Fairy Tale Lust Read online

  A command to which she acceded. Because Ella still didn’t realize the depth of Philip’s depravities.

  Or, for that matter, how neatly they dovetailed with her own.

  He didn’t show her the mermaid outfit until that night, not until after she’d had her hair piled artfully atop her head and threaded through with strands of gleaming pearls, after her waterproof makeup was applied, after they were in the empty restaurant and she was admiring the tank in the center of the room.

  The tank contained a soft faux “rock” shaped to perfectly cushion a lounging woman with her head and upper torso out of the water. Some filmy green plants were spaced to float in the water, which would be added once Ella settled herself in.

  A wave generator would add some ripples, and fresh air would be pumped in to counteract the fact that a lid would enclose her.

  Ella’s sole job was to sit there and smile and occasionally run her hands through the treasure chest of gold coins and bright gems.

  In Philip’s office at the back of the restaurant, she stripped. She rather hoped he’d do something to her—spank her, maybe, to refresh the pain of the caning he’d given her a few days earlier. Her ass still bore the fading stripes, which felt a bit sore rather than outright stinging.

  Instead he just watched her, his dark eyes glittering. She knew that look. It meant he had plans for her. Plans that would entail making her cry, making her come, making her soar.

  He brought out the mermaid outfit.

  First, the scallop shells that would cover her champagne-glass breasts. She’d assumed they’d be some sort of halter top, but oh, no. Just the shells themselves, with grooves on the insides that looked like they should hook to something. Her nipples weren’t exactly the right shape…

  That was when Philip produced the clamps.

  Oh, sweet Poseidon.

  Her breasts were sensitive, and once Philip had discovered that, he exploited the information at every given opportunity. Clamps, feathers, ice cubes, hot wax, and sometimes just sucking and tweaking until she came and couldn’t stand being touched anymore and he didn’t care and forced her to come again.

  Ella loathed and craved breast play in equal measure.

  That meant her nipples were already hard even before Philip tightened the clamps on them. She hissed against the pain as it transmuted to pleasure and back again.

  “You will be beautiful tonight,” Philip whispered in her ear. “You will be perfect. You will be mine.”

  Ella didn’t have time to think about his words, because next he revealed her mermaid’s tail.

  She caught her breath. The scales shimmered and danced in emerald, sapphire and amethyst—not as bright jewel tones, but as muted undersea hues that flowed and sparkled like a prism.

  When he helped her into it, she discovered how much more he had planned for her.

  Thanks to the clamps and his very touch, she was already wet and open. She’d tried not to think about how aroused she was, about how she wished for his fingers or his cock or…well, if she’d wished for a dildo, she was certainly getting one now.

  Built into the tail, the fake cock slipped into her, snugly filling her. She moaned and clamped down on it, and probably could have come right there if Philip’s words hadn’t penetrated her haze.

  “Not yet, my sweet.”

  Not yet, but how long, how excruciatingly long would he make her wait?

  The tail pressed her legs together, fitting firmly but comfortably around her waist. She couldn’t touch herself, couldn’t move her legs, couldn’t thrust against the dildo.

  If she concentrated, she could probably clench down rhythmically and bring herself off. Probably? Definitely, given her aroused state. But he’d told her not yet, and she’d already agreed that he was in charge of when she came. The problem was that the dildo, hard and pressed into her and undeniably there, would keep her stimulated the entire time.

  She took a deep breath. She could get through this.

  She repeated that to herself when Philip snicked the tail closed with a tiny lock. He’d release her when he was good and ready; she had no control.

  Once the shells were hooked to the clamps—sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her—Philip rolled her out to the restaurant floor on a cart, and he and a waiter positioned her in the tank.

  As the comfortably warm water rose, he kissed her forehead. “Do you trust me?”

  She found the question strange. “Of course I do.”

  He covered the tank. She was left with the faint humming sound of the motor and the swishing ripples of the water. She languidly flipped her tail up and down, amused by the sensation and the waves she created. Of course, the motion also made the dildo rock inside her. She smiled. She’d enjoy this tease because later, their sex would be incredible.

  The first guests arrived, peering into the tank before accepting champagne and mingling. She waved at them.

  Then she caught her breath as her entire groin vibrated to life. Eyes wide, she sought out Philip in the crowd. Saw him smiling. Saw him palming the remote control that operated the clit vibe and made the dildo squirm inside her.

  Was he serious? Did he really think she could keep from coming if he manipulated her like that?

  Then she heard his voice and realized there was a speaker in the tank.

  “Sweet mermaid, I would never torture you by denying you pleasure tonight. You have my permission to come at will, as often as you wish.”

  Was he serious? Did he really think she could come here, now, surrounded by people and on display?

  Did she really think she couldn’t?

  The vibrations weren’t up to the max; in fact, he toyed with the remote, sometimes turning it up high, sometimes turning it off completely. Even as he chatted with guests, he watched her.

  She was drenched, inside and out. Whenever she shifted, she felt her juices pooled and slippery inside the tail. Nobody else could tell; nobody else knew how aroused she was, what sweet torture she suffered.

  Then, when the room was full, and the guests nibbled sushi, Philip cranked up the remote control and nodded at her.

  No. Her mouth formed the word, a pursed O, but she didn’t make a sound. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because he couldn’t hear her; the only thing that would make him stop was if she pushed the button near her right hand, which would release the top of the tank in case of emergency.

  She didn’t want to come in front of a roomful of people, but the choice wasn’t hers, never had been hers. She was Philip’s; she’d given herself to him. She hadn’t lied when she’d said she trusted him.

  The sensations were too much. The buzzing against her clit and the writhing dildo inside her built the pressure to dizzying heights. She barely had time to press her hands against the sides of the tank before the orgasm slammed through her.

  She thrashed as she came, her tail slapping against the water, her back arching, her shell-clad breasts thrusting up and out.

  She opened her eyes and tried to compose herself as her climax subsided to gentle pulses. She managed a weak smile at the guests who stared at the tank and flipped her tail as if to say, “Just part of the act.”

  But Philip didn’t turn down the remote, and she felt another orgasm building inexorably, and again she was helpless to stop it.

  He made her come again and again, delighting (she was sure) at her wriggling and squirming and thrashing, her struggles to pretend she wasn’t coming her brains out in front of a roomful of people.

  “Everything okay, my sweet?” he asked during a reprieve.

  Cheeks flaming, she nodded.

  And he turned the remote to the max again.

  Somewhere in the middle of an orgasm, or perhaps in one of the mindless moments between, Ella felt something inside her crack open. The words her husband had left her with—dirty, disgusting, perverted—had hardened and lodged deep in her psyche, blocking her acceptance of who she was, what she wanted. Philip had chipped away at her shame, but now
fractures fissured through it.

  Opening her eyes, she again sought Philip out in the crowd. As their eyes met, he asked again, “Do you trust me?”

  She nodded.

  And then felt a fresh wave of fear and humiliation and arousal crash over her as she watched him hand the remote control to the woman standing beside him.

  The original story of “The Little Mermaid,” she remembered, was that the mermaid had given up her tail for the love of a man, and he’d betrayed her and left her in constant pain.

  Now, she understood. She trusted Philip to the point that he could share her with others. She was his prized, beloved possession, and he wouldn’t share her unless it was with reverence and respect.

  He’d given her back her belief that she wasn’t wrong, or different, or broken.

  He’d given her back her tail.

  Another climax built, and Ella welcomed its freedom.

  You can bet they lived happily ever after.

  DUCKING

  Craig Sorensen

  Have you heard the one about the ugly duckling? As a girl my ears were too big, my nose was too big, my eyes were too wide set. My lips were thin and my cheekbones too sharp. I was long and gangly with strong, exaggerated limbs and large joints.

  Kids can be cruel, and no one knows this wrath more than the ugly duckling. So she hangs on to the whole swan thing. By the age of twenty, not much had changed, but I was taller with bigger breasts and fuller hips. I learned to blend in, no mean feat when you stand six foot one. But I did master the art of the uncomely Ninja:

  Ninja vanish.

  Ninja disappear.

  Ninja duck.

  Only in my work did I stand out. By then, my intelligence and drive became an asset. At least I had a beautiful brain; I lavished all I could upon it.

  I married young, a man who could appreciate me for what I was: neurotic, driven, intelligent, skilled at mechanics and yard maintenance, able to make money hand over fist.

  Jason said over and over how he loved my “rare sense of humor.” He finally tested that sense of humor when, after twenty years of marriage, a younger woman took a fancy to him. See, he hadn’t been all that much to look at either, but when he got his weight under control, offset by a nice fat bank account…

  Well, yes, I laughed.

  Ninja laugh.

  Walking down a long, nearly empty hall of the mall, I pulled my long hair back from my face and a cute teenaged boy nudged his friend, pinky extended in my direction. “Check out the MILF.”

  I turned and they looked away, subverting grins and angling their eyes alternately toward me as they lowered their voices to whispers punctuated by giggles.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what sort of “ugly” thing a MILF was. I gave in and Googled it.

  An older, sexually attractive woman.

  Mothers I’d Love to Fuck.

  I clicked on the “images” link, and this assortment of sexy, mature women filled the screen.

  First, I wasn’t a mother. One of the kindest things Jason and I ever did for anyone was the deference we made for our unborn children. We left them unborn. As little sex as we had, this was not such a challenge.

  But the I’d Love to Fuck part was what left me stunned. I tried to recall if there might have been another woman near me. That had to be it, otherwise these boys, so far from the mental institution they had escaped, needed to be promptly re-incarcerated. Or maybe the drying ink on my divorce papers and the lack of sex, no matter how sparse, made me interesting: an old doe, especially ripe in desperate estrus before two lonely, delusional young bucks.

  Then I realized what I should have known all along. I’d seen it enough in my day: sarcasm.

  I pulled the old mower out of the shed and started my usual ritual of fighting to get it to start. It was being extrastubborn and I was thinking I just might finally give up and buy a new one. I continued to pull the cord. Crackita! Crackita! Crackita! I’m nothing if not determined.

  “Hi, I’m Evan.” I jumped like a startled rabbit. His dark skin glowed above tight, white bicycle shorts. “Sorry! Can I be of some assistance?” He was a young neighbor who had passed me a hundred times since moving in to the townhouse a few doors down. He’d always politely nodded and greeted me.

  I knew this old mower inside and out. I had already calculated what the problem was. “Thanks, I’ve got it covered.”

  A trim goatee framed his smile, black stubble lit up his sparkling dark brown eyes. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  He tilted his head and gave a strange smile: friendly, but wistful. “Well, okay, but if you ever, you know, need anything.” He turned back to his townhouse, his young, strong butt perfectly cradled in the tight shorts. I opened my mouth but had no words.

  He pulled a bicycle from his garage in the back and started down the alley away from me.

  I watched him disappear and got my mower started.

  I pulled down my loose sweatpants and took off an oversized white T-shirt with the logo of a prospective vendor at work on it, then my utilitarian panties and started for the shower. I paused at my computer where the results of my “MILF” query remained behind the screen saver. I shook the mouse and looked at the women who had come up in my unfiltered image search. In the bathroom my sweaty skin, long body and large features reflected in the one mirror in the house confirmed they were not in stride with these gorgeous women.

  But I did see my face differently. Whatever looks I had at twenty, I pretty much had at forty-two; I hadn’t changed much.

  It was the standard joke: my amazing sense of smell was because of my large nose. It picks up the slightest scents at amazing distances. My ex even doubted I could smell some of the things I said I could.

  But there was no doubt that I could smell him every time Evan came out of his place two doors down. His odd sunscreen eventually brought out a Pavlovian response: my vagina got wet and my nipples pointed like oversized pencil erasers. I even took to wearing bras when I mowed, never really a requirement as my tits were gravity proof, but useful now as camouflage.

  Ninja suppress.

  I seized every opportunity to be in the backyard that summer. Watching Evan in my extraordinary peripheral vision became my favorite spectator sport. He usually wore those tight shorts, flip-flops and nothing else. As I dug for new plants, added fresh mulch, or just watered, I eyed him.

  He always waved and gave that smile. I tried not to duck when he caught my eye. I drew on him when I covered up tight in my king-sized bed, spread my long legs and worked my clit to orgasm. Funny, but the bulge in his shorts was only an accent spice. It was that look that drove me on. I continued to catalog every expression, all the while ducking.

  I stood before the long mirror and examined the new suit that I had tried on for size, a long, broad skirt beneath an oversized jacket. It was in step with what I always wore.

  “That’s not such a good fit for you.”

  I jumped. The young salesgirl had managed to approach with the stealth of a KGB operative. She was pretty and smelled like a garden. “Sorry if I surprised you.”

  I shrugged. “S’okay.”

  “What I meant was, if your thighs are half as nice as your calves, you should wear something shorter. And they hang too loose.”

  “I like them that way.”

  “For comfort?”

  “Um, yeah. I guess.”

  The salesgirl tilted her head. “You know you’ve got ripping calves, right?”

  “Oh, come on, they’re kind of thick—”

  “Kind of? They’re great! The athletic look is so in, and you’re so at the top end of the scale. I mean, you must work out all the time, right?” She chomped her gum and pulled her glasses from her face and looked at my camouflaged hips as if through a magnifying glass.

  “A bit.” I’d bought one of those machines with the big springs I’d seen during a bout of insomnia in the death throes of the divorce proceedings. It filled some tim
e.

  “I know women who put in hours a day and don’t look like you. You need to get a look that fits you. I mean, no offense—”

  “Um…none taken.” I looked at myself in the mirror.

  “Humor me. Will you take off your jacket?” The pretty salesgirl pinched the top of my lapel and gently shook it for emphasis. I removed it and she sighed. “Jeez, the blouse looks like a tent.”

  I looked down and shrugged. “I like them like this.” I hadn’t felt this defensive since grade school.

  “Then why do you look so awkward?” She reached toward my waist. I could feel the heat of her fingers. “May I?”

  “Well…okay.”

  She touched my blouse and waited. I finally nodded cautiously. “Go ahead. I’d—I’d like to know…what you think.” I wasn’t sure that I did want to know.

  She patted my waist like a male cop doing a pat-down of a female suspect. She smoothed my hips. “Damn, you got great hips. I mean…” She licked her fingertip and pressed it to the upper part of my butt and made a ssss sound. “Hot, girl.”

  I laughed out loud. “You have a wicked sense of humor, um…” I studied her name tag. “Monica.”

  She continued to eye my upper body. She pulled my blouse tight at the waist, so it squeezed at my breasts. “Do you wear a bra?”

  I slowly shook my head.

  She whistled and I looked around to see if she’d attracted any attention. She acted like she was going to feel me up. My pussy drained into my panties. It occurred to me that maybe my hard looks were that way for a deeper reason. Maybe I was a latent lesbian.

  “You really shouldn’t dress like this. You can’t hide your assets.” She winked.

  “My body isn’t great, by any means. I mean, big joints and muscles, I’m gangly…” I was ready to continue the whole litany of shortcomings.

  “Shit, are you serious? You don’t know how ‘in’ your look is? Masculine is the new feminine.”