The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales by Hillary Rollins

of his gargoyle lips, he chuckled softly before he pronounced his answer.
    â€œNo, slut. No, Rumpelstiltskin is not my name!”
    â€œWait!” implored the queen, “I think I know. It is…Master,” she whispered as she sank to the floor before the knave and threw her skirts up over her head. Her exposed buttocks quivered and quaked in happy anticipation of the cruel lashing it had needed for so long.
    â€œYes! Master!” cried the little man, and the air rang out with the song of his rod as it came crashing down on the waiting, willing target groveling at his feet.

...the question was posed: What’s in a kiss? Not just any kiss, but that particular kiss that awakens the sleeping beauty in lovers. It should be simple to answer; a kiss is, after all, just lip upon lip, tongue wrapped around tongue in an embrace like the coiled necks of mating doves, or the gesture of unity between two entwined pinkies to say, “Yes, I am with you.” But that is only the physical description—lip to lip, tongue to tongue, hot breath, the private pocket of humidity formed when two searching mouths come so close—and there is so much more than the physical to this act, is there not? For between the lips of lovers entire souls can pass. As one exhales, she releases herself and the other catches it up in his inward breath, ingesting her very essence into his own. In this way selves are exchanged, again and again and again, until a boundary-less blending occurs.

    And so it was with that gifted beauty of legend, Aurora, whose very existence on this earth hinged on the magic of a kiss….
    Despite attempts in every manner and position, her parents could not conceive a child. They longed to share their lives with a son or daughter, but they were barren for so long that they began to lose hope. Without the promise of a joyful procreation, their lovemaking began to slowly disintegrate, turning from a mutually satisfying union into a sordid, disconnected act of selfish lust. He would wake with a raging erection, its angry, purple-headed shaft leaping and writhing under the pressure of engorgement like an electric eel searching for prey. She would refuse him entry, teasing him mercilessly as she mauled and fingered her pointed, burning clit to a violent orgasm right in front of his eyes. Then, only after she’d finished herself off with this one-sided climax, would she soften enough to allow him to take his own pleasure between her thighs. Now all slick and buttered up with the juices of self-gratification, she would turn her back to him and let her legs fall open. Her rounded buttocks lay before him like a decadent satin cushion and the wet portal just below showed its satin lining like a red flag to a bull. With one hand he scooped her up under her belly and raised her pelvis to just the right angle. With his other hand he pressed open her still-swollen vaginal lips and then plunged the full length of himself between her slackened muscles. Thus, uttering the grunts and howls of a mad dog, he would take his wife again and again until he drove it home to the explosive final thrust. But even though he was buried deep inside her, it was as if he were all alone. He poured his musk and cream all the way up her, almost to her heart, but since this liquid offering didn’t seem to be able to give her the child she longed for, she ignored the gift, lying with her face down in the pillows, slipping away into her self-induced afterglow, and receiving her husband’s amorous assaults with a detachment that bordered on disdain. And, above all, they never kissed.

    Then one day, while bathing in the stream, a horned toad hopped upon the woman’s naked belly. She screamed with disgust and brushed it off in a panic, but later that night a strange sort of toad-man visited her in a dream.
    â€œMadame,” said the creature. “Do not fear me. I come with good tidings. You long for a child, do you not?