Fifty Shades of Sleeping Beauty
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Authors: Lotte Harding
Lotte
Harding
© Lotte Harding 2013
The right of Lotte Harding to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Copying of this manuscript, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the author and her publisher is strictly prohibited.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Once upon a time, there were three witches.
I know immediately what you’re thinking. These were three crones, all covered in warts and with spindly beards, immensely old and crooked, but you couldn’t be further from the truth. Quite simply, these three sisters were the hottest property in the entire Kingdom of Nysa. Any man who saw them (and not a few women either) immediately fell in love, and the witches of Nysa were the kind of women
never
to let a man die of a broken heart. In fact, so benevolent were they in their attention to the desires of others that they quite often made sure that several men at once wouldn’t die of heartbreak. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a witches’ orgy, but it’s quite a sight, let me assure you.
Whenever Serena, Bellatrix and Isis met, for this was the name of the three witches, a little joke of theirs was to utter the following incantation:
When shall we three fuck
again,
In thunder, lightning or in rain?
Up the cunt or up the bum?
Sucking cock or drinking cum?
This caused great hilarity among them (subtlety wasn’t really a feature of
Nysan culture, because there’s not really much point being sarcastic or sly when everyone’s so open with each other) and they would fall upon each other, kissing and fondling and tweaking and pinching, fingers slipping in and out of each other such was their joy to see each other. Simple greetings could be an exhausting affair.
Serena, the oldest of the three, was of medium height but that was the only thing about her that was average. She was slightly plumper than her sisters and took advantage of the voluptuousness this bestowed on her, wearing dresses that pinched in her waist and swelled out the rest of her buxom figure in the most delightful of ways. In many ways, she was the simplest of the three and the most gentle, with soft blue eyes and long, flowing blonde hair, always willing to lend an ear – or a hand, or a mouth, or any other suitable part of her anatomy to a soul in need of
succour.
Next in age came Bellatrix. Upon first appearance, she seemed to the scariest of all three. The tallest, her figure was much more slender than that of Serena, with small breasts and narrow hips and extremely long legs – made even longer by her tendency to wear high-heeled boots that reached up to her thighs. She had found a way to dress herself in the black silk of a special spider found only in Nysa, so that her graceful body was covered in a mesh that exposed more than it
hid, the black fabric a match for her raven hair and dark brown eyes. Bellatrix enjoyed taking control of a situation, but at that time she enjoyed to bring a special kind of pleasure that certain men and women sought out.
The youngest was Isis. Although no-one would have said it to the three sisters, many of the subjects of Nysa thought her the loveliest of the three. She was more willowy than Serena but more curvaceous, with thick red hair, falling to her shoulders and back in ringlets, and the same auburn tufts adorned what should have been her most private places, but which plenty of people in the kingdom had a good opportunity to see because Isis would use any excuse she could to strip off her clothes and go bathing. One time she had caused a pile up in the capital when she had taken advantage of a horse’s trough to cool
herself down and after that the kings of Nysa had politely requested her to avoid built up places to perform her ablutions. What’s more, a poet had once called her the “Nymph of the Forest”, but the reigning monarch of the time, King Ambrose (who was somewhat deaf) had called out: “What? The Nympho of the Forest?” It had seemed appropriate and the name had stuck.
So kindly were the three witches that they used their magic in lots of ways to ensure that Nysa was the most blessed place in the world. The weather was always like early summer, balmy and sweet, with just enough rain to ensure that the crops were the most fertile for leagues around. All the
neighbouring kingdoms traded with Nysa because that was where you’d find the ripest peaches, the plumpest melons and the sweetest cherries. And the food wasn’t half bad either.
Because of this, the kings and princes of Nysa became immensely rich and all of them knew that they owed their blessings to the three sisters who lived in a forest deep in the heart of the kingdom. Whenever any prince – and indeed, any princess – came of age, they were sent off into the forest to complete their education and when they emerged from the woods they were much more worldly-wise than they had been when they went in. This had been happening for generations because the witches were, so it seemed, immortal.
The good fortunes that Serena, Bellatrix and Isis conferred on the Kingdom of Nysa were also evident in other ways. Because of the riches to be found in that country, plenty of neighbouring lords were immensely jealous and one, by the name of Osiman the Mighty, who ruled an Empire to the south of Nysa, determined to take that wonderful kingdom for himself.
Osiman
would have been handsome were it not for all the other wars he’d engaged in with the surrounding kingdoms and provinces to make his empire, with scars covering his body from many battles. He was a big man, however, in every way, though not the brightest of monarchs: a joke among the people of Nysa was that he had as much meat between his ears as lay between his legs. He was also used to getting his way in all things and so, one day, he gathered together a might host (as befits an emperor who styled himself “the Mighty”) and marched against the Kingdom of Nysa.
Now Nysa had not been involved in a war since the bad old days before the three sisters had come to live there, and the ruling king of the day, a kindly old man by the name of Roland, was terribly afraid when he heard that his kingdom was to be invaded.
“We are doomed,” he told his court upon hearing the news.
“Doomed, doomed!” the court echoed back. One of the unfortunate effects of living in such a long period of peace and prosperity is that it tends not to sharpen the wits.
“What, by the gods, are we to do to avert this disaster?” the Queen asked, fainting backwards on the throne and her large bosom heaving in a not entirely appropriate fashion. (It was the fashion in Nysa at this time – and indeed for most of its peaceful history – to expose rather a lot of flesh. The excuse was that it was always so warm, but the truth was that the influence of the three sisters worked in a lot of other ways as well.)
An old woman at the back of the court let out a shriek at the Queen’s words. “There is no way to avert this disaster!
Osiman the Mighty is coming to ravage us! He will destroy our cattle, burn our homes, take our women. Darkness will fall across the kingdom, fire will rage across the land and none will be able to withstand the rod of Osiman!” At this, she screamed again and threw herself out of a window in despair – the dramatic effect being slightly lessened by the presence of a dung cart outside which broke her pride as much as her fall.
“Well, that was a bit excessive,” muttered one courtier.
“I have an answer, my lady Queen!” came a bold voice from the back of the room. Everyone immediately recognised the voice of Prince Magnus, the only son of the King and Queen, and parted to let him come forward before the throne.
Prince Magnus was called by the Magnificent by some of the courtiers, and though he was too modest to accept that title, he was indeed something magnificent to behold. Although not as tall as the fabled Emperor of the south, he stood over six
foot tall in his buskined feet and his shoulders were broad and powerful. He shared the blond hair of his mother and her blue eyes, but the rest of his body was that of King Roland as a young man, fond of the hunt and bold in every measure – and with an inclination to wear tight-fitting breeches that demonstrated to all and sundry that he was a real man. Again, Emperor Osiman may have been bigger, but Prince Magnus was better proportioned to bring a woman pleasure – as, indeed, many of the ladies of the court could testify.
King Roland looked at his young son and sighed. “What is it this time, Magnus?” he asked a little peevishly.
“We must defend the Kingdom, father!” Magnus cried out, his voice clear and bold as he struck a heroic pose. At the sound and sight of him, several female courtiers felt somewhat faint and at least one had to remove herself from that company to seek out some self-relief. “The good people of Nysa look to us in this hour of need.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” muttered King Roland, letting his head fall into one of his hands. “Here we go again.”
“I am ready to lead that defence!” Magnus exclaimed. He was fond of exclaiming, and though he was truly a magnificent sight he was also a little too young to have learned not to pepper his conversation with exclamation marks. “Did I not protect us when the Trolls of Nuffl threatened our western borders?”
“Yes! You did!” the courtiers exclaimed (such was Magnus’s popularity that his mode of speech tended to become infectious among them).
“And did I not vanquish the dragon that descended from the north?”
“Yes! Yes!” Again the crowd shouted out in unison.
“I seem to remember that she was some poor old serpent who had become confused about where she was meant to return to her breeding grounds,” Roland grumbled.
The prince looked somewhat abashed at this, and his blushing cheeks were wonderful to see. “Well, yes,” he mumbled. But then, regaining his confidence which rarely suffered many setbacks, he said more loudly: “But I was the one brave enough to
ask
her what she was doing in Nysa.”
The Queen now interrupted.
“My son, my bold, beautiful and brave boy.” (The Queen had picked up a tendency towards alliteration as well as melodrama from her current lover, a poet. Nysa tended to have fairly relaxed standards towards sex outside of marriage at that time.) “All this is true, and no one doubts your willingness, but this is too dangerous – a disaster, dastardly in its dimensions, a peril out of all proportions!”
“Yes, yes,” Roland muttered. “Thank you for that, dear.” He made a mental note to have the poet put in the stocks, not for the crime of adultery – for love was no crime in Nysa – but for his terrible poetry which had recently become a fashion at the court. Turning his attention towards Magnus once more, he adopted what he hoped was a suitably monarchical tone.
“As your mother says, no one doubts your bravery boy, but this is a peril out of all proportions. Damn!” (Maybe not the stocks, he told himself. Perhaps a night in the dungeons. Then he remembered that Nysa didn’t have any dungeons, the former prison having been converted into a bordello.) “Anyway, listen to sense, Magnus. This is an invading army we’re talking about, and it may have escaped your attention, but Nysa doesn’t have an army to oppose it.”
These words made Magnus frown. “There’s no need to take that tone, father,” he replied. “I’m not
that
stupid. I was simply thinking that perhaps the witches of the forest would be able to help us.”
“What?” Roland was incredulous.
“Three women? Against a bloody army?”
“You’re always telling us how powerful they are, and how no one could resist them.” At this, the Queen looked sharply at her husband who shrugged. “I was young,” he mumbled. “Anyway, I didn’t exactly see you fighting them off that time by the river.”
Seeing his parents suddenly start giggling at recollections of former indiscretions, the Prince stamped his foot. “I have a plan!” he said, regaining his typical mode of speech once more.
Roland sighed. “Yes? What is it? Do you propose that we send out the good witches of Nysa and get them to throw their knickers at
Osiman the Mighty?”
“Ah...” Suddenly Magnus was no longer so self-confident. He looked down at the floor and then once more glanced up at his parents. “Well, you never know. It
might
just work.”
And so it was that Prince Magnus left the court of his father and came with a retinue of twenty trusted knights to the forest of the witches at the heart of Nysa. This was not the first time that he had visited them, and Magnus knew very well the enchantments of those three women, but seeing them again he was struck once more by their beauty.
“Great ladies of Nysa!” he called out, dismounting from his white destrier and falling to his knees in supplication. “Magisterial magi of our kingdom, mistresses of the forest, hear me in this hour of darkness!”
“Well, he’s certainly learned how to talk fancy since we last saw him,” said Bellatrix, pausing from weaving a spider’s web into a new, diaphanous dress.
“I know where I’d like to feel that tongue,” smirked Isis, wearing the flimsiest of silk gowns, cut up to her thigh.
“Oh, you are naughty,” giggled Serena. “Come, stand Prince Magnus,” she said going forward to greet the prince and extending her hands to him. As he stood to his feet, she pulled his face to her bosom and gave him a hug that was not quite as maternal as her kindly voice had suggested.
Smiling, her sisters came up to the group as well and, seeing that several of the knights were straining in their saddles, they offered to relieve their tension. “It’s a long time since we had to tend to this many, isn’t it sisters?” Serena sniggered. “I do hope that you’ve got enough of that magic unguent you made Bellatrix, otherwise we’re going to be awfully sore afterwards.”
