he could even see the little tremors of her thigh muscles, still quivering with the intensity of her orgasm.

  His own satisfaction still thrumming through his veins, Jack could admit to himself that this portrait of intimacy had to be one of the most beautiful visions of his life.

  Leaning forward on impulse, he dusted her reddened flesh with tender, loving kisses, rising up on his knees just enough to circle all around her flesh. With each deep breath, he enjoyed the musk of their coupling, until she whimpered and squirmed, twitching her hips higher into his face. It was wanton, willing, and irresistible. The hay cutting would have to wait, the herb garden would have to keep its weeds for another day, and she was right earlier: They did have enough wood to last them a few more months, even if the tinder and kindling supplies were running low.

  All those chores weren’t nearly as important as loving his wife for the rest of the day, right here and now. Particularly since he had just guaranteed he would be able to keep loving her for the remainder of his hopefully long-lived life. Tugging at the impediments of his clothes, Jack stripped them away between succulent, scandalous, broad daylight tastes of his wife’s utterly willing, utterly delicious quim.

  She moaned his name in that way that said she wasn’t ready to stop. The way she normally did only in the darkest depths of the night.

  Their chores could definitely wait.

  JACK whistled happily as he worked. The early evening was a hot one, so he had stripped off his shirt and foregone an undershirt while he mucked out the stalls. The cows and the nannies were due to return to their byres, udders thick with rich, pasture-fed milk, which meant their shelter had to be tidied and ready. He could do no less for the animals dependent upon his care and aid.

  While the hard work did make him sweat, his wife had promised him a cool bath before their evening meal. In fact, she was taking a bath herself right now, having asked him to bring the tin washtub into the kitchen so that she could bathe while their supper cooked. My life is just about perfect, now, he thought. Praise be to God, and to the King of the Tor, it’s just about perfect . . .

  “Well, now that’s a welcoming thought, Jack King. Thank you!”

  Whirling, pitchfork in hand, Jack found a very short, redheaded man dressed in blue standing in the open doorway of the barn. A very short, very familiar, Wee Man. Recovering quickly from his shock, Jack glanced toward the house, but couldn’t see his wife. Knowing it likely that one of the Wee Folk wouldn’t appear if there was the threat of a nonbeliever about,
Jack laid the pitchfork aside and swept the little man his most courteous bow.

  “Welcome! Please, come in. Would you like me to call in one of the cows for a bit of milk? Something from Dandelion, or perhaps from Buttercup? Are you tired from . . . well, from such a long and incredible journey you must have had?”

  The Wee Man chuckled. He rubbed at his clean-shaven chin, then shook his head. “No, I don’t need any milk just yet—though I shan’t say no if you’ll set out a bowl after supper at some point before you retire. And I haven’t come such a long ways as you’d think; there are passages, and passages, ’twixt the lands of the King of the Tor to the far east and the Prince of the Lake a short journey to the north. The ways of our kind can make such a great distance seem very short. No, I’ve been sent to bring greeting to His Majesty’s kin, you see . . . and sent again with a short but important missive for you.”

  Approaching the Wee Man, Jack sank to his knees, bringing their heads closer to level. “I’m honored to be remembered by His Majesty. How is he faring, and his lady-wife, and the rest of the Wee Court?”

  “Oh, well enough! The Tor will live on and on, as it always has. And your courtesy is appreciated, as always.” Hands clasped together in front of his chin, the Wee Man winked at him. “I’ve good news. We’ve been keeping an eye upon you, Jack King, and given how carefully you have kept your little gift a proper secret, His Majesty wishes you to know he has granted you a second boon. Not quite so big as the first, but good enough, I think.”

  Jack tried not to let his fear show. The first one had been bad enough, in its own way. “A . . . second boon?”

  The Wee Man chuckled, his blue eyes gleaming with mirth. “An easement, if you will. No longer will you be constrained by the threat of death, Jack my boy. In fact, you can even tell your wife, and still live exactly as you have these last few years. But should you ever tell another living, mortal soul—outside of your wife and your children—how you can communicate with the animals of the land and the sky as well as you can with your fellow mortal men . . . the gift shall be taken from you. But only the gift, and no longer your life as well. No more turning to stone for you, Jack King! Thus is the King of the Tor’s second boon.”