Cinderella: An Erotic Fairy Tale Ch. 04

Twisty Dick

Further adventures, with even more Fire Breathing, a Forgotten Bacchanalia, another Warning concerning Blacksmithies, Hot Tail in the Dark, and yet another Member of Unusual Size. Also tuna.

Frank was Laying a little Waste when the message came. Just to keep his hand in, really. After harvest time, he would fly over the fields around his castle home looking for the signs. Specifically, he looked for red handkerchiefs tacked up on sticks, which the local farmers used to mark the fields where they wanted the stubble burned off. Then, WHOOSH - more satisfyingly scorched earth.

The packet pigeon that found him had obviously flown from a long way off, but it would be uncool for a dragon to seem curious, so he flew over to a nearby ledge near the base of his mountain. Beside his perch, a spectacular waterfall plunged into a deep pool, before one last sixty-foot cascade. He fished into the icy water and pulled out a small barrel and a stoneware crock. After a long, cinder-quenching swallow of beer from the keg, he pulled the lid off the crock.

It was his favourite. "Tuna casserole?" he asked the pigeon, politely.

"Thanks, I'll pass," said the bird, who was perched on the tip of the monster's huge erect wang, so as to be able to converse without shouting.

"Ale?"

"Not while I'm on duty, thank you."

Frank scooped some tuna into his jaws. The snackage was provided (along with many other perks) by the valley residents, who had discovered that a contented dragon - that is to say, a well fed and well fucked dragon - left their livestock and their nubile young daughters alone. (He also tended to keep the area clear of thieves - both the regular brigands and King Al's taxmen.) So they kept the groceries coming, while Frank's wife Trixie (and a few of her friends) took care of the fuckage.

After sating himself, the appeased dragon said, "Well then. What's the message?"

"Ahem. 'From The Pyrotechnical Lord Richard Ribbontongue of the Enchanting Forest of Dryadia...'"

"Old Twisty Dick! How the devil is he?"

In spite of herself, the pigeon asked, "As in, 'the only fellow with a corkscrew prick'?"

"Eh, what? Ah yes, the bawdy poem. No, not our Dick - close enough, I suppose, but not corkscrewed exactly. Just has a few bends in it - the ladies quite enjoy it, or so I'm told."

Too much information, thought the pigeon. "I see. Well then - I shall continue. 'To Flaming Lord Francis Brassballs of Erewon Valley in the Outreaches of Guilder. Sent at Ten-oh-five o'clock of the morning, on the Twenty-third of September in the Third Year of the Dingbat ...'"

"Yes, yes, go on!"

"Erm. Right. Text begins: 'Sorry Frankie, but we got Trouble with a capital T out here, exclamation mark, exclamation mark.'"

The gist of Dick's message was this: over the past few months, refugees from the neighbouring kingdom of Gridiron had begun to turn up at the menacing oaken gate of his walled forest stronghold, far to the west of Erewon (as Frank had permitted Queen Cindy to rename his valley home). Given its cultivated reputation for danger (hence the gargoyles hired to perch on the arch above), Dryadia was hardly anyone's first choice. Unfortunately for all concerned, Alaric - the Baleful Tyrant of Gridiron - had closed his other borders. Stragglers, whole families, and even a few of Alaric's troops had begged for passage through the dreaded faerie forest. For the sake of appearances, Dick had arranged for charred uniform fragments from the latter to be tossed back out the doorway.

Those admitted were immediately inspected by psychic werewolves, and any who stank of evil were also tossed - with a growled suggestion that they were being treated to a running start. The majority, having passed the sniff test, soon found themselves guests at one of a series of bacchanals in their honour.

As the feasting progressed, the newcomers consumed great quantities of ale ... along with Granny Gorn's Over-proof Forgetting Formula. By and by, they found themselves frolicking with both each other and their hosts. There was wild music and continuous dancing all around them, to the relentless, primal, hypnotic beat of drums: bumtittiebumtittiebumbumbum ... .

From there, these ceremonies always devolved into your traditional drunken orgy. Over the course of the night, each and every one of them coupled repeatedly, in ways they had never dreamt of, with every other guest present - including with a number of creatures they may never have even heard of, far less seen in the flesh (as it were). Satyrs and nymphs abounded, naturally; but there were, for example, also a number of frog-lasses who were quite arousing (if slippery) once enough ale had gone down. And it should be said that gargoyle gentlemen sport impressive (and permanent) stiffies. Faeries, gnomes and elves were also present, romping with much stranger beings. Flying Phalluses also fluttered in to join the fun - they were considered lucky, although they were terrible opportunists, and any orifice not otherwise engaged would soon be pounded by one of these madly fluttering beasties.

By dawn they were all of them fucked to exhaustion; but some of the more resilient Faerie-folk were still up to the chore of carrying their unconscious guests to the high pass and over into the allied lands of Earl Anchovy the Mellow. There they woke the next afternoon with shocking hangovers, lying together naked in a lovely flowered meadow. They would soon discover that they had forgotten virtually everything of their past lives, including their names ... and, it followed, who was related to whom.

Most particularly they'd forgotten their inhibitions, given that the few memories they retained were fragments of the previous night's delectable celebrations: images of heaving rumps and writhing limbs; of flushed and busy genitalia of all descriptions and sizes; and of skin, fur and feathers all sprinkled with pearly beads of cum that glistened red in the flickering torchlight. And of a leathery-winged creature sporting an extraordinary prehensile tongue.

Eventually, they would further discover that every female present was pregnant - such are the effects of fooling about with faeries and their friends.

Luckily for them, the Stickleback Mountains isolated the Earl's territory from not only Gridiron but pretty much everyone else. They were always warmly welcomed there, and joined the seriously unrestrained locals in frolicking, fucking, and cultivating hops and hemp - the excess of which was traded for various goods (particularly munchies) from Erewon to the east and Portia to the south.

The actual Trouble reported by the pigeon arrived along with the last three refuges from Gridiron to pass under the carved arch that pierced Dryadia's protective wall. These particular guests the Tyrant was very determined to retrieve.

Of course, the full story was much more complicated.

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Although ruled by a Tyrant, Gridiron was in fact a kingdom. However, King Gustav the Twenty Third was presently no more than a figurehead: the possessor of the face they put on stamps and sovereigns. He was kept locked in a drafty tower in his own capital - Grid. Until Gustav had become king upon the unexpected demise of his father (it turns out even kings must be wary of cuckolding the blacksmith), he had been busy following family tradition as a wastrel devoted to wine, women and song - not necessarily in that order. Although in many ways thick as a brick (and this too did not differentiate him from his ancestors), Gustav had managed the rare insight to be aware of that particular shortcoming. He'd decreed that his kingdom would be run - in his name - by citizens who would be chosen by their fellows.

This worked marvellously ... for a time. But the arrangement required a civil sort of servant to explain the workings of state to each newly elected leader. Recently the current such servant - Chancellor Alaric - perceived that he knew far more about wielding power than anyone else in the kingdom, and so he seized it.

The final part of his plan was to marry the Princess Rose. The fact that the king's daughter and sole heir was shockingly beautiful was, to Alaric, a relatively minor detail ... although he had actually fantasized about fucking her for almost too long a time (even by Gridiron standards).

She, on the other hand, was having unreasonable objections. "Not over your dead body" had certainly sounded definitive - if illogical.

A more serious difficulty for Alaric was that most of the army was ambivalent about this part of his scheme, although the bits about marching into the neighbouring kingdoms and looting them sounded just fine. Accordingly, he had gathered together a personal guard of the usual brown-shirted, ex-school-bully sort, and stationed them within the inner castle.

And so his witty response to Princess Rose's objections had been, "Strip her, blindfold her and take her to the dungeon!"

His order was obeyed with some pleasure, until he added, "And no one is to molest her - if she is deflowered, I'll know about it."

This part of the order was received with consternation - even these lumpen lackeys were aware that the princess was not, by any stretch of the imagination, chaste. Indeed, everyone in the castle, apparently excepting Alaric, could hear her cries of pleasure whenever she was in the throes of ecstasy.

As it happened his spies had, in exchange for certain of her favours, reported that she was at those times rapturously worshiping the gods. This may occasionally have been true - the temples of Gridiron were circular, with the people in the centre, and priests fronting for the various deities stationed around the perimeter. Thus one parishioner could be pulling on her hair and wailing, whist another could be pulling on her clit ... and wailing. It paid to shop around.

If not a virgin, Rose was certainly intelligent (for a royal). She could tell that the guards were now trying to decide whether to fuck her anyway - on the premise that it would be better to be hung for a sheep than a lamb. "You won't," she told the Tyrant. "Know, that is. I had an unfortunate accident involving a carrot, er, cart when I was young. You'd better come along to keep this lot honest."

And so he did. They led her through the labyrinthine bowels of the place, until he abruptly stopped and said, "Here."

Rose heard a metallic scrapping, and then was thrust without ceremony onto the ground. Behind her came the distinctive boom of an iron door closing, and then the sound of hobnailed boots receding into the distance. She tore off the blindfold and was rewarded with absolute darkness. Although she was not by nature a nervous sort of girl, this was unsettling. And so was the muffled whimpering coming out of the unknown void around her.

"Hello?" she ventured. The echo was distant.

"Hello," came a tiny response - it was a female voice. "Over here ..."

"Who are you? And where are we?" tried Rose. She needed to fix on the girl's direction - and to decide if it was safe enough to go there.

"I'm Daisy."

And "I'm Violet," announced a new voice, slightly deeper but definitely also female. "We can't tell what this place is - but there's just us in here. The priests plan to sacrifice us to the Dragon tomorrow."

Daisy whimpered, and Rose shuddered. Once upon a time, the priests had annually sacrificed virgins to ensure a good harvest. This had evolved somewhat - now it was tribute to prevent the dragon from burning the harvest. And since the priests disagreed on the level of sexual expertise the dragon desired, both a virgin and a whore were tied to stakes at sunset. There was no explanation given as to why this mattered for a dragon's dinner, but unquestionably there were heard the folapping of great leather wings in the night, and in the morning the girls were always gone. Like most people, Rose tried not to think about it much.

And now the prospective victims were sharing her dungeon.

Unlike most people, she also had some inside information. Before the coup d'état, her father had still done the 'head of state / friendly ambassador' gig. She'd once seen on his desk a letter in vermillion copperplate handwriting that thanked him for the lovely new girls, and said that Jade and Elderberry sent their kind regards. It had been signed Ribbontongue. He - her father, that is - explained that her great grandfather (on the King's side, who was also her great uncle twice-over on her mother's side) couldn't stop the sacrifice, but had persuaded the priests that the dragon preferred to "eat" live girls. She suspected the air quotes were her benefit, and had not been displayed for the priests.

Violet interrupted her thoughts. "I always figured that this sacrifice deal would at least involve some top-of-the-line clothes and grub, but they didn't even give us blankets. And to cap it off, when we found this stone bed and pillow, there was some rock-hard birk already laying on it."

"Um," said Rose, heading in the direction of the voices. The notion of some dude nearby with a rigid erection briefly confused her. Then the light dawned (metaphorically) and she said, "We must be in the crypt. Where the royal tombs are, under the Great Temple," she added, helpfully. These girls were probably not regulars at the city's Temple - it was necessary to import virgins from the outer farm communities and, not coincidentally, prostitutes had to be rounded up from the southern ports (nobody had to pay for it in Grid). She groped her way carefully toward their voices and, in all probability, toward the effigy of the renowned warrior-king 'El Kid'.

Not carefully enough, as it turned out. She'd avoided so much as a stubbed toe as she felt her way through the blackness, and then managed to stumble on the girls - quite literally. They'd been sitting together against, not on top of, the great Kid's tomb, and she sprawled right across them. "Hi - I'm Rose," she announced. Under the circumstances, it seemed pointless to play the royalty card.

It quickly became apparent that they were dressed in the same way that she herself was - which is to say, with a simple attire of goosebumps. They felt soft and warm, and as she struggled unsuccessfully to untangle herself she also felt evidence that they were well made - all their bits were clearly up to specifications. What had begun as flailing soon relaxed into appeasing gestures. When she accidentally put her hands into several moist and private places, the girls also turned out to be remarkably responsive.

Rose was surprised. She supposed if someone were condemned to die tomorrow - or to marry - they would be a little preoccupied. But she found their presence and touch reassuring, and apparently it was the same for them. They were soon groping one another in the dark, strangers all (between licking turgid clits and nipples, Daisy and Violet acknowledged that they had yet to clap eyes on one another, having been tossed into the crypt separately).

That element of mystery seemed only to make their explorations more sensuous, and more exciting, as each tried to divine the appearance of the others. Rose found that Daisy had slightly smaller breasts (but longer nipples) and more muscular forearms than Violet; whereas, Violet had firmer thighs - more like Rose's own, although Rose didn't ride professionally.

Caressing hands and roving mouths gradually led to a tribadistic three-way, with slick pussy lips grinding on any firm flesh to hand. After the blessed release of orgasms all round, they reorganized themselves in a rough triangle, nose to tail on the marble-tiled floor, and proceeded to set upper mouths to neighbouring lower to good effect.

It was some time (and numerous more orgasms) before a coherent thought came to Rose. "Um - have they locked up the side door?"

"How would we know?"

Rose could hear the implied shrug. "There's a passage that's hidden behind King Gordon the Gruff's ..." she started. "Okay, you haven't actually seen this place. Anyway, I think I can find the spot - we've got all night. The guards probably don't know about it. The priests and choirboys use it to slip out to the stables."

"Uh-huh," said Violet.

"Just to get home ahead of the crowds, after a funeral. No, really. Only there hasn't been a service down here for years." As she led the others on a convoluted search, she told them about how she'd heard that the sacrifice thing wasn't fatal - probably. Then came the tricky bit. She explained that their only escape would be to leave the country and that the only remaining way out was through the lands of the same dragon they were hoping to avoid.

Somehow, she managed to gloss over the whole out-of-the frying-pan-into-the-fire part of her plan. The interruptions helped - she had to stop occasionally and make sharp squeaking sounds, then listen for echoes. The nearest wall to El Kid should have - YES, there was the bronze effigy of Sir Lance. She could feel his mighty lance, all polished smooth from the groping and fondling of superstitious womenfolk hoping to get pregnant (or at least laid).

Daisy giggled when Rose led her hand to the sturdy landmark. Country girls can be chaste but they are not generally ignorant.

So Gordo was about three kings and a self-styled emperor away to the left, as near as she could remember. She led her shuffling group from one pillared niche to the next, then: "It should just be over this iron rail and along this wall ... Ow! Watch out for these marble angel tits!"

The passage was unlocked, as she'd hoped. It was long, narrow, and of course dark - and of the three of them, she was the most disturbed by the many spider webs. Luckily there was no confusing branching, and eventually they found themselves pushing open a small wooden doorway ... to stand blinking in the early dawn sunlight that was leaking, in random dust-mote filled spears, into what smelled clearly like their horsey destination.

They were well launched on their escape. The stables were just beyond the inner castle wall (only the Tyrant and his guard still had parking rights this close to the palace). But instead of fleeing, they stood staring at one another.

Her companions, Rose now saw, were even more beautiful than they'd felt or smelled or tasted, or than their lyrical voices had revealed. Their curves and bumps she had imagined fairly accurately; but she had failed, for example, to detect Daisy's startlingly green eyes, or her constellation of freckles. Nor had she suspected the brilliant red hair that crowned the girl's head, and reappeared on her arms and lower belly as fine sparks wherever the shafts of sunlight touched her fuzz - and which showed up yet again as an exuberant tuft of colour between her creamy thighs. Whereas, Violet was now revealed to be the shade of well-creamed coffee, while her shock of thick wavy hair turned out to be as black as the midnight they had just left (and as far removed as possible from her own golden blonde locks). The girl's sable curls fell opulently across her dark almond eyes, and brushed her high cheekbones.

It was Daisy who first pulled her goofy grin into an alarmed 'O'. "We've got to get moving!"

Rose's bossy princess genes took over for her. "Right - Daisy find us some cloaks." No need to repeat the recent stir caused by that Lady Gooddiver. "Violet, divert the stable boys." Her professional skills would prove useful now. "I'll round up some horses for us."

By the time the stable lads recovered the use of their legs, if not their cocks, Rose and her new friends were riding (stimulatingly bareback) out the North Gate, their scintillating nakedness hidden under huge dusty riding cloaks. The guards, whose professional focus was directed toward the trickle of early morning incoming traffic, gave them barely a glance.