Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Following on from my Space Oddity stories, I’m still in a whimsical mood so here goes. Think you know the Snow White story? Uh-uh! The Brothers Grimm were circumspect when recording the tale and Disney got it all wrong (much too sentimental and he had to think about the film’s rating anyway). This is the true account of what actually happened (trust me on this!)

There is sex but it’s secondary to the plot and characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over (and I bet you never saw that declaration in any Disney film credits). All characters are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental (not to mention highly unlikely). I hope you enjoy the story.

With acknowledgements to Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai and John Sturges’s The Magnificent Seven.

(Perhaps I can get back to my serious story now that I’ve got this off my chest.)

Copyright © 2019 to the author.

* * * * *

…once upon a time in a land near yet far away …

…a lonely hearse stood in the middle of a lonely street and beside it lay a lonely corpse. As corpses go it was fairly ugly (even very ugly) but that was the nature of its species. Death had not improved matters although the Grim Reaper had tried to be generous at the time of the subject’s sad demise (an empty moonshine bottle lay near the corpse’s hand—it had passed over happy).

The hearse was quite handsome, constructed of the finest wood and glass and gilded like the proverbial… some sort of flower but the corpse couldn’t remember what. Or it wouldn’t have remembered had it been alive. Between the shafts of the hearse stood a pair of unicorns: the elder was patient and wanting only to return to his comfortable stable for a bucket of ginger beer and a dish of oatmeal and cream; the younger unicorn pawed the ground, anxious to get the job done so it could go and visit a certain lady unicorn rumoured to be pretty easy with her favours.

On the verandah of a moonshine-and-rotgut saloon two men stood arguing. “Look, I paid you two groats to give that a funeral and it’s still lying there getting even less healthy than it is already.”

“And here’s your two groats back!” snapped the other, the local undertaker, “They just won’t let me take it up there.”

The first man gaped. “What’s wrong with this town? That’s only Galoshes Hill up there, nothing but gone-to-the-bad elves and gnomes with the odd evil fairy buried there. They weren’t fussy in life as to who they mixed with as long as he bought the drinks so I’m damned sure they won’t be fussy now!”

“Ah,” said the undertaker, nodding his head wisely, “You’ve put your finger on it. Elves and gnomes. Old Razzmatazz there…” pointing to the corpse “…is a hobgoblin and that mob…” waving his hand at the crowd barring entry to the graveyard “…don’t want the likes of him buried alongside the likes of them.”

“Won’t anybody here drive that hearse?”

The undertaker shook his head. ” ‘Fraid not.”

“Oh, for the Great God Pan’s sake, I’ll take it up!” The two men turned and found themselves looking down at a female dwarf standing there. A little over four-and-a-half feet tall, she was nicely proportioned with a middle-aged yet still-pretty face framed by dark hair streaked with grey. Vivid blue eyes glared up at them. The stranger was dressed in standard dwarf fashion, chain-mail shirt, rough leather jerkin and leggings, iron helmet and an axe-belt that looked as if it had seen plenty of service. Her whole demeanour suggested this was a dwarf you didn’t want to mess with.

The undertaker held a hand out to his companion. “Two groats!” he grunted, gesturing to a minion to load the late Razzmatazz into the hearse’s passenger compartment.

The dwarf clambered into the driving seat and the unicorns perked up. Unicorn Senior thought: “Great! Ginger beer with oatmeal and cream ahead and plenty of it!” Unicorn Junior’s thoughts were a little more coarse. “Great! Carnal knowledge tonight and plenty of it!”

The dwarf felt someone scrambling up beside her. She turned to see another dwarf female, a little younger, also pretty, and heavily armed. “Never ridden crossbow on a hearse before,” the newcomer commented, “What’s your name?”

“Chrissie. You?”

“Viv.”

The two shook hands. Then Chrissie eased her double-headed axe in its holster and unbuttoned the sheaths holding her throwing-knives. Grasping the reins she said: “Okay, Viv, let’s get up that hill and kick some arse…”

[Cue: stirring and dramatic music]

…and early one morning in the royal palace…

…wicked Queen Malicia sat up in bed and stretched, her naked body tingling with the sheer pleasure of waking following a good night’s sleep. As always, she stepped out of the four-poster bed and went straight to the full-length mirror where she could admire herself.

“Not bad for forty-five… er, thirty-one,” çekmeköy escort she murmured. Tall with waist-length blonde hair and jungle-green eyes, she had medium-sized breasts with large pink areolas and long nipples which were never less than erect. Malicia was particularly fond of her hair; most folk expect wicked queens to have raven-dark locks and so she was able to fool most of the people most of the time. She ran a graceful hand over her mound and between her legs. Good, no stubble. The depilatory essence she had created in her secret laboratory was the most effective yet. She fingered her pussy for a while, smiling to herself. “…and who is the gayest of us all…” she whispered to the mirror.

There was no answer and she expected none. This was not her magic mirror, just an ordinary one with no occult qualities. The magic mirror was mounted on another wall, covered at all times, except when in use, with a wrap of black velvet. Irrationally, and the Queen sometimes admitted to herself that it was irrational, she felt that the magic mirror was male and lewd, a natural peeping-tom pervert that enjoyed leering at her when she walked around naked as she did most of the time in her own quarters.

There was a quiet knock at her chamber door and a pretty little red-headed maid servant entered carrying a breakfast tray. There was jasmine tea from distant Cathay (courtesy of Genie of the Lamp Imports Inc. for the very best quality) with two lightly boiled eggs, brown and speckled (the Great God Pan help the hen that refused to lay brown and speckled eggs—they tended to end up as cock-in-a-van), a toasted muffin and three pots containing fresh butter, quince conserve and honey. Queen Malicia made no attempt to cover herself although the maid politely averted her eyes.

“Look at me, girl,” the Queen commanded and when the maid did so continued: “You are the new girl, are you not? What is your name child and how old are you?”

The maid bobbed a curtsey. “I’m Honeysuckle, your Grace, and I’m one month and a few days past my nineteenth birthday.”

“Ah, such a pretty name for such a pretty child. And such a perfect age, ripe for the plucking. Tell me, Honeysuckle, do you find me beautiful?”

Honeysuckle bobbed again. “Very much so, your Grace. Quite the most beautiful naked lady I’ve ever seen.”

“And you’ve had all of your duties, and I mean all, explained to you”

Another bob. “Oh yes, your Grace.”

“Very good,” Malicia smiled, “Then you may now remove your garment.”

Honeysuckle complied, doffing her maid’s dress, her sole item of clothing, and stood naked before the Queen who smiled again. “Such a lovely little body and such sweet little breasts. One thing, Honeysuckle, I would appreciate a little less pubic hair—you have quite a bush there. Trim it neatly, my dear. I think perhaps a heart shape would be desirable.”

The Queen took a delicate porcelain cup of jasmine tea and sipped before pointing to her own pussy with an elegant forefinger. “Now, Honeysuckle, carry out the rest of your duties. I am feeling kind today so you are permitted to place a cushion on the floor to kneel on. You may then proceed to lick the royal quim.”

Honeysuckle performed her duties well, giving Queen Malicia three most satisfactory orgasms. When the Queen came, she did it quietly with little sighs. Much as she wanted to, she considered it vulgar and unladylike to moan, scream, whimper and shout words of unabashed ecstasy such as: “Oh fuck yes! Don’t fucking stop! I’m fucking coming!” especially in front of the servants. Such behaviour was beneath her, fit for the common herd only.

“I am very pleased with you, Honeysuckle. You have a lively little tongue. Tell me, did I taste pleasant?”

The maid blushed. “Oh yes, your Grace, I have never tasted a more delicious quim.”

Queen Malicia preened. “Excellent. You may go, child, and I will see you tomorrow morning. Tell my private chamber attendant to prepare my bath now. Oh, and don’t forget to trim your pussy hair, there’s a good girl. Heart-shaped, mind you.”

When the Queen had bathed and donned her day’s robes, she went to the wall and uncovered the magic mirror. It had been two or three weeks since she had last consulted it and she was eagerly anticipating fulsome compliments. Its darkened surface flooded with silvery light as the mirror came to life.

The mirror yawned. ” ‘morning, Queenie. Been a while.”

“How often do I have to tell you not to call me Queenie. Listening to you, people would think I was a common barmaid in some low tavern. Now, to business: Magic mirror on the wall, who is the gayest of us all?”

The mirror made a derisive noise before replying. “Someone is but it’s not you, that’s for sure!”

“WHAT?”

“You got wax in your ears or something?” The mirror had cost a small fortune and so it got away with insolence that would have had any other looking-glass cevizli escort smashed into ten thousand shards. “I said, not you babes! Not no more you ain’t the gayest!”

There was something wrong here. Queen Malicia threw the velvet cover over the mirror, oblivious to its resentful muttering, and stalked about the chamber for ten or fifteen minutes, grinding her teeth. Maybe she had neglected the mirror and it was suffering from some kind of breakdown. She’d give it another try.

Whipping off the cover, she hissed: “Magic mirror on the wall, who is the gayest of us all?”

“Oh, for the Great God Pan’s sake!” said the mirror, “Didn’t I just tell you a few minutes ago? You must have stuffed your ears with cotton wool today. Let’s get this straight, Queenie, watch my lips—oh, sorry! forgot, haven’t got any, have I? Listen closely, you are not, K-N-O-T not, the gayest of them all any more. Second place I can guarantee you but that’s it. Nothing more!”

“THEN WHO THE FU—” she pulled herself up sharp: remember, ladylike at all times, even when being terribly wicked. “TELL ME, MAGIC MIRROR, WHO IS THE GAYEST OF THEM ALL?”

The mirror made the yawning noise again. “Snow White, of course. Who else? You may be getting more cunni- whatever-it’s-called right now from your hand-maidens but she’s young and has the potential—she’s permanently randy these days, panting with lust and her pussy pulsating whenever she sees beautiful girls. So stick that in your royal quim and live with it! No more to be said so I’m going to have a snooze now!” The mirror’s surface darkened as it went off the air.

Queen Malicia, face purple, almost jumped up and down with rage. Snow White! That little bitch Snow White! Fu— she meant Vexing Snow White! How could Snow White possibly be more gay than her? Impossible! At her age she surely still thinks her pussy is for peeing through. Hold on, though, it had been a while since she’d seen her ward, years in fact, perhaps she’s not all that young any more… little bells were ringing…

She took her special diary from the secret drawer in her bureau. “Magic diary, is there something special about Snow White that I should be aware of?”

The magic diary replied in a squeaky little voice. “Yes, it’s her twenty-first birthday next month and that’s when she ascends the throne.”

“Her twenty-first birthday? Are you sure? But it only seems like yesterday—”

“Her coming-of-age right enough,” confirmed the diary, “Doesn’t time fly when you’re having malicious fun? Want some gift suggestions?”

“No!” Malicia slammed the diary shut, ignoring the muffled complaint of: “Ow! My spine! It was only a thought.” So that was it, Snow White was almost twenty-one. Something would have to be done about her and that right soon.

Tempers fuckit. There were some very strange people in other parts of the world—for some reason they all spoke different languages. Tempers fuckit, that’s what one race said in their own tongue, at least Malicia thought that was the expression. However you pronounced it, it meant ‘Time Flies’. Queen Malicia had seen so little of her ward over the years that she’d completely forgotten kids grow up, the inconsiderate little shits. Twenty-one already and bang goes the Queen’s nice little sinecure! For Malicia was Queen in name only.

When Snow White was only a year old, her parents had both died of the green-and-crimson spotted pimple plague leaving the babe their sole heir. It was decreed a person of royal blood should be appointed regent until Snow White came of age. Distant relation Malicia, a cousin of the king five or six times removed, was the only close-ish blood-relative to be found and she was duly enthroned. And now it was to be snatched away from her. She knew that most of her ministers and almost the whole population would be pleased to see the back of her such was her reputation for wickedness. Well, they were going to get one hell of a shock. Wicked? They didn’t know from wicked yet! Snow White’s days were numbered and then the fun would really begin.

All that was needed to be rid of her was a cunning and foolproof plan…

* * * * *

The lovely Snow White bore little resemblance to her name, having the healthy good looks of a girl who spent a lot of time in the fresh air. She had a happy disposition too, despite the fact that her upbringing had bordered on neglectful, being left in the hands of several incompetent maids and doddery old tutors.

Unaware of her guardian’s musings, she was strolling in the palace gardens, enjoying the warm sunlight and the air perfumed by the scent of countless flowers. In her turn she didn’t give much thought to Queen Malicia. She could only remember seeing the regent twice in her life, once to be admonished, the other to be reprimanded. Still, little more than one month to go and she would mount the throne to be the one handing out the tellings-off. She wasn’t likely to do much erenköy escort of that, though, it wasn’t in her nature. In fact she was so forgiving that she had tried to think of a worthy position in the royal household for the regent, a reward for having looked after the queendom so efficiently.

The subject uppermost in Snow White’s mind at the moment was more physical than political. For a number of years now she had felt strange yearnings towards other young women. She was still a virgin and yet she was in a near-constant state of between-the-legs arousal. Snow White was often and mysteriously swollen and wet down there. Her minky (as she had called it since childhood, although a lady-in-waiting had told her that the correct anatomical term used by doctors was ‘pussy’) felt like a living thing, yearning for female fingers and tongues. Recently it had been suggested by a palace minister that Snow White consider seeking a suitable prince to wed. For the only time in her life she had acted all grand and royal, dismissing the man with a flea in his ear. If she was to wed anyone, it would be another woman.

She leaned back against a tree, gazing dreamily into the distance. “…some day my princess will come…” she told herself, then: “Hey, I bet that would sound good set to music.” She made little humming noises and continued to day-dream, in her thoughts creating the perfect princess bride. Perhaps a tiny bit butch but not too much so… tall, lithe, with… let’s see… auburn hair… yes, auburn hair would be nice… Her thoughts were working her up and need started to overpower her.

She glanced around; nobody in sight. Snow White lifted her dress and reached underneath to her minky (sorry, pussy). In common with all the ladies of the court, and presumably the common folk too, Snow White wore no panties, underwear being considered unhygienic and also inconvenient. Although a virgin and untouched by woman, Snow White had managed for a long time now to give herself the most wonderful feelings with her fingers (a ‘come’ as the doctors called it, according to the same lady-in-waiting).

Eager fingers penetrated slippery folds to give her a little thrill of pleasure. With her thumb she sought out the little nubby bit at the top (the ‘clit’ she believed—that lady-in-waiting was a great source of information). Whatever it was called, she loved the feel of it when playing with herself. She slid a finger in, quickly locating the special rough spongy spot (the ‘s-r-s-spot’ maybe?—she would have to ask the lady-in-waiting about that). Snow White rubbed faster and faster until she climaxed with a little cry. One final enjoyable thing left to do. She put her fingers to her mouth and licked off her thick and creamy juices. She loved the taste of her pussy (she was starting to think in medical terms, proving she was definitely growing up) and couldn’t wait until she tasted another woman’s.

“Yes, someday my princess will come…” she assured herself.

…meanwhile, in a low tavern not too far away, two female dwarf axe-slingers sat and watched the world go by…

The saloon had an unsavoury reputation, catering for those the better bars wouldn’t admit. Their home-brewed nectar doubled as furniture polish, their home-brewed mead kept roads clear during the hard frosts of winter, and their cider was often used to preserve corpses in high summer. The place was crowded with the scum of the land but all treated Chrissie and Viv with respect. Nobody ever chanced their arm with dwarf hired-axes, especially the female ones—that was a quick way to see the River Sticks and its sinister ferryman.

The saloon doors swung open and a bent old woman clad in black entered. She went from table to table, drinker to drinker, offering to tell fortunes. Most refused politely (even the scum of the land can be polite and kind to the elderly), some even giving her a penny or two. But one drunken hulk at the bar, who looked as if he had a touch of giant in his ancestry, pushed her away roughly. “Beat it, you old witch, before I kick your skinny arse out.” There were disgusted mutterings from others but no-one seemed inclined to challenge the great brute with his barrel-sized biceps.

Chrissie’s eyes narrowed. “Cover my back,” she told Viv, before getting up to face the huge man. Smiling a deceptive smile, she told him: “I think you owe this nice lady an apology.”

The hulk glared down at her and raised a huge fist like several coconuts wrapped in a hessian bag. “And you can get out too, shorthouse, before I step on you like a cockroach. Why, I’ll—Ulp!” He stopped abruptly and stood very, very still, painfully aware that his chin was resting on thin air about one millimetre above the razor-sharp edge of a dwarf battle-axe.

“Yes, you were saying…? you’ll…?” said Chrissie, still smiling sweetly.

“I’ll… I’ll… I’ll apologise to this nice lady. Sorry, ma’am.”

“That’s fine,” said Chrissie, “And…?”

“And… and… apologise to you… for calling you shorthouse… I’m sorry…”

“Good,” Chrissie approved, her axe holstered as swiftly as it had appeared, “apology accepted. Now you’ve remembered your manners you can carry on with your drink.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32