If you are offended by gay sex, incest, transexuals or group sex then you can probably avoid most of them by skipping a couple of paragraphs. If, on the other hand you like a laugh then I’d recommend giving it a miss altogether. Onward.
In a pleasant land far across the sea and long, long ago (longer even than your own grandmother can remember) there lived a studly King and his beautiful Queen.
King Studly and Queen B. reigned in happiness and a certain lascivious style. Royal balls were a regular occurrence in their kingdom and horny young princes along with fetching virgin princesses (all with valid proof that they were both virginal and aged 18 or over) vied for invitations to these grand affairs of state.
The uncouth and ragged people came to blows when seeking work at the royal palace for as everyone knew, even though they paid only minimum wage, what other job would give them the opportunity to suck off a handsome prince or shoot their seed over the royal bellies and breasts of those virgin princesses?
Naturally, in order to avoid embarrassing and unwanted bastard heirs all royalty practised oral and/or anal assiduously. Never once was a princely cock driven through the royal front gates, always and like tradesmen the princesses succumbed to lust through the back door. This also had the unfortunate effect of right Royal legitimate offspring being few and far between.
Due to this Royal proclivity, sadly, King Studly and Queen B. had not conceived a child in 16 years of marriage. Not through want of trying, just preferring the wrong holes.
One day the King, whilst screwing the scullery boy (18), became suddenly enamoured of the idea of a ‘piece of pussy’. At the very thought he began ramming harder and more fiercely into the scullery lad’s 18 year old arse than ever before, cumming with such ferocity he shot the poor lad into the cold fireplace, upsetting a pot of porridge.
Grinning broadly and wiping both the cook’s porridge and the King’s from his body the scullery boy (18) watched as King Studly cast about the kitchen for fresh minge to assuage his hunger. As luck and fate would have it, Queen B was at that very moment taking her morning constitutional around the stable master’s man meat and her daily vitamin intake from a handy palace guard.
In the kitchens the King found first, the lower pantry girl, whose lower pantry was welcoming but hardly embracing. Rosamund the chief-below-stairs girl, of some 50 years was next to receive the King’s pleasure. Her below-stairs were unkempt and in sore need of a spring clean but the King was not to be discouraged and was soon ploughing a long furrow amongst the undergrowth. Rosamund came quickly and quietly much to King Studly’s chagrin. Then he spied the newest serving wench, a tender, fresh faced, spring-titted, innocent 18 year old.
This lithe and lively girl was not only virgin but also quite naïve about what her duties in the palace would entail as she’d not been able to attend the induction course being somewhat hampered by her evil father’s intent of giving her his own induction upon her 18th birthday.
Fortunately she had escaped his incestual indoctrination and though he had managed to shave her pussy bear in preparation, this fair faced, flaxen haired beauty had had the wit to keep a heavy kitchen ladle hidden within her skirts which she wielded with the strength of virtue to render her father incapable. Seeing him lying dazed and confused the still-virginal youth, feeling great sorrow and remorse for her fallen father gave him a quick hand-shandy before fleeing to seek the lurid shelter of the Palace kitchens.
Hopping from foot to foot the King listened rather impatiently to the serving wench’s miserable tale, perking slightly at the mention of bare beaver and was greatly relieved when the poor wretch’s mother made a timely (and comely) appearance to investigate. Immediately, upon noticing the Royal boner the mother made no more ado than to lift her clouts and offer of herself that which her daughter had singularly failed to do.
“Mother!” cried Hermione (for that was her name) “Mother, why do you bare your maidenhood to the king?”
And her mother replied from her position across the kitchen chopping block “To save you daughter, from Wroyal wrath. If you had the wit for which you are renowned then you would realise that the Noblest before you seeks oblige. Besides which, it’s hardly ‘maiden’ is it?”
“Now if you want to stay a ‘serving wench’ to the King” continued her mother, “And if it please you Lord?” she said to Studly, to which he smiled benignly then continued again “kindly serve the Royal appendage to it’s waiting fur vessel” pointing to her now glistening pussy. (For servants twats were fare game for any of the Royal retinue, bastards notwithstanding)
Hermione, realising her position held more ‘duties’ than she had bargained for knelt subserviently before the Royal crotch, whereupon she swiftly disgorged the kingly appendage from its silk and satin breeks. To her surprise, Hermione found Studly to be of something less than King size, in fact (if her wicked father was anything to go by) the Royal length was rather average.
Holding the purple sceptre in two hands and switching her glance back and forth between her mother’s waiting hole and the Kingly knob, Hermione hesitated at a loss as to what exactly she was meant to be doing.
By this time the King was becoming somewhat angry at the delay and began stepping forward to claim his wenchly prerogative. Hermione, sensing the moment, turned her face to the Royal crotch and suddenly found herself with a mouth full of noble nob-end.
“Now there’s a novelty.” Cried King Studly as he began to rake his whole length between the quite stunned but suddenly willing, Hermione’s full, sensuous, rose red lips. Not once did Hermione protest nor gag at the invasion of this honourable member.
“Hermione” Wailed the hirsute mother. “His Highness wishes mott not mouth. Spit him out at once you dirty girl.” But Hermione was not to broken from her self-imposed task and swallowed voraciously of the Royal Rod and the King, enchanted by this turn of events began fucking her mouth in earnest to Hermione’s delight as she savoured the wet slap of majestic bollocks against her delicate chin. Full length (and handsome girth) did King Studly rivet her face.
“It seems your dirty daughter has a zest for throat fucking,” Said the King to Hermione’s mother.
“Yes” said her mother, brightening at this turn of Royal favour. “‘Tis a new one on me your Lordliness. I’m sure I don’t know where she learned such a thing”
“As you know” began Studly to Hermione’s mother, “It is the Royal prerogative to have the wench cum first, as is fitting, but your heavenly daughter seems not to be even approaching that blessed enjoyment and mayhap continue slurping on the Purple Staff of State until even I can respond only in manly terms.”
“Yes your Honour.” Said the mother going on to apologise profusely for her daughter’s lack of tact and social grace.
“Now now” Intoned the King, “She is simply untrained in the proper respects of our naughty society. “Come come” He beckoned and indicating the still felating Hermione “Give her surcease from this zesty oral display. Have at her and guide her home.”
Following the King’s wishes the mother knelt deftly behind her daughter and, lifting her clouts to her trim and youthful waist she reached her ageing hand to her daughter’s shaven sanctity.
Hermione (who’s speech was obviously impeded) made cry at this timely imposition but, unwilling to relinquish her first taste of manhood relinquished instead her maidenhead to her mother’s fingers.
Fearing completion too soon, the King urged Hermione’s mother “The clit, the clit old woman, on your back and have at your daughter’s clit with your tongue” and naturally with a skilled tongue at the helm, Hermione was gasping with that greatest pleasure seemingly within seconds. Washing her mother’s face with her juices and almost at once, even whilst shuddering through her second and third orgasms Hermione felt honour-bound to return that sweetest of favours. Which is how His Royal Highness left them, to seek out pastures new for his still throbbing purple.
* * *
Queen B lay sated for the moment, luxuriating in the organic fluid bath of the commons from her latest romp. Of a sudden, from all sides, internal and external she heard a faraway muted yet strident thudding noise. A deliberate noise. A quite metronomic noise. Somewhat fearful, she became fully awake and lay perfectly still, listening, feeling the noise. Incessant and drawing closer. As her Reverend Mother had taught her she drew the growing fear into herself. Absorbed it. Made it part of her. Let it dissipate. Then she remembered the words of her master “Fear is borne of ignorance. From fear comes anger. From anger comes the Dark Side.”
Her fear conquered, Queen B heard the sound for what it plainly was. Her biological clock was ticking. Relentlessly. Remorselessly. “Oh merciful Heavens.” She cried. “I am without child. The King my only true love is without issue”
At this very moment King Studly entered the straw strewn stable.
“Fear not my Queen, my Lady, my Love. Kinder from a kindred and a King are my gift to you My Princess Bride.” So saying, King Studly took his wife in blissful conjugation to that high peak of awareness and gave of himself, to himself, a child and heir. (And shortly afterwards in celebration he gave her one up the arse as well)
9 MONTHS LATER… On the Blasted Heath.
First Witch: When shall we three meet again?
Second Witch: (Whispering) you forgot the Hubble bubble toil and trouble.
First Witch: Hubble what?
Second Witch: Hubble bubble toil and trouble.
Third Witch: And the frog of newt and bat of toad. (The two witches stare with disgust at the third)
Well. (She sulks)
First Witch: Never mind all that. When’s the next meeting?
Third Witch: Thursday week.
Second Witch (searching Organiser): Thursday’s no good for me.
Third Witch (Glaring): Well Friday then?
Second Witch: What date is that?
First Witch: (squinting at screen of Palm-Pilot) Thirty first. (Pause) Day before All Saints.
Second and third Witch: (Cackling) Aaaaaahahahaaaa- What’s that?
Second Witch: That evil device.
Third Witch: Black magickal box.
Second Witch: That giveth of it’s own light.
Third Witch: With mystical Runes engraved therein.
Second Witch: Devilish, evil, powerful magic.
(The two Witches shun the first and cower)
First Witch: It’s Ok. It’s all right. Don’t be frightened. It’s Linux.
(The two Witches relax visibly)
Second Witch: Well thank Torvald for that.
Third Witch: So the 31st then. All Hallows Eventide. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.
First and Second Witch: Hallowe’en. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.
Third Witch: Can someone give me a lift back?
First Witch: What’s wrong with your broom?
Third Witch: Drive shaft’s knackered. And the bristles need tuning.
First Witch: (Indicates large broomstick) Jump on then. Good job I brought the S.U.B
(Exeunt on broomsticks)
(Thunder and lightning)
(Enter Glinda the Good Witch)
Glinda: Haaahahahaaaaaaaa… Oh shit. Missed them again. (Exit)
FRIDAY WEEK.
Queen B was delivered of a beautiful daughter, a daughter fit for a king. The child was born October 31 at 3.24am. Attending:
2 physicians, (plus toads, nightshade, foxglove, cow’s udder, slugs (they were out of leaches) and various, very shiny, forbidding and often piercingly sharp instruments of Pracktical Medicine)
4 mid-wives
2 old-wives (useful for tales)
6 ladies-in-waiting (they hadn’t saved enough for the operation yet, though they were taking the hormones and dressing the part)
3 French hens (clucking loudly)
1 page-boy (To turn the leaves of the physician’s books)
And every single one dressed in fancy dress (no witches though which was unusual) in preparation for the masked ball and shenanigans planned for that night.
This being a Royal birth there was no blood, no afterbirth, no complications and a very limited (by a handy ball gag) amount of cursing and swearing.
“GET HIM THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME. IF HE EVER COMES NEAR ME AGAIN WITH THAT SCHLONG I’LL CUT THE BASTARD OFF.“
Joy was unbounded; they needed the restraints for two of the ladies-in-waiting who had become involved in a fistfight over who had the most chic nether-hair-style. (Mohawk v. Chaplin) (Spot of conflict there for the story purists)
After all the brouhaha and embroglio had abated everyone agreed that Queen B was a clever girl who they knew could do it.
King Studly handed round the Cubans (who immediately began plotting his downfall) and a jolly time was about to be had by all, especially the King who was still unsure about the Ladies-in-waiting, when a flash of light, thunderous …erm, thunder and a cloud of smoke had everyone deafened, blinded and coughing so much they missed the entrance of the Witches.
FLASHBACK … The blasted heath, hours previously.
First Witch: “So, our daughter, the Queen, is about to give birth to the ultimate child of our centuries of genetic manipulation. To give us our Supreme Being, our Kwizatz Haderach.”
All: “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.”
Second Witch: “The hour fast closes we must away to the castle.”
Third Witch: “What about; when shall we three meet again?”
First Witch: “I haven’t adjourned this meeting yet. We’re just changing the venue.”
Third Witch: “Oh. I thought we could only meet on the bloody…”
Second Witch: (interrupting) “Blasted.”
Third Witch: “Blasted, yes. I thought we could only meet on the blasted heath.”
First Witch: “And who told you that? We can meet any where we want. We can meet on the blasted heath, the bloody heath, the chuffing heath or the vast unenclosed wilderness known as Egdon Heath if we want.”
Second Witch: “Wouldn’t we be embrowned moment by moment?”
First Witch: It doesn’t bloody matter. We can meet where we like. Ok?” (She busies herself with PalmPilot)
Second and third Witch: (downcast) “Ok.”
Second Witch: (Whispers to third) “She’s always using THE voice on us.”
Third Witch: “I know. It’s not fair. When I’m Mother Superior you’ll see some changes.
Second Witch: “I know. I’m sick of these black rags as well. And these pointy hats. Why can’t we have Taffeta and crinoline and a tiara?”
First Witch: “Because we’re not bloody fairies, we’re witches.”
Third Witch: “You let Glinda wear what she wants.”
First Witch: “Glinda, as you well know, is a Good Witch (ptui), and she can dress how she pleases because she is not in our coven. RIGHT?”
Second and third Witch: “Ok.”
Second Witch: “Can I have a go on you Palm Pilot?”
First Witch: “No.”
Third Witch: “Where did you get it?”
First Witch: “Benny the filofax got it for me. That guy who works in Planet 9.”
Third Witch: “From outer space?”
First Witch: “Planet not plan. Planet 9. Look, are we going? The hour draws close and all that.”
Second Witch: “Brooms or teleport? Teleport please.”
Third Witch: “Oh I don’t like teleport. It makes me feel all wavy.”
First Witch: “Teleport yes. Gives a better entrance. Ready? (They nod) Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.”
Exeunt in a cloud of smoke.
Enter Glinda the Good Witch (ptui)
Glinda: “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa. Shit. Again.”(Exit)
THE CASTLE… hours later, or the same time as when we left for the flashback.
The assembled: Royals and plebs alike became afeared as they saw who had arrived (without invitation) and all, save the King (because he was Royal) and his sleeping Queen cowered before them.
“My, my,” said the First Witch, “We have been busy haven’t we?” She strolled across to the mewling infant and examining her closely smiled her wicked smile, which dissipated as quickly as it appeared. “We’ve knacked up again girls. It’s ginger.”
The two remaining witches were crestfallen.
“No Kwizatz.”
“Not even a bit of Haderach.”
“Well nevermind,” said the first Witch, “we’re here anyway, let’s enjoy the Hallowe’en party and give the kid its presents. Ooh no witch costumes?”
The throng quailed. (Not a pretty site) at the way the Witch said “presents”. Not being as skilled an actor as she thought she had pronounced it “pre-zents”, like “present arms”. She scowled. “Presents then,” pronouncing properly, “presents, presents, presents. Happy?” The crowd nodded meekly. “You two.” She called over her cohorts, “Give it your gifts.”
The second witch bestowed beautiful good looks on the child, the crowd ‘aawed’; little realising the difficulties the child would face when her beauty made her unable to be taken seriously or that no one would believe she had personality and brains to match. (She would also like football, drinking, motorbikes, engines in general, particle physics and quantum mechanics but her beauty would be her nemesis)
The third witch stepped forward and gave her gift to the babe. In future years the young woman would grow to have a magnificent pair of breasts, and an arse that could kill at 20 paces plus a waist so proportionately narrow only surgery could equal it. The crowd ‘ooohed’, little realising the back ache concomitant with such a fine pair of hooters, the never ending wolf whistles for her rear-view and the bitchy jealousy of her waist, from women of all ages. And the personality and brains to match thing as well.
The first witch, not being quite as subtle as the other two, made this gift:
“You shall rue the day that you have beauty and tits enough for any man with an arse that could stop a bus and a waist that can waste (and the personality and brains thing). A virgin you are and a virgin you will remain until your 18th birthday, (In Litland anyway) whereupon you shall crave your first cock, taste your first todger, knuzzle your first knob and this shall be your undoing. For wait you must for that first orgasm which will have built to such a crescendo after all those years that it’s ecstasy will surely stop your pretty little heart. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.”
Everyone was vaguely puzzled at this sudden sexual departure from the long established tale and stared quite insolently at the first Witch.
“What? What? What’s the matter?” The other witches called her over and explained about the tradition of story telling. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” Said the crone. “Alright, alright. Hmm hm.” She coughed. “On-your-18th-birthday-you-shall-die-by-a-prick. Ok?” The gathering heaved a sigh of relief and contentment.
The first witch stalked away to sulk, followed by her coven, and into the kitchens, where they usually ended up at any party.
As luck, and a following wind, would have it, a crash sounded in the Regal birth chamber, followed by splintered glass flying in all directions and a vision in taffeta and crinoline and a tiara tumbled to the floor.
“Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.” Cried a dishevelled Glinda. “Am I too late again?”
“No no,” cried the King. “You are most welcome and in the very essence of time.” He explained the very recent events and implored the Good Witch (ptui) to right the wrong that had been wrought. Glinda thought about this for a minute or two, leaving those present on tenterhooks for as long as she dared and to gain the most dramatic effect.
“I have it.” She announced. “This is my gift to your child. The pricking and subsequent orgasm shall not have fatal consequences but shall merely send the young woman into a deep and abiding sleep for an hundred years. When she will be awakened by a prick of a different kind.” She smiled beatifically.
“An hundred years?” Wailed the King.
“An hundred years?” Bemoaned the Queen, who had woken at the sound of breaking glass.
“What, in the first place, is the good of sleeping for an hundred years, and in the second place it’s A hundred, not an hundred. Nobody says an hundred, it’s A hundred.”
“Well I’m sorry but it’s the best I can do at short notice.” Glinda said, and stalked off in a huff (actually it was a minute and huff, I always remember a face, but in your case I’ll make an exception, ‘ats a my brodder, he dem or a duff) to find the other witches in the kitchen where she would arrive 35 seconds too late.
Anyway. King S. and Queen B. made immediate proclamation, without really thinking it through, that any kind of sex involving pricks, in the Kingdom was henceforth banned, abolished and verboten. No flashing, no drawing, no descriptive writing, no videos, no dvds and definitely no websites, ever again.
“But can’t we just have the ban when the princess gets old enough to understand?” asked the people.
“No.” Said the King. “Children learn things more quickly than you’d think possible, according to modern educationalists and we cannot take the chance that the Royal heir should die before accession. For who can say if we should bear more fruit. And thinking about it now, we won’t be able to because of the proclamation. But, what’s proclaimed is proclaimed and that’s it. ”
The Princess’s school years were an occasion for mass thanksgiving as the King (not so much the Queen, as she was bi- and getting plenty of girl on girl action) in a rare fit of acquiescence (due in large part to the various rallies and protests the like of which had not been seen since the miner’s strike) allowed an annual three-weekly, veritable orgy of penile sex when the Princess went to Royal Camp.
The Princess enjoyed many, many celebrations of her birthday, which conveniently fell on Hallowe'en every year and so was treated to Masked Balls of gigantic proportions due to the two-fold nature of the festivities. And in all her almost 18 years never once had occasion to even have sight of a male member.
ROYAL CAMP.
Every year, for three weeks in the month of August, Hermione (late of the palace kitchens) ran a summer camp for Princesses of the local Realms. This being a land far, far away and in a time long forgotten there were a great many local Realms in quite a small geographical area and so Hermione had quite a comfortable living. She ran three ‘camps’. One was for Princesses, one for Princes and The Other One.
The camps were segregated in this way for two reasons. 1) We’re talking about school age royalty here and school age means no opportunity, let alone desire, for any members of the opposite sex to become more than handshakingly acquainted. 2) The fees could be made proportionately more extortionate due to the kinder being both Royal and segregated.
The Other One, was a year round camp specifically concerned with certain ‘practices’ between consenting adults. Clean linen every morning, three hot meals, several ‘chambers’ below ground and definitely NO animal antics of any kind. At all. Not even in the stables provided. Or the kennels.
HALLOWE’EN AND THE 18TH.
Studly and his Queen B. paced the rooms of the palace, fear and apprehension gnawing at their vitals. “Get those dogs out of here,” Cried the Queen, “I can’t stand their constant slobbering.”
The King anxious to calm his wife called to the dogs. “Come on Fear, here Apprehension. Good dogs.” And led them to the door.
“Oh Studly my King. What are we to do? Our one and only issue will today, this very Hallowe’en be taken by a prick to sleep for an hundred years.”
In agitation the King wailed “Do you think I do not know? Have I not gone without for this past decade and 3 fifths?” (For Studly had followed his own proclamation to the letter.) “But she will be safe. She has no knowledge of the male appendage. She can have no carnal inclinations for any man. The only thing we have to do from now ‘til midnight is keep her locked in her room and then, come the witching hour, she will be free of the curse. And it’s A hundred, not an.”
The day passed slowly, even though the Castle was a-bustle with preparations for the Grandest Hallowe’en Ball of this or any other century, the hours dragged by. The Regal bats were brought from their lofty belfry and given a coat of fresh luminous varnish that they might gleam in the candle-strewn halls on their midnight release. The skeletons of many previous kings and/or their queens/consorts were white washed to be hung in merry poses throughout. Even the witches had been sent invitations to attend, after what happened last time.
Eventually, came 11.30. Every preparation was prepared. Every ghost had been awakened. Every hall had been decked with orange and black and every single Prince, Queen, Princess and King of all the local realms were in attendance bar one.
THE BLASTED HEATH.
First Witch: When shall we three meet again?
Second Witch: When e’er the moon is full, and nigh the witching hour. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa
Third Witch: Well you’re lucky I made it to this one. I didn’t know it was on ‘til you phoned me this afternoon. It’s a good job my mobile was on.
First Witch: Well don’t look at me. I sent all the invitations. PM’d everybody. Which reminds me,” (to second witch) “Your PM box is full. Again.”
Third Witch: “That’s because she uses a picture of Glinda for her AV. All the randy wizards on the site sends her mucky spells.”
First Witch: “Warlocks”
Third Witch: “No, it’s true.”
First Witch hits third with broom and knocks her pointy hat to the ground.
First Witch: “I’ve warned you about that before. Anyway,” (to third) “you can talk, you’re email keeps getting bounced. Have you changed your addy?”
Third Witch: “Yes. Didn’t I say? I kept getting spam. ‘Do you want a wartier nose?’, ‘Is your chin pointy enough?’ that sort of thing. I’m now Hazel @ Daemon dot net.”
First Witch: “Right. So, when shall we three meet again?
Second Witch: (consulting almanac ) Erm… Full moon: 8th of next month.”
Third Witch: “That’s a Saturday. A Saturday in November.”
First Witch: “What time at?”
Second Witch: “Can we make it earlier? I’ve got 3 curses to lay Saturday night.”
Third Witch: “Ok. How about: 5 O’clock. Approaching the time of twilight?”
First Witch: “Venue?”
All: (with glee) “Egdon Heath. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.
First Witch: I shall now ask our secretary to read the minutes of the last meeting. Or shall we take them as read? Yes? Good. Nem con. Matters arising?
Second Witch: Did you price up a new cauldron?
First Witch: “Yes. And they’re ridiculous. I doubt if we’ve got enough funds to buy a one-gallon cauldron, let alone replace this one. I think we should stick with this. All in favour? Good. Agenda items. Oops. Sorry, Correspondence.”
Second Witch: “Well, apart from the V.A.T man, who wants to know if we want a maintenance contract for this cauldron, there is an invitation to an 18th birthday slash Hallowe’en ball.
First Witch: “Ah. The Beautiful Princess. Soon to be Dead Beautiful.”
Third Witch: (wincing) “Erm… Soon to be Sleeping Beauty I’m afraid.”
First Witch: “SLEEPING?”
Second Witch: “Well…Yeah. Sleeping. Glinda. An hundred years.”
First Witch: “SLEEPING? GLINDA? AN HUNDRED YEARS? Who says An hundred? Nobody says An hundred. It’s got a consonant. It’s A hundred. Stupid cow. Come on.”
Exeunt on brooms
Enter Glinda the Good Witch. (Ptui)
Glinda: “Haaahaha—Oh fuck it.”
THE HIGHEST TOWER IN THE CASTLE. (Readers intimidated by poorly written scenes of sexual depravity may wish to skip this next)
The clock ticked. 11.45
The princess sat at the bedroom table combing her exquisitely coifed hair in the mirror, admiring her great beauty in the reflection thereof. In just a few minutes she would dress herself in the finest Elizabethan brocade with attendant ruffs and frills as befit her status to enjoy this Hallowe’en night and her Birthday Bash in one. Wondering idly, what the ‘special present’, her father the king had promised her, was she stood and moved towards the full-length mirror, little knowing that he sat in the next room watching through the two way glass.
“Oh my, how she has grown.” Thought Studly “My beautiful Princess, my beautiful, pristine, virginal Princess. Nice tits as well.”
11.55
The Princess, turning this way, and that, gazed, enraptured of her own lissom, lithe, languid body. Those full, only very slightly drooping breasts, crowned with puffy areolae and the darkest, hardest, most succulent nubs, standing regally proud a good half inch. Her eyes drew downwards to the trimmest waist imaginable, eat though she did, whatever she craved, Bigmacs, Indians, Kentucky, anything, her middle remained gloriously thin. Still turning as she may, the Princess caught sight of her very own full, rounded and immensely squeezeable derriere, accompanied as ever, by thighs, knees and calves of exquisite proportion.
Right Regal, feminine fingers soon found their way to that virginal, wispy haired haven. Pressing through those downy lips, a single finger, to the first knuckle. A nipple pulled taught with delicious pain/pleasure and released, so that hand could cup the breast and bring that same puffy zone to royal lips and tongue. Perfect, white teeth pinched and nibbled, sending waves of delight through breast and belly to zing through loins to whet appetites and wet lips.
11.59
Behind the mirror sat Studly, bereft of clothing and Royal staff in hand, he watched his own daughter quickly and efficiently bring herself to the edge of delirium, with well practised fingers dancing across her engorged clit and a single digit penetrating her sex, stabbing shallowly but steadily as her climax drew close.
“Wanking, “ mused the King “can’t be as good as proper fucking or she would be sleeping for a thousand years by now.” Then he saw, with great joy, the bedside radio/alarm said:
12.00.
Now for her Daddy’s present.
He kiked down the dor and camed in her fase. And she liked it. She liked it off her lips and where her tongue could reach she liked it off her tits. Immediately she was his cum-slut. “Oh Daddy,” exclaimed the Princess “I’ve waited so long. Fuck my cunt. Now fuck my ass. Fuck my mouth. Fuck me in every hole.”
And so he did. And when she was ready to cum she cried “Cum with me Daddy, I want to feel your incestuous seed fill my belly. Oh yes. Hhnnn. Ooohhh. Fuck me. I’m cuuuuummmmiiiinnnnggg” Then as his daughter’s orgasm exploded within her, sending shivers down her spine, the King, her father, cummed too, Spurting thick ropes of man-juice into her virgin hole with such ferocity that the Princess was slammed into the bed-head and knocked unconscious.
A blaze of light, a crash of thunder and billowing smoke suddenly filled the room.”Oh this is nice.” Said the First Witch. “Very nice. Shagging your own daughter. Very Kingly.”
“Fuck off.” Said Studly. “18 years you made me wait for this. 18 fucking years. Queen B. didn’t go short did she? No. She’s bi. She was fucking the Ladies-in-waiting.” The Witches snickered knowingly. “But I haven’t even had one off the wrist in all that time. And now I’ve been rewarded, I’ve fucked the most beautiful woman in the world ever. And I fucked her first. And she liked it. And your spells are shite.”
“Are they indeed?” Enquired the first Witch. “Let me see… first: “You shall rue the day that you have beauty and tits enough for any man with an arse that could stop a bus and a waist that can waste (and the personality and brains thing).” Yes, well I think we can take that as a given. Agreed? Right. Two: A virgin you are and a virgin you will remain until your 18th birthday, (In Litland anyway) “ Ok. You and Lauren did that bit yourselves. Now, three: “whereupon you shall crave your first cock, taste your first todger, blah blah blah, and this shall be your undoing.” Now that’s down to you again I think Kingy. You showed her, her first cock and it was yours. Ok then. Four: “For wait you must for that first orgasm which will have built to such a crescendo after all those years that it’s ecstasy will surely stop your pretty little heart.” Alright I admit the heart thing didn’t work thanks to Glinda, but think about it. I said your first orgasm. I didn’t actually say whose. As it happens I meant yours. Your first orgasm in 18 years. Yes I know, technically your second but your first inside someone else. So that’s down to you again. So really it was just self-fulfilling. You won’t be able to wake her you know. Not for A hundred years. So we come to part five: “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa. Thank fuck for cut-and-paste”
King Studly was distraught. Sobbing and crying real tears he cradled his beautiful naked daughter in his arms, giving him a boner in the process.
“But it’s turned midnight.” Wailed Studly. “It’s Saturday now. It’s not the 31st. Look.” He pointed to the radio alarm on the bedside table, which read 12.15.
“You’d think so wouldn’t you?” Laughed the First Witch. “Except that you forgot one thing.”
The king stared at the Witch; the other two Witches stared at the king’s noble sceptre.
“You forgot that this clock is an alarm clock. It is set to bedroom time. A quarter of an hour earlier than all the other clocks. Only now is it midnight. And you have doomed your own daughter to a hundred years of sleep. Haaahahahaaaaaaa.”
King Studly rose, with his naked daughter in his arms and his full on stonker pointing the way, and carried her to the Royal Bedchamber.
“Well, that’s us then.” Said the First Witch. “Anybody seen Glinda? She’s usually here by now.”
“No. That IS unusual, even for her.” Said the Second Witch. They stood undecided, waiting for the arrival of their late colleague.
Not late as in dead. Just late. Be a bit pointless waiting for someone who’s dead wouldn’t it? Be a bit like waiting for Godot. Although, you realise, it’s the waiting that counts, not who or what they’re waiting for. Or for whom they wait.
A crash of glass and confused mayhem descended on the group, as Glinda made her late entrance. “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa”
The Witches regained their feet, gingerly picking slivers of glass from their pointy hats and black robes. “Am I too late?” Enquired Glinda.
“Not really.” Said the Second Witch. “We were just waiting for you before we set off.”
Glinda was puzzled. “Set off? Set off where?” She demanded, all the while trying to disentangle taffeta from crinoline and bits of broomstick from her tiara. The three Witches, somewhat sheepishly, explained that they'd got a gig at The Old Vic for the coming season and were involved in The Scottish Play, which really required only three crones. “That’s Ok.” Said Glinda. “I’ll be far too busy moving house for the next few weeks anyway.” She sniffed.
“Moving? Where?”
“Oz.”
“Australia?”
”No Oz. The land of Oz. There’s an opening for a Good Witch and I’ve been offered it. 35K, insurance, a house (gingerbread but that’s Ok) and the usual: 5 weeks annual leave, bank holidays, car allowance, the lot.”
“Well that’s just fine. Fine and dandy. You go. We’ll manage. GOODBYE” The three Witches flew off into the night cackling.
Glinda, with a righteous, haughty gait went to seek out the King and his daughter. After several wrong turnings and one or two wrong doors, disclosing many and varied sexual acts being as how it was, technically, the day after Hallowe’en and everyone was taking full carnal advantage of the fact, she came at last to the Royal Bedchamber, wherein the Princess lay, comatose to last for an hundred years.
Finding her comfortable and shockingly naked, making Glinda rather wet between her legs, the Good Witch (after a quick feel) sought out the Royal party.
In the Grand Hall amidst Hallowe’en trappings the guests were, to a man (and woman) engaging in somewhat desultory sex, in celebration of the end of the ‘No Nobs’ proclamation as it had come to be known. But the fate of the Princess had thrown a shadow over what was to be an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable night. Upon this sight Glinda became dismayed, not over the sex, she didn’t get to see that much sex being a story book witch. Now if she could join a Modern Coven. They had sex all the time. Dancing naked in the woods. Making love philtres. Shag, shag, shag, shag, shag. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Turning her gaze once more to the assembled throng Glinda couldn’t help but feel sad for all these hapless nymphos and satyrs. So she cast another spell. That all in this castle should sleep for an hundred years, to waken only when the Princess was woken by a different kind of prick as per her previous spell. Before she took her leave, she decided to take full and unfettered advantage of all the hard ons that she could espy, along with some nice wet minges to taste. After three weeks she left for Oz.
The Castle, with its slumbering incumbents fell into Disrepair: Property developers. (House clearances sought.) After many more years when the housing market fell through and All and Sundry (Debt collecting agency) ensured everyone was in a negative equity situation, the castle naturally went to Rack and Ruin: Slumlords to the shiftless, homeless and topless. Est.837.
HERMIONE
Through her own skill and artistry, along with her business sense and eye for the market, Hermione (late of the Palace kitchens), had built not only a grand reputation and comfortable livelihood but had also managed to persuade the surrounding Realms, with her charm, willing lips and interesting assortment of instruments of pleasure, to have her small parcel of land declared an independent country. As sole owner Hermione became Queen.
Even though wholly les. Hermione none-the-less managed to bear a girl child to whom her country would eventually come to pass. Hermione Junior (Princess Hermione) also bore a child of female birth. Princess Hermione III. This charming and challenging child held a deep secret, known only to a chosen few. To all outward appearances Hermione III grew to be a beautiful, capable woman who, following the time honoured tradition of the Royal Hermiones, was Lesbian in taste.
Feeling greatly bored and somewhat stifled in her Regal role as second in line, Hermione III decided it would take forever before her grandmother died, leaving the country to her mother who would then take another forever before finally passing on the Crown.
And so it came to pass that the rather minuscule subplot found its way to the main story bringing Hermione III to the sleeping castle.
After many days and nights of travel and some wonderfully uplifting and hedonistic adventures, too complex and long to relate in a fairy tale, Hermione III came to the village outside the sleeping castle. Here she discovered the tale of The Sleeping Beauty, who could only be woken after an hundred years with a different kind of prick. “Ah ha.” Thought Hermione and was more than ready to reveal her deep held secret to the reading public.
After much preparation and reparation to the Innkeeper and various outfitters Hermione began her quest in Earnest, which was the name of the village outside the sleeping castle. With courage and great fortitude Hermione made good her entrance to the sleeping castle. Finding its inhabitants still slumbering and even after an hundred years still stiff of prick and wet of twat she spent the first 3 weeks in the great hall before going on to search for the Princess.
The Royal Bedchamber readily gave up its secret and Hermione there discovered the most Beautiful Sleeping female of all. Sleeping Beauty. Try as she might, Hermione could not awaken the Princess. Though she tried needles, pins, pointy daggers and sharpened sticks to give the slumber filled creature a different kind of prick, still she dozed on.
In sheer frustration Hermione began to try arousing the Princess with kisses and protestations of love, declaring her heart and soul be forfeit to her majestic beauty if only she would awaken. Hermione soon realised that she had indeed fallen in love. Whereon she threw herself on top of her erstwhile bedmate and smothered her face with kisses. She ran her tongue down the length of her body, from chin to pubis. She kneaded her perfect breasts; she slavered over her trim waist, sucked on those remarkable nipples and lovingly fingered her fringed minge.
Naturally, Hermione’s attempts to rouse her Princess began to arouse Hermione herself and lust began to have its effect. Her nipples hardened to bullets, her body was lathered with sweat, her aching cunt was awash with juices and her cock stiffened to strain her codpiece. Yes. Hermione’s deep held secret was that she wore a codpiece years after they had become unfashionable. And she was hermaphrodite too.
Though she had the frail body of a woman (with a very nice pair of gazongas) she had the cock of a man. Being truly hermaphrodite she had a cunt as well and enjoyed fucking as much as she enjoyed being fucked. In fact her favourite thing was that if the occasional suitor begged for bum love she insisted that he take her cock up his arse first. She had surprisingly few refusals. But that’s a whole other story.
A triumphant thought surged through Hermione’s mind. “A different cock! I have a different cock.” And with that she fell to, and gave her future wife a right royal seeing-to. This being the Princess’s second only actual fucking it was almost impossible for her to sleep through it. Her eyelids fluttered, her hips began undulating to the copulating rhythm and soon she was cumming with abandon. “Yeeeeeeeeessssss.” Cried the Princess. “Fuck meeeeeeeee. I’m cuuuuuummmmiiiiinnnnng”. And so she did.
“I’m cumming too.” Ground out Hermione “I’m fucking your cunt, bitch. You dirty bitch whore. Fuck. Yeeeeeeeessss, I’m cuuuuummmiiinnng tooooooo.” And so she did. Then fell asleep almost immediately, to be woken half an hour later by being both sucked off and fingered by the Princess.
And they all lived happily ever after. The End
In a pleasant land far across the sea and long, long ago (longer even than your own grandmother can remember) there lived a studly King and his beautiful Queen.
King Studly and Queen B. reigned in happiness and a certain lascivious style. Royal balls were a regular occurrence in their kingdom and horny young princes along with fetching virgin princesses (all with valid proof that they were both virginal and aged 18 or over) vied for invitations to these grand affairs of state.
The uncouth and ragged people came to blows when seeking work at the royal palace for as everyone knew, even though they paid only minimum wage, what other job would give them the opportunity to suck off a handsome prince or shoot their seed over the royal bellies and breasts of those virgin princesses?
Naturally, in order to avoid embarrassing and unwanted bastard heirs all royalty practised oral and/or anal assiduously. Never once was a princely cock driven through the royal front gates, always and like tradesmen the princesses succumbed to lust through the back door. This also had the unfortunate effect of right Royal legitimate offspring being few and far between.
Due to this Royal proclivity, sadly, King Studly and Queen B. had not conceived a child in 16 years of marriage. Not through want of trying, just preferring the wrong holes.
One day the King, whilst screwing the scullery boy (18), became suddenly enamoured of the idea of a ‘piece of pussy’. At the very thought he began ramming harder and more fiercely into the scullery lad’s 18 year old arse than ever before, cumming with such ferocity he shot the poor lad into the cold fireplace, upsetting a pot of porridge.
Grinning broadly and wiping both the cook’s porridge and the King’s from his body the scullery boy (18) watched as King Studly cast about the kitchen for fresh minge to assuage his hunger. As luck and fate would have it, Queen B was at that very moment taking her morning constitutional around the stable master’s man meat and her daily vitamin intake from a handy palace guard.
In the kitchens the King found first, the lower pantry girl, whose lower pantry was welcoming but hardly embracing. Rosamund the chief-below-stairs girl, of some 50 years was next to receive the King’s pleasure. Her below-stairs were unkempt and in sore need of a spring clean but the King was not to be discouraged and was soon ploughing a long furrow amongst the undergrowth. Rosamund came quickly and quietly much to King Studly’s chagrin. Then he spied the newest serving wench, a tender, fresh faced, spring-titted, innocent 18 year old.
This lithe and lively girl was not only virgin but also quite naïve about what her duties in the palace would entail as she’d not been able to attend the induction course being somewhat hampered by her evil father’s intent of giving her his own induction upon her 18th birthday.
Fortunately she had escaped his incestual indoctrination and though he had managed to shave her pussy bear in preparation, this fair faced, flaxen haired beauty had had the wit to keep a heavy kitchen ladle hidden within her skirts which she wielded with the strength of virtue to render her father incapable. Seeing him lying dazed and confused the still-virginal youth, feeling great sorrow and remorse for her fallen father gave him a quick hand-shandy before fleeing to seek the lurid shelter of the Palace kitchens.
Hopping from foot to foot the King listened rather impatiently to the serving wench’s miserable tale, perking slightly at the mention of bare beaver and was greatly relieved when the poor wretch’s mother made a timely (and comely) appearance to investigate. Immediately, upon noticing the Royal boner the mother made no more ado than to lift her clouts and offer of herself that which her daughter had singularly failed to do.
“Mother!” cried Hermione (for that was her name) “Mother, why do you bare your maidenhood to the king?”
And her mother replied from her position across the kitchen chopping block “To save you daughter, from Wroyal wrath. If you had the wit for which you are renowned then you would realise that the Noblest before you seeks oblige. Besides which, it’s hardly ‘maiden’ is it?”
“Now if you want to stay a ‘serving wench’ to the King” continued her mother, “And if it please you Lord?” she said to Studly, to which he smiled benignly then continued again “kindly serve the Royal appendage to it’s waiting fur vessel” pointing to her now glistening pussy. (For servants twats were fare game for any of the Royal retinue, bastards notwithstanding)
Hermione, realising her position held more ‘duties’ than she had bargained for knelt subserviently before the Royal crotch, whereupon she swiftly disgorged the kingly appendage from its silk and satin breeks. To her surprise, Hermione found Studly to be of something less than King size, in fact (if her wicked father was anything to go by) the Royal length was rather average.
Holding the purple sceptre in two hands and switching her glance back and forth between her mother’s waiting hole and the Kingly knob, Hermione hesitated at a loss as to what exactly she was meant to be doing.
By this time the King was becoming somewhat angry at the delay and began stepping forward to claim his wenchly prerogative. Hermione, sensing the moment, turned her face to the Royal crotch and suddenly found herself with a mouth full of noble nob-end.
“Now there’s a novelty.” Cried King Studly as he began to rake his whole length between the quite stunned but suddenly willing, Hermione’s full, sensuous, rose red lips. Not once did Hermione protest nor gag at the invasion of this honourable member.
“Hermione” Wailed the hirsute mother. “His Highness wishes mott not mouth. Spit him out at once you dirty girl.” But Hermione was not to broken from her self-imposed task and swallowed voraciously of the Royal Rod and the King, enchanted by this turn of events began fucking her mouth in earnest to Hermione’s delight as she savoured the wet slap of majestic bollocks against her delicate chin. Full length (and handsome girth) did King Studly rivet her face.
“It seems your dirty daughter has a zest for throat fucking,” Said the King to Hermione’s mother.
“Yes” said her mother, brightening at this turn of Royal favour. “‘Tis a new one on me your Lordliness. I’m sure I don’t know where she learned such a thing”
“As you know” began Studly to Hermione’s mother, “It is the Royal prerogative to have the wench cum first, as is fitting, but your heavenly daughter seems not to be even approaching that blessed enjoyment and mayhap continue slurping on the Purple Staff of State until even I can respond only in manly terms.”
“Yes your Honour.” Said the mother going on to apologise profusely for her daughter’s lack of tact and social grace.
“Now now” Intoned the King, “She is simply untrained in the proper respects of our naughty society. “Come come” He beckoned and indicating the still felating Hermione “Give her surcease from this zesty oral display. Have at her and guide her home.”
Following the King’s wishes the mother knelt deftly behind her daughter and, lifting her clouts to her trim and youthful waist she reached her ageing hand to her daughter’s shaven sanctity.
Hermione (who’s speech was obviously impeded) made cry at this timely imposition but, unwilling to relinquish her first taste of manhood relinquished instead her maidenhead to her mother’s fingers.
Fearing completion too soon, the King urged Hermione’s mother “The clit, the clit old woman, on your back and have at your daughter’s clit with your tongue” and naturally with a skilled tongue at the helm, Hermione was gasping with that greatest pleasure seemingly within seconds. Washing her mother’s face with her juices and almost at once, even whilst shuddering through her second and third orgasms Hermione felt honour-bound to return that sweetest of favours. Which is how His Royal Highness left them, to seek out pastures new for his still throbbing purple.
* * *
Queen B lay sated for the moment, luxuriating in the organic fluid bath of the commons from her latest romp. Of a sudden, from all sides, internal and external she heard a faraway muted yet strident thudding noise. A deliberate noise. A quite metronomic noise. Somewhat fearful, she became fully awake and lay perfectly still, listening, feeling the noise. Incessant and drawing closer. As her Reverend Mother had taught her she drew the growing fear into herself. Absorbed it. Made it part of her. Let it dissipate. Then she remembered the words of her master “Fear is borne of ignorance. From fear comes anger. From anger comes the Dark Side.”
Her fear conquered, Queen B heard the sound for what it plainly was. Her biological clock was ticking. Relentlessly. Remorselessly. “Oh merciful Heavens.” She cried. “I am without child. The King my only true love is without issue”
At this very moment King Studly entered the straw strewn stable.
“Fear not my Queen, my Lady, my Love. Kinder from a kindred and a King are my gift to you My Princess Bride.” So saying, King Studly took his wife in blissful conjugation to that high peak of awareness and gave of himself, to himself, a child and heir. (And shortly afterwards in celebration he gave her one up the arse as well)
9 MONTHS LATER… On the Blasted Heath.
First Witch: When shall we three meet again?
Second Witch: (Whispering) you forgot the Hubble bubble toil and trouble.
First Witch: Hubble what?
Second Witch: Hubble bubble toil and trouble.
Third Witch: And the frog of newt and bat of toad. (The two witches stare with disgust at the third)
Well. (She sulks)
First Witch: Never mind all that. When’s the next meeting?
Third Witch: Thursday week.
Second Witch (searching Organiser): Thursday’s no good for me.
Third Witch (Glaring): Well Friday then?
Second Witch: What date is that?
First Witch: (squinting at screen of Palm-Pilot) Thirty first. (Pause) Day before All Saints.
Second and third Witch: (Cackling) Aaaaaahahahaaaa- What’s that?
Second Witch: That evil device.
Third Witch: Black magickal box.
Second Witch: That giveth of it’s own light.
Third Witch: With mystical Runes engraved therein.
Second Witch: Devilish, evil, powerful magic.
(The two Witches shun the first and cower)
First Witch: It’s Ok. It’s all right. Don’t be frightened. It’s Linux.
(The two Witches relax visibly)
Second Witch: Well thank Torvald for that.
Third Witch: So the 31st then. All Hallows Eventide. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.
First and Second Witch: Hallowe’en. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.
Third Witch: Can someone give me a lift back?
First Witch: What’s wrong with your broom?
Third Witch: Drive shaft’s knackered. And the bristles need tuning.
First Witch: (Indicates large broomstick) Jump on then. Good job I brought the S.U.B
(Exeunt on broomsticks)
(Thunder and lightning)
(Enter Glinda the Good Witch)
Glinda: Haaahahahaaaaaaaa… Oh shit. Missed them again. (Exit)
FRIDAY WEEK.
Queen B was delivered of a beautiful daughter, a daughter fit for a king. The child was born October 31 at 3.24am. Attending:
2 physicians, (plus toads, nightshade, foxglove, cow’s udder, slugs (they were out of leaches) and various, very shiny, forbidding and often piercingly sharp instruments of Pracktical Medicine)
4 mid-wives
2 old-wives (useful for tales)
6 ladies-in-waiting (they hadn’t saved enough for the operation yet, though they were taking the hormones and dressing the part)
3 French hens (clucking loudly)
1 page-boy (To turn the leaves of the physician’s books)
And every single one dressed in fancy dress (no witches though which was unusual) in preparation for the masked ball and shenanigans planned for that night.
This being a Royal birth there was no blood, no afterbirth, no complications and a very limited (by a handy ball gag) amount of cursing and swearing.
“GET HIM THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME. IF HE EVER COMES NEAR ME AGAIN WITH THAT SCHLONG I’LL CUT THE BASTARD OFF.“
Joy was unbounded; they needed the restraints for two of the ladies-in-waiting who had become involved in a fistfight over who had the most chic nether-hair-style. (Mohawk v. Chaplin) (Spot of conflict there for the story purists)
After all the brouhaha and embroglio had abated everyone agreed that Queen B was a clever girl who they knew could do it.
King Studly handed round the Cubans (who immediately began plotting his downfall) and a jolly time was about to be had by all, especially the King who was still unsure about the Ladies-in-waiting, when a flash of light, thunderous …erm, thunder and a cloud of smoke had everyone deafened, blinded and coughing so much they missed the entrance of the Witches.
FLASHBACK … The blasted heath, hours previously.
First Witch: “So, our daughter, the Queen, is about to give birth to the ultimate child of our centuries of genetic manipulation. To give us our Supreme Being, our Kwizatz Haderach.”
All: “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.”
Second Witch: “The hour fast closes we must away to the castle.”
Third Witch: “What about; when shall we three meet again?”
First Witch: “I haven’t adjourned this meeting yet. We’re just changing the venue.”
Third Witch: “Oh. I thought we could only meet on the bloody…”
Second Witch: (interrupting) “Blasted.”
Third Witch: “Blasted, yes. I thought we could only meet on the blasted heath.”
First Witch: “And who told you that? We can meet any where we want. We can meet on the blasted heath, the bloody heath, the chuffing heath or the vast unenclosed wilderness known as Egdon Heath if we want.”
Second Witch: “Wouldn’t we be embrowned moment by moment?”
First Witch: It doesn’t bloody matter. We can meet where we like. Ok?” (She busies herself with PalmPilot)
Second and third Witch: (downcast) “Ok.”
Second Witch: (Whispers to third) “She’s always using THE voice on us.”
Third Witch: “I know. It’s not fair. When I’m Mother Superior you’ll see some changes.
Second Witch: “I know. I’m sick of these black rags as well. And these pointy hats. Why can’t we have Taffeta and crinoline and a tiara?”
First Witch: “Because we’re not bloody fairies, we’re witches.”
Third Witch: “You let Glinda wear what she wants.”
First Witch: “Glinda, as you well know, is a Good Witch (ptui), and she can dress how she pleases because she is not in our coven. RIGHT?”
Second and third Witch: “Ok.”
Second Witch: “Can I have a go on you Palm Pilot?”
First Witch: “No.”
Third Witch: “Where did you get it?”
First Witch: “Benny the filofax got it for me. That guy who works in Planet 9.”
Third Witch: “From outer space?”
First Witch: “Planet not plan. Planet 9. Look, are we going? The hour draws close and all that.”
Second Witch: “Brooms or teleport? Teleport please.”
Third Witch: “Oh I don’t like teleport. It makes me feel all wavy.”
First Witch: “Teleport yes. Gives a better entrance. Ready? (They nod) Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.”
Exeunt in a cloud of smoke.
Enter Glinda the Good Witch (ptui)
Glinda: “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa. Shit. Again.”(Exit)
THE CASTLE… hours later, or the same time as when we left for the flashback.
The assembled: Royals and plebs alike became afeared as they saw who had arrived (without invitation) and all, save the King (because he was Royal) and his sleeping Queen cowered before them.
“My, my,” said the First Witch, “We have been busy haven’t we?” She strolled across to the mewling infant and examining her closely smiled her wicked smile, which dissipated as quickly as it appeared. “We’ve knacked up again girls. It’s ginger.”
The two remaining witches were crestfallen.
“No Kwizatz.”
“Not even a bit of Haderach.”
“Well nevermind,” said the first Witch, “we’re here anyway, let’s enjoy the Hallowe’en party and give the kid its presents. Ooh no witch costumes?”
The throng quailed. (Not a pretty site) at the way the Witch said “presents”. Not being as skilled an actor as she thought she had pronounced it “pre-zents”, like “present arms”. She scowled. “Presents then,” pronouncing properly, “presents, presents, presents. Happy?” The crowd nodded meekly. “You two.” She called over her cohorts, “Give it your gifts.”
The second witch bestowed beautiful good looks on the child, the crowd ‘aawed’; little realising the difficulties the child would face when her beauty made her unable to be taken seriously or that no one would believe she had personality and brains to match. (She would also like football, drinking, motorbikes, engines in general, particle physics and quantum mechanics but her beauty would be her nemesis)
The third witch stepped forward and gave her gift to the babe. In future years the young woman would grow to have a magnificent pair of breasts, and an arse that could kill at 20 paces plus a waist so proportionately narrow only surgery could equal it. The crowd ‘ooohed’, little realising the back ache concomitant with such a fine pair of hooters, the never ending wolf whistles for her rear-view and the bitchy jealousy of her waist, from women of all ages. And the personality and brains to match thing as well.
The first witch, not being quite as subtle as the other two, made this gift:
“You shall rue the day that you have beauty and tits enough for any man with an arse that could stop a bus and a waist that can waste (and the personality and brains thing). A virgin you are and a virgin you will remain until your 18th birthday, (In Litland anyway) whereupon you shall crave your first cock, taste your first todger, knuzzle your first knob and this shall be your undoing. For wait you must for that first orgasm which will have built to such a crescendo after all those years that it’s ecstasy will surely stop your pretty little heart. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.”
Everyone was vaguely puzzled at this sudden sexual departure from the long established tale and stared quite insolently at the first Witch.
“What? What? What’s the matter?” The other witches called her over and explained about the tradition of story telling. “Oh for fuck’s sake.” Said the crone. “Alright, alright. Hmm hm.” She coughed. “On-your-18th-birthday-you-shall-die-by-a-prick. Ok?” The gathering heaved a sigh of relief and contentment.
The first witch stalked away to sulk, followed by her coven, and into the kitchens, where they usually ended up at any party.
As luck, and a following wind, would have it, a crash sounded in the Regal birth chamber, followed by splintered glass flying in all directions and a vision in taffeta and crinoline and a tiara tumbled to the floor.
“Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.” Cried a dishevelled Glinda. “Am I too late again?”
“No no,” cried the King. “You are most welcome and in the very essence of time.” He explained the very recent events and implored the Good Witch (ptui) to right the wrong that had been wrought. Glinda thought about this for a minute or two, leaving those present on tenterhooks for as long as she dared and to gain the most dramatic effect.
“I have it.” She announced. “This is my gift to your child. The pricking and subsequent orgasm shall not have fatal consequences but shall merely send the young woman into a deep and abiding sleep for an hundred years. When she will be awakened by a prick of a different kind.” She smiled beatifically.
“An hundred years?” Wailed the King.
“An hundred years?” Bemoaned the Queen, who had woken at the sound of breaking glass.
“What, in the first place, is the good of sleeping for an hundred years, and in the second place it’s A hundred, not an hundred. Nobody says an hundred, it’s A hundred.”
“Well I’m sorry but it’s the best I can do at short notice.” Glinda said, and stalked off in a huff (actually it was a minute and huff, I always remember a face, but in your case I’ll make an exception, ‘ats a my brodder, he dem or a duff) to find the other witches in the kitchen where she would arrive 35 seconds too late.
Anyway. King S. and Queen B. made immediate proclamation, without really thinking it through, that any kind of sex involving pricks, in the Kingdom was henceforth banned, abolished and verboten. No flashing, no drawing, no descriptive writing, no videos, no dvds and definitely no websites, ever again.
“But can’t we just have the ban when the princess gets old enough to understand?” asked the people.
“No.” Said the King. “Children learn things more quickly than you’d think possible, according to modern educationalists and we cannot take the chance that the Royal heir should die before accession. For who can say if we should bear more fruit. And thinking about it now, we won’t be able to because of the proclamation. But, what’s proclaimed is proclaimed and that’s it. ”
The Princess’s school years were an occasion for mass thanksgiving as the King (not so much the Queen, as she was bi- and getting plenty of girl on girl action) in a rare fit of acquiescence (due in large part to the various rallies and protests the like of which had not been seen since the miner’s strike) allowed an annual three-weekly, veritable orgy of penile sex when the Princess went to Royal Camp.
The Princess enjoyed many, many celebrations of her birthday, which conveniently fell on Hallowe'en every year and so was treated to Masked Balls of gigantic proportions due to the two-fold nature of the festivities. And in all her almost 18 years never once had occasion to even have sight of a male member.
ROYAL CAMP.
Every year, for three weeks in the month of August, Hermione (late of the palace kitchens) ran a summer camp for Princesses of the local Realms. This being a land far, far away and in a time long forgotten there were a great many local Realms in quite a small geographical area and so Hermione had quite a comfortable living. She ran three ‘camps’. One was for Princesses, one for Princes and The Other One.
The camps were segregated in this way for two reasons. 1) We’re talking about school age royalty here and school age means no opportunity, let alone desire, for any members of the opposite sex to become more than handshakingly acquainted. 2) The fees could be made proportionately more extortionate due to the kinder being both Royal and segregated.
The Other One, was a year round camp specifically concerned with certain ‘practices’ between consenting adults. Clean linen every morning, three hot meals, several ‘chambers’ below ground and definitely NO animal antics of any kind. At all. Not even in the stables provided. Or the kennels.
HALLOWE’EN AND THE 18TH.
Studly and his Queen B. paced the rooms of the palace, fear and apprehension gnawing at their vitals. “Get those dogs out of here,” Cried the Queen, “I can’t stand their constant slobbering.”
The King anxious to calm his wife called to the dogs. “Come on Fear, here Apprehension. Good dogs.” And led them to the door.
“Oh Studly my King. What are we to do? Our one and only issue will today, this very Hallowe’en be taken by a prick to sleep for an hundred years.”
In agitation the King wailed “Do you think I do not know? Have I not gone without for this past decade and 3 fifths?” (For Studly had followed his own proclamation to the letter.) “But she will be safe. She has no knowledge of the male appendage. She can have no carnal inclinations for any man. The only thing we have to do from now ‘til midnight is keep her locked in her room and then, come the witching hour, she will be free of the curse. And it’s A hundred, not an.”
The day passed slowly, even though the Castle was a-bustle with preparations for the Grandest Hallowe’en Ball of this or any other century, the hours dragged by. The Regal bats were brought from their lofty belfry and given a coat of fresh luminous varnish that they might gleam in the candle-strewn halls on their midnight release. The skeletons of many previous kings and/or their queens/consorts were white washed to be hung in merry poses throughout. Even the witches had been sent invitations to attend, after what happened last time.
Eventually, came 11.30. Every preparation was prepared. Every ghost had been awakened. Every hall had been decked with orange and black and every single Prince, Queen, Princess and King of all the local realms were in attendance bar one.
THE BLASTED HEATH.
First Witch: When shall we three meet again?
Second Witch: When e’er the moon is full, and nigh the witching hour. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa
Third Witch: Well you’re lucky I made it to this one. I didn’t know it was on ‘til you phoned me this afternoon. It’s a good job my mobile was on.
First Witch: Well don’t look at me. I sent all the invitations. PM’d everybody. Which reminds me,” (to second witch) “Your PM box is full. Again.”
Third Witch: “That’s because she uses a picture of Glinda for her AV. All the randy wizards on the site sends her mucky spells.”
First Witch: “Warlocks”
Third Witch: “No, it’s true.”
First Witch hits third with broom and knocks her pointy hat to the ground.
First Witch: “I’ve warned you about that before. Anyway,” (to third) “you can talk, you’re email keeps getting bounced. Have you changed your addy?”
Third Witch: “Yes. Didn’t I say? I kept getting spam. ‘Do you want a wartier nose?’, ‘Is your chin pointy enough?’ that sort of thing. I’m now Hazel @ Daemon dot net.”
First Witch: “Right. So, when shall we three meet again?
Second Witch: (consulting almanac ) Erm… Full moon: 8th of next month.”
Third Witch: “That’s a Saturday. A Saturday in November.”
First Witch: “What time at?”
Second Witch: “Can we make it earlier? I’ve got 3 curses to lay Saturday night.”
Third Witch: “Ok. How about: 5 O’clock. Approaching the time of twilight?”
First Witch: “Venue?”
All: (with glee) “Egdon Heath. Haaahahahaaaaaaaa.
First Witch: I shall now ask our secretary to read the minutes of the last meeting. Or shall we take them as read? Yes? Good. Nem con. Matters arising?
Second Witch: Did you price up a new cauldron?
First Witch: “Yes. And they’re ridiculous. I doubt if we’ve got enough funds to buy a one-gallon cauldron, let alone replace this one. I think we should stick with this. All in favour? Good. Agenda items. Oops. Sorry, Correspondence.”
Second Witch: “Well, apart from the V.A.T man, who wants to know if we want a maintenance contract for this cauldron, there is an invitation to an 18th birthday slash Hallowe’en ball.
First Witch: “Ah. The Beautiful Princess. Soon to be Dead Beautiful.”
Third Witch: (wincing) “Erm… Soon to be Sleeping Beauty I’m afraid.”
First Witch: “SLEEPING?”
Second Witch: “Well…Yeah. Sleeping. Glinda. An hundred years.”
First Witch: “SLEEPING? GLINDA? AN HUNDRED YEARS? Who says An hundred? Nobody says An hundred. It’s got a consonant. It’s A hundred. Stupid cow. Come on.”
Exeunt on brooms
Enter Glinda the Good Witch. (Ptui)
Glinda: “Haaahaha—Oh fuck it.”
THE HIGHEST TOWER IN THE CASTLE. (Readers intimidated by poorly written scenes of sexual depravity may wish to skip this next)
The clock ticked. 11.45
The princess sat at the bedroom table combing her exquisitely coifed hair in the mirror, admiring her great beauty in the reflection thereof. In just a few minutes she would dress herself in the finest Elizabethan brocade with attendant ruffs and frills as befit her status to enjoy this Hallowe’en night and her Birthday Bash in one. Wondering idly, what the ‘special present’, her father the king had promised her, was she stood and moved towards the full-length mirror, little knowing that he sat in the next room watching through the two way glass.
“Oh my, how she has grown.” Thought Studly “My beautiful Princess, my beautiful, pristine, virginal Princess. Nice tits as well.”
11.55
The Princess, turning this way, and that, gazed, enraptured of her own lissom, lithe, languid body. Those full, only very slightly drooping breasts, crowned with puffy areolae and the darkest, hardest, most succulent nubs, standing regally proud a good half inch. Her eyes drew downwards to the trimmest waist imaginable, eat though she did, whatever she craved, Bigmacs, Indians, Kentucky, anything, her middle remained gloriously thin. Still turning as she may, the Princess caught sight of her very own full, rounded and immensely squeezeable derriere, accompanied as ever, by thighs, knees and calves of exquisite proportion.
Right Regal, feminine fingers soon found their way to that virginal, wispy haired haven. Pressing through those downy lips, a single finger, to the first knuckle. A nipple pulled taught with delicious pain/pleasure and released, so that hand could cup the breast and bring that same puffy zone to royal lips and tongue. Perfect, white teeth pinched and nibbled, sending waves of delight through breast and belly to zing through loins to whet appetites and wet lips.
11.59
Behind the mirror sat Studly, bereft of clothing and Royal staff in hand, he watched his own daughter quickly and efficiently bring herself to the edge of delirium, with well practised fingers dancing across her engorged clit and a single digit penetrating her sex, stabbing shallowly but steadily as her climax drew close.
“Wanking, “ mused the King “can’t be as good as proper fucking or she would be sleeping for a thousand years by now.” Then he saw, with great joy, the bedside radio/alarm said:
12.00.
Now for her Daddy’s present.
He kiked down the dor and camed in her fase. And she liked it. She liked it off her lips and where her tongue could reach she liked it off her tits. Immediately she was his cum-slut. “Oh Daddy,” exclaimed the Princess “I’ve waited so long. Fuck my cunt. Now fuck my ass. Fuck my mouth. Fuck me in every hole.”
And so he did. And when she was ready to cum she cried “Cum with me Daddy, I want to feel your incestuous seed fill my belly. Oh yes. Hhnnn. Ooohhh. Fuck me. I’m cuuuuummmmiiiinnnnggg” Then as his daughter’s orgasm exploded within her, sending shivers down her spine, the King, her father, cummed too, Spurting thick ropes of man-juice into her virgin hole with such ferocity that the Princess was slammed into the bed-head and knocked unconscious.
A blaze of light, a crash of thunder and billowing smoke suddenly filled the room.”Oh this is nice.” Said the First Witch. “Very nice. Shagging your own daughter. Very Kingly.”
“Fuck off.” Said Studly. “18 years you made me wait for this. 18 fucking years. Queen B. didn’t go short did she? No. She’s bi. She was fucking the Ladies-in-waiting.” The Witches snickered knowingly. “But I haven’t even had one off the wrist in all that time. And now I’ve been rewarded, I’ve fucked the most beautiful woman in the world ever. And I fucked her first. And she liked it. And your spells are shite.”
“Are they indeed?” Enquired the first Witch. “Let me see… first: “You shall rue the day that you have beauty and tits enough for any man with an arse that could stop a bus and a waist that can waste (and the personality and brains thing).” Yes, well I think we can take that as a given. Agreed? Right. Two: A virgin you are and a virgin you will remain until your 18th birthday, (In Litland anyway) “ Ok. You and Lauren did that bit yourselves. Now, three: “whereupon you shall crave your first cock, taste your first todger, blah blah blah, and this shall be your undoing.” Now that’s down to you again I think Kingy. You showed her, her first cock and it was yours. Ok then. Four: “For wait you must for that first orgasm which will have built to such a crescendo after all those years that it’s ecstasy will surely stop your pretty little heart.” Alright I admit the heart thing didn’t work thanks to Glinda, but think about it. I said your first orgasm. I didn’t actually say whose. As it happens I meant yours. Your first orgasm in 18 years. Yes I know, technically your second but your first inside someone else. So that’s down to you again. So really it was just self-fulfilling. You won’t be able to wake her you know. Not for A hundred years. So we come to part five: “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa. Thank fuck for cut-and-paste”
King Studly was distraught. Sobbing and crying real tears he cradled his beautiful naked daughter in his arms, giving him a boner in the process.
“But it’s turned midnight.” Wailed Studly. “It’s Saturday now. It’s not the 31st. Look.” He pointed to the radio alarm on the bedside table, which read 12.15.
“You’d think so wouldn’t you?” Laughed the First Witch. “Except that you forgot one thing.”
The king stared at the Witch; the other two Witches stared at the king’s noble sceptre.
“You forgot that this clock is an alarm clock. It is set to bedroom time. A quarter of an hour earlier than all the other clocks. Only now is it midnight. And you have doomed your own daughter to a hundred years of sleep. Haaahahahaaaaaaa.”
King Studly rose, with his naked daughter in his arms and his full on stonker pointing the way, and carried her to the Royal Bedchamber.
“Well, that’s us then.” Said the First Witch. “Anybody seen Glinda? She’s usually here by now.”
“No. That IS unusual, even for her.” Said the Second Witch. They stood undecided, waiting for the arrival of their late colleague.
Not late as in dead. Just late. Be a bit pointless waiting for someone who’s dead wouldn’t it? Be a bit like waiting for Godot. Although, you realise, it’s the waiting that counts, not who or what they’re waiting for. Or for whom they wait.
A crash of glass and confused mayhem descended on the group, as Glinda made her late entrance. “Haaahahahaaaaaaaa”
The Witches regained their feet, gingerly picking slivers of glass from their pointy hats and black robes. “Am I too late?” Enquired Glinda.
“Not really.” Said the Second Witch. “We were just waiting for you before we set off.”
Glinda was puzzled. “Set off? Set off where?” She demanded, all the while trying to disentangle taffeta from crinoline and bits of broomstick from her tiara. The three Witches, somewhat sheepishly, explained that they'd got a gig at The Old Vic for the coming season and were involved in The Scottish Play, which really required only three crones. “That’s Ok.” Said Glinda. “I’ll be far too busy moving house for the next few weeks anyway.” She sniffed.
“Moving? Where?”
“Oz.”
“Australia?”
”No Oz. The land of Oz. There’s an opening for a Good Witch and I’ve been offered it. 35K, insurance, a house (gingerbread but that’s Ok) and the usual: 5 weeks annual leave, bank holidays, car allowance, the lot.”
“Well that’s just fine. Fine and dandy. You go. We’ll manage. GOODBYE” The three Witches flew off into the night cackling.
Glinda, with a righteous, haughty gait went to seek out the King and his daughter. After several wrong turnings and one or two wrong doors, disclosing many and varied sexual acts being as how it was, technically, the day after Hallowe’en and everyone was taking full carnal advantage of the fact, she came at last to the Royal Bedchamber, wherein the Princess lay, comatose to last for an hundred years.
Finding her comfortable and shockingly naked, making Glinda rather wet between her legs, the Good Witch (after a quick feel) sought out the Royal party.
In the Grand Hall amidst Hallowe’en trappings the guests were, to a man (and woman) engaging in somewhat desultory sex, in celebration of the end of the ‘No Nobs’ proclamation as it had come to be known. But the fate of the Princess had thrown a shadow over what was to be an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable night. Upon this sight Glinda became dismayed, not over the sex, she didn’t get to see that much sex being a story book witch. Now if she could join a Modern Coven. They had sex all the time. Dancing naked in the woods. Making love philtres. Shag, shag, shag, shag, shag. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Turning her gaze once more to the assembled throng Glinda couldn’t help but feel sad for all these hapless nymphos and satyrs. So she cast another spell. That all in this castle should sleep for an hundred years, to waken only when the Princess was woken by a different kind of prick as per her previous spell. Before she took her leave, she decided to take full and unfettered advantage of all the hard ons that she could espy, along with some nice wet minges to taste. After three weeks she left for Oz.
The Castle, with its slumbering incumbents fell into Disrepair: Property developers. (House clearances sought.) After many more years when the housing market fell through and All and Sundry (Debt collecting agency) ensured everyone was in a negative equity situation, the castle naturally went to Rack and Ruin: Slumlords to the shiftless, homeless and topless. Est.837.
HERMIONE
Through her own skill and artistry, along with her business sense and eye for the market, Hermione (late of the Palace kitchens), had built not only a grand reputation and comfortable livelihood but had also managed to persuade the surrounding Realms, with her charm, willing lips and interesting assortment of instruments of pleasure, to have her small parcel of land declared an independent country. As sole owner Hermione became Queen.
Even though wholly les. Hermione none-the-less managed to bear a girl child to whom her country would eventually come to pass. Hermione Junior (Princess Hermione) also bore a child of female birth. Princess Hermione III. This charming and challenging child held a deep secret, known only to a chosen few. To all outward appearances Hermione III grew to be a beautiful, capable woman who, following the time honoured tradition of the Royal Hermiones, was Lesbian in taste.
Feeling greatly bored and somewhat stifled in her Regal role as second in line, Hermione III decided it would take forever before her grandmother died, leaving the country to her mother who would then take another forever before finally passing on the Crown.
And so it came to pass that the rather minuscule subplot found its way to the main story bringing Hermione III to the sleeping castle.
After many days and nights of travel and some wonderfully uplifting and hedonistic adventures, too complex and long to relate in a fairy tale, Hermione III came to the village outside the sleeping castle. Here she discovered the tale of The Sleeping Beauty, who could only be woken after an hundred years with a different kind of prick. “Ah ha.” Thought Hermione and was more than ready to reveal her deep held secret to the reading public.
After much preparation and reparation to the Innkeeper and various outfitters Hermione began her quest in Earnest, which was the name of the village outside the sleeping castle. With courage and great fortitude Hermione made good her entrance to the sleeping castle. Finding its inhabitants still slumbering and even after an hundred years still stiff of prick and wet of twat she spent the first 3 weeks in the great hall before going on to search for the Princess.
The Royal Bedchamber readily gave up its secret and Hermione there discovered the most Beautiful Sleeping female of all. Sleeping Beauty. Try as she might, Hermione could not awaken the Princess. Though she tried needles, pins, pointy daggers and sharpened sticks to give the slumber filled creature a different kind of prick, still she dozed on.
In sheer frustration Hermione began to try arousing the Princess with kisses and protestations of love, declaring her heart and soul be forfeit to her majestic beauty if only she would awaken. Hermione soon realised that she had indeed fallen in love. Whereon she threw herself on top of her erstwhile bedmate and smothered her face with kisses. She ran her tongue down the length of her body, from chin to pubis. She kneaded her perfect breasts; she slavered over her trim waist, sucked on those remarkable nipples and lovingly fingered her fringed minge.
Naturally, Hermione’s attempts to rouse her Princess began to arouse Hermione herself and lust began to have its effect. Her nipples hardened to bullets, her body was lathered with sweat, her aching cunt was awash with juices and her cock stiffened to strain her codpiece. Yes. Hermione’s deep held secret was that she wore a codpiece years after they had become unfashionable. And she was hermaphrodite too.
Though she had the frail body of a woman (with a very nice pair of gazongas) she had the cock of a man. Being truly hermaphrodite she had a cunt as well and enjoyed fucking as much as she enjoyed being fucked. In fact her favourite thing was that if the occasional suitor begged for bum love she insisted that he take her cock up his arse first. She had surprisingly few refusals. But that’s a whole other story.
A triumphant thought surged through Hermione’s mind. “A different cock! I have a different cock.” And with that she fell to, and gave her future wife a right royal seeing-to. This being the Princess’s second only actual fucking it was almost impossible for her to sleep through it. Her eyelids fluttered, her hips began undulating to the copulating rhythm and soon she was cumming with abandon. “Yeeeeeeeeessssss.” Cried the Princess. “Fuck meeeeeeeee. I’m cuuuuuummmmiiiiinnnnng”. And so she did.
“I’m cumming too.” Ground out Hermione “I’m fucking your cunt, bitch. You dirty bitch whore. Fuck. Yeeeeeeeessss, I’m cuuuuummmiiinnng tooooooo.” And so she did. Then fell asleep almost immediately, to be woken half an hour later by being both sucked off and fingered by the Princess.
And they all lived happily ever after. The End