The Empress's New Lingerie and Other Erotic Fairy Tales (12 page)

“Nooooo,” cried the frustrated shoat, whose testes were bluer than ever, “No, no, n-o-o-o-!”

“Aw, what's the matter my little weanling? I won't leave you all greased up with nowhere to slide, I promise! But I wouldn't want you to impregnate me with a litter of little piglets, now would I? They'd all be lazy, worthless slovenly sloths, just like their fat, filthy sire! No, no, instead of letting you come inside me, little piggy, I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow you down!”

She crawled upon his massive chest and unhinged her acrobatic jaw. Then she swallowed down his purple meat in one delicious gulp. As he spewed himself into her throat, he squealed with unmatched delight.

“Oink, oink…oinkle!”

“You see?” she chortled as she swallowed his cum. “This way there's no sticky mess to clean up.”

And from that day forward, Hayman became an impeccable housekeeper whose cleanliness was so pleasing to women they nearly always agreed to help him avoid a sticky mess in just this manner.

Next the wolverina visited Woodman's pleasure palace. Of course entering his abode proved no problem whatsoever, as the insatiable hog could never turn a beautiful female away from his door.

“Knock, knock, Mr. Woodman!” she murmured through the keyhole in her most seductive growl. He welcomed the exquisite beast into his inner sanctum with an elegant flourish.

“Come in, come in. What can I do for you, my pretty young thing?”

“Why, I want nothing more than to eat you, kind sir!”

“How delightful,” he grunted, and he stripped down to his naked hide. “Enjoy your feast, and do not quit until you reach the hairs on my chinny chin chin!”

But Candy's plan was not to simply indulge this faithless fellow in his selfish pleasure. He needed to pay for his pig-like behavior toward women, and to this end she whipped out her trusty ropes and informed him that he was to be hogtied before being led to delightful slaughter. Accustomed as he was to the gratification of all sorts of sexual urges in all sorts of women, Woodman assumed this was simply a harmless proclivity that amused the lady, so he offered no resistance. He chuckled good naturedly and held his wrists out in front of him to receive the rough twine bindings. But to his surprise, Candy did not proceed with the shackling.

“It's not that simple, pig. I have no beef with your romantic history, but there are many others who would love to rub your snout in it, so to speak. To this end, I shall cover you in viscous lard and set these other she-wolves upon you and the first one to pin you down will be the lucky lady who gets to bind you up and lead you to market. Then all the others will take a piece of you until you are nothing but a well-chewed spare rib. Only after we have made you cry ‘oinkle' will you be a reformed little piggy who goes ‘wee wee wee' all the way home and never strays from his lady love.”

In an instant she poured a slop bucket of grease over his head and swung open the back door of his cottage. There stood an army of women whom Woodman had wronged in the past. They were fully naked but their bodies were painted and feathered like a tribe of island warriors, making them seem clothed and invulnerable and making Woodman's clean pink and white flesh somehow even more naked by comparison. When the ladies saw the object of their rage standing there so humiliated and exposed, covered with bacon grease and wearing a shocked expression on his usually impassive face, they whooped and hollered and charged into the house to surround their cornered quarry. One after another of these past lovers—formerly nice girls who were now transformed into vengeful savages—threw themselves upon the greased pig and tried to wrestle him to the floor. Time and again he slithered through their grasps and skittered away, only to be pounced on by the next set of flailing arms, suffocating bosoms, vise-like thighs. But even though he feared their wrath, were one of them to finally pin him down, he also couldn't help becoming pitifully aroused. His long, pointed penis, usually as straight as a spear, began to twist into an engorged corkscrew like a piggy's tail. He ached to plunge this throbbing helix into each of the sweet troughs that surrounded him, to feel the envelopes of moist flesh close over his cock as it spiraled deep into these wells. He began to enjoy being tackled over and over again, for each time he would writhe and wiggle in just such a way as to surreptitiously slip his well-greased dipstick into the attacker's slit. The woman would shriek when she felt him thrust, shriek and throw her hands in the air and thus completely lose any advantage she'd gained over the little beast so that he'd ooze right out of her and slither away until the next wrangler leaped upon his haunches.

Finally one gal was able to keep the squealing swine in her clutches long enough to slip the ropes around his flailing limbs until he was properly subdued. His crazy cock was nearly spinning off its moorings on his hoary belly, so desperate was he to come. But true to her word, Miss Canidae Wolfe would not grant him satisfaction until his captor and her compatriots had received restitution for their past sufferings. Tied up and powerless, he was forced to fully satisfy each of the tribal hunters who had brought him to this ritual slaying of his pork-barrel ego. But he himself was not allowed to climax upon threat of becoming the subject of an actual slaying.

When all the women had finally had their fill, Candy agreed to relieve the poor man.

“Now I will huff and puff and blow you down,” she sang. And in one gulp, she sucked him into her magical mouth.

“Oink, oink…oinkle!” Woodman squealed as he exploded all over her dripping fangs.

“Very good, piggy. You have acquiesced. And if you promise to settle down and remain faithful to whomever you are dating at any particular time, if you promise to be a very good boy who always brings home the bacon and fries it up in the pan, then you shall be allowed to snort for this sort of tasty truffle with your special lady whenever you like.”

From that day forward, Woodman stopped womanizing and lying and cheating and began treating his girlfriends with the utmost respect. He never saw more than one woman at a time and he only moved on to the next when it was mutually agreed that the relationship had come to an end. And, needless to say, women simply ate him up.

But Brickman. Ah, Brickman, he was a problem. For no matter how hard she huffed and puffed and blew him down, Miss Canidae Wolfe could not change this uber pig perennial bachelor into a domesticated husband.

And then one day something happened. Instead of her huffing and puffing and blowing him down, she turned the tables on him and made him blow her down. As his hungry mouth and slippery tongue flicked and flacked and sucked and smacked at her boiling kettle, she reached down and grabbed him by the hairs on his chinny chin chin and screamed, “Oinkle!” until the pigs came home.

Brickman knew he had finally met his match, and asked Miss Canidae Wolfe if she would do him the honor of becoming Mrs. Canidae Wolfe-Brickman. And from that day forward they lived happily ever after.

…when great famine was upon the land, a brother and sister were led into the forest and abandoned by their father and stepmother so the beleaguered family would have fewer mouths to feed. Or so the tale went, until these secret diaries were discovered….

GRETEL
:

The night we were disowned was the night of my first serious date. Sure, I'd hung around with guys in a group situation, but never just one-on-one with someone who had asked me out. It meant a lot to me—I really wanted it to work out, really wanted a boyfriend. See, ever since my father married my stepmother—who, of course, was the typical evil stepmother who hated the children of her husband's first wife and was jealous of any attention he gave us—we kids had been literally starved for affection. I didn't know if it affected Hansel so much; he was a guy and kind of hard to figure out since he usually kept up that dumb “strong, silent type” attitude. But I knew if I didn't experience some attention and kindness from someone soon, I would waste away like one of those waifs in the fairy tales.

So I took a whole lot of care dressing for this date, trying on first one skirt then another until I found the perfect outfit. After each costume change I paraded in front of Hansel, pretending I was a glamorous fashion model, turning and posing and cocking my leg just so to better display a jutting hip bone or an elegant calf.

“Do you like this one?”

“I guess,” he growled. “Whatever.”

Hansel lay on his unmade bed in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt that smelled pleasing and powdery like laundry detergent and stretched tight across his muscular arms and chest like a second skin. I wished the guy I was dating was built like that, but no, those beautiful biceps and shoulders had to be wasted on my brother. Anyway, Hansel pretended not to be that interested in my fashion dilemma, but I noticed he never got up off the bed to flick on one of his video games or play his music. He just peered up at my “silly” display from beneath half-shut, heavy-lidded eyes. And he kept shaking his foot in that fast, rhythmic way he did whenever he was nervous or excited.

HANSEL
:

My sister Gretel is the one who got us thrown out, I guess. Whatever. See, she was going out with some moron from school—a real Neanderthal who didn't deserve to lick the ground a girl like Gretel walked on, much less take her on a date—and she kept insisting I help pick out what she wore. Like any guy really cares what a girl wears. All these horn dogs want to know about a girl's clothing is how quickly it can come off, you know? But it seemed important to her. She kept coming back into my room in different skirts, and each time they got shorter and shorter, showing off more and more of her legs. Gretel has really long legs. I mean really long. And smooth. I guess she shaves them or something like that, but I've never really seen legs so smooth before. I knew I wasn't supposed to notice that, but hey, she kept strutting and posing like some kind of stupid fashion model or something, and you know how you can't really avoid their legs when they do that posing thing. I also know I was supposed to make her wear something that would say “good girl” to this idiot boyfriend she was going to see so he wouldn't get the wrong idea, but she kept saying she wanted it to be “a little bit saucy” because she really liked the guy and wanted it to work out. You know it hasn't exactly been fat city around here in the affection department ever since my dad married the wicked witch. It's been what you might call an emotional famine, and I knew Gretel was hungry for love. So I didn't really want to contribute to her starvation and I told her to wear the really short skirt. Like I said, she has really long legs.

GRETEL
:

The thing about Hansel is he acts all distant and haughty, especially since our parents split up, but I know underneath that tough exterior he's really OK—he's just the same guy who used to wrestle with me and let me win when we were kids. Lots of times he would pin me down and sit on top of me while he held my arms against the floor above my head and laughed and laughed. I would struggle like mad, writhing and sweating and protesting until my hair was a total tangle and my skirt was all bunched up around my waist and my shirt buttons were ripped off and I was completely out of breath. Then he would get that same look in his eyes that he had the night of the date—that slitty-lidded, far away look—and he'd snap the elastic of my cotton panties, saying, “Gotcha.” But he knew I hated to lose, and when he could see that I was really upset he'd suddenly weaken his grasp, allowing me to throw him off, flip him over, and overcome him, making me the victor and he the trapped prey.

“Damn, sis. You're just too strong for me,” he would murmur, and as young and stupid as I was, I believed that I'd really gotten the upper hand. Then I would feel sorry for him and make him take off his shirt and lie on his belly so I could give him a back rub, which he always said I did better than anyone in the world.

Yeah, he's really a pretty good brother. Which was why I was surprised when he didn't try to stop me from wearing the leather micro-mini. I mean, I really expected him to get all protective and bossy on me and to tell me I had to wear the long, grey wool skirt or he'd tell Dad. But when I came out to model the short leather number, he just stared a little longer than usual and stopped shaking his foot.

“Your panties show.”

“They do not!” I pulled the skirt down, but really, they didn't show.

“Do, too,” he insisted. “Right here.” He pulled me over to the bed and reached one hand up the back of my bare thigh to the rim of my panties. Then he snapped the elastic hard against my butt, just like he did when we were kids. Only now the panties were black lace bikinis instead of white cotton briefs.

“Ow!” I complained.

“Gotcha.”

“Come on, Hansel. What do you think? Really.”

“Wear that one.”

“Yeah? It's not too short?”

“OK, you're right. Don't wear that one. I don't give a damn.”

He swung his legs over the far edge of the bed and stood up, turning his back on the whole affair. “I'm busy,” he mumbled, and grabbed his Strad. He began to furiously finger its slim neck like he was playing a bunch of fancy riffs, but he didn't turn on the amp.

“No, really, I need your opinion,” I cooed.

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“You're a guy. You know what guys like.”

He turned and looked at me again. I did my best, most model-y pose for him, hands on hips, leg turned out, spine slouched, and pelvis thrust forward almost in his face.

“Wear that one.”

As I left the room I heard him turn on the amplifier and start to practice some chords, but he couldn't seem to hit the right notes.

HANSEL
:

Gretel got back about midnight. I should've creamed her for being so late, especially since Dad and the witch were too self-involved to notice. But hey, it was her first serious date and like I said, it was important to her. So I thought I'd cut her a little slack. She came into my room without knocking, and I was lying on my bed almost naked except for my jockeys and my Strad, which was hanging low on the strap across my chest. This time I didn't really give her a hard time for forgetting to knock because she was crying.

“Bastard!” she spit. I didn't know if she meant me or Dad or the date guy or what, but something about it made me laugh. I mean, I know she was upset, but she looked kind of cute cursing like she was a goddamned sailor.

“What? Did he get fresh on you, sissy?” I hit a diminished seventh on the guitar for effect.

“Totally not! He didn't even try to kiss me.”

See, I really hate to see Gretel cry. It really bums me out. I wasn't sure what to do. Then I thought of something.

“Wanna wrestle?”

“What?” Maybe it was stupid, but she did stop crying.

“Bet you can't beat me.”

“Bet I can,” she laughed, and in an instant she was on me. Of course she was like a thin little noodle next to me—a really soft, smooth noodle—and I had her flat on her back in an instant. Usually at this point I feel sorry for her and let her throw me. But that night I just didn't feel like it. I kept her pinned hard against the floor while she kicked and twisted under me. She thought I was going to let her go, but I didn't. I laid across her and pressed myself up against her struggling body. The leather skirt made a squeaking sound as my hard-on pulsed and spasmed against it from inside my briefs. Afterward we were both really quiet for a while. Then I whispered, “Gotcha.”

GRETEL
:

It wasn't like we'd never kissed before. I mean, jeez, we grew up together, we took baths together, we “kissed and made up” when adults told us to. We even experimented touching tongues one day after we'd gone to a matinee of “Summer Love” where we saw actors French kiss for the first time. I mean, why not? Who else would we trust enough to try mixing saliva with? It seemed so disgusting!

But that was then and this is now. Hansel wasn't letting me win anymore. So I had to get him back, didn't I? And lying there on the floor there really wasn't much I could use against him except my head—the rest of me was pinned motionless under his weight. So after he sank between my legs and I felt him buck and explode like an untethered pony, after we laid there really still and quiet and he still wouldn't let me up and he was arrogant enough to say “Gotcha” to me, I really had to do something to get him back. I stuck my tongue deep into his mouth. I thought it would freak him out and he'd have to roll off me. It did sort of freak him out. But he didn't let me up. Not at all. In fact he began to run his tongue around mine, in and out of my mouth, across my outer lips and then back in again for another sweet dip. And it wasn't disgusting. It wasn't disgusting at all….

HANSEL
:

It was only a kiss, right? I mean, is that enough to get you disowned, banished, thrown out on your ass? There's no way the witch could've seen what was going on down there inside my underwear—my back was to her, and Gretel and I were clearly wrestling like we always had when we were kids, so the only thing she might have seen was the kiss. Which was really Gretel's fault, not mine. She was the one who slipped her tongue, electric and sweet like sugared licorice, into my mouth. Wow. All I can say is that bozo—her date—was a bigger idiot than I thought because Gretel really knows how to kiss….

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah. What the hell was my evil stepmother doing in my room? She has no right to barge in on my private room without knocking and draw conclusions just because she saw me straddling Gretel's long, long legs….

GRETEL
:

A kiss, a beautiful kiss, at last. And I don't care what anyone says. I don't care if he is my brother. I needed to be kissed like that. Ooh, I can feel it now, like a hot squirt of honeyed lemon oozing down there between my thighs whenever I think of how we kissed….