Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales (2 page)

I hang slack against my restraints, and suddenly they're retracting. Blood rushes back into my hands and feet. Orange rises and pads off into the trees, never having spoken a word.

“Thank you, Master,” I breathe, before he has to remind me.

He acknowledges with a nod. Reaching for my arms, he drags me to my knees.

I hover naked before him, awaiting his pleasure. I'm learning the Garden Rules.

He steps forward, and I could touch his still-hard cock with the tip of my tongue. But I don't dare.

He holds out his hand, and what I at first take for a great butterfly—actually a winged lizard—appears and drops something into his hand before flying away. Master untangles the glittering items and bends a leather collar around my neck, buckling it snug against me. He grasps the end of a gold chain, which has its other end fixed through a ring at the base of my throat.

“Your trial begins, Nymphet,” he says, turning and tugging at the chain.

Post-coital now, saliva and my own juices dripping down my thighs, I begin to be afraid. What is happening to me? What is this new drug? Too late, I remember a story on NPR about the cookers experimenting with nanotechnology. Have I just been fucked by a billion tiny robots?

Dorothy
.

“Are you thinking about what you've left behind, Nymphet? Are you ashamed of what you've become?”

Master keeps walking. I don't reply right away and he gives the chain a tug, causing me to stumble.

“What
have
I become, Master?”

“Did Eve not tell you?”

“She said my experience was up to me,” I reply, my voice strengthening in protest of the whole situation. “That I can make you disappear with a word.”

Master turns abruptly. His hand clamps on my shoulder and he forces me to my knees. “What did you say to me?”

His face is inches from mine. My mouth goes dry. “I…I'm sorry.”

I squeal as he grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back and immobilizing me. Even the tiniest motion makes my eyes water. He reaches out with his other hand, and this time the delivery is made by what looks like a purple fairy. More chains—a set of smaller, intersecting ones with some kind of device on the two ends.

Master releases my hair. While I'm watching him, the little winged, naked man—bearing an oversized phallus—flies suddenly into my face and I give a yelp. He dips lower until he's hovering near one breast, and I flinch as he latches on with his mouth. I gasp as a rough tongue rubs over my nipple. His exaggerated organ rubs the underside of my breast.

“Now the other,” says Master, watching me with an amused curl of lip.

The fairy hops to the other side, and I can't help shivering with pleasure as his tongue moves over the other nipple, phallus stroking at my rounded flesh. As he lifts away, I notice both nipples are lightly coated with a shiny gel.

The purple man plunges suddenly between my legs, his wings tickling my thighs. Pleasure pricks my skin as, without preamble, the rough tongue wiggles against my clit. I feel the creature's cartoonish cock probing at my opening, and as the possibilities of the situation paint lurid images across my consciousness, my hips sink toward him.

“Enough,” orders Master, batting between my legs.

The fairy gives an offended squeal and wings away.

I'm panting and frustrated as Master attaches the end of this second chain to my leash. Then he takes one of the other ends and—before I figure out what he's doing—clamps it over my nipple. I squeal and jerk as he applies the second clamp. The two exquisite starbursts of pain bring tears to my eyes as well as the folds between my legs.

Master backs away a few feet, holding the chain aloft. “Any more rule breaking, and—” He gives the leash a snap and my breasts jerk upward.

“Ah!” My hand presses involuntarily between my legs.

“You do not speak without my permission,” says Master, giving the chain another jerk. “You do not solicit attention from others without my permission. You do not touch yourself or come without my permission. Do you understand, Nymphet?”

“Yes, Master,” I breathe.

“Come along,” he calls curtly, walking on.

I stumble after him, and despite his roughness—his near cruelty—my eyes move over the lines of him, increasing my hunger. His shoulders are broad, his arms and buttocks roundly muscled. I imagine him covering me with his body, hovering above my softer flesh while he penetrates me. I wonder if it's possible for him to fuck me in that position. I want to see his face while he's inside me—the fire in those warm brown eyes. I want to see him hunger for me.

But at the moment he only seems interested in seeing
me
hunger.

Whose fantasy is this, anyway?

I wonder how honest Eve was with me. Was it a sales pitch, and this merely a preprogrammed trip? Or is the fantasy playing out this way because the sweetmeat has released locks in my brain? Locks that keep me safe and steady. Locks that ensure I'm no different from anyone else.

This leads me to wonder, not for the first time, if sweetmeat adventures lead to kinky sexual experiences for just me, or for everyone. Will the beta group interviewers at The Garden expect details? Will they know if I lie?

If fuckbots are involved, they'll know.

Why do I care?

Because maybe not everybody has fantasies of being fucked by purple fairies.

I remember what the abnormal psych professor I work for once said to one of her undergraduate classes. “The mind is a ground for experimentation. Our thoughts do not define us. And even our darkest, most bizarre thoughts cannot separate us from the rest of humanity. Only giving in to impulses that lead us to be insensitive or cruel to others can create that distance.”

I've long clung to this comforting nugget, but now I'm forced to question that final sentence. Because it's painfully obvious that the cruelty in my sponsor's behavior is creating a
bond
between us.

Digesting this, I almost run into Master. He's stopped on a pathway that leads to a landscaped and well-manicured clearing, like an English garden. He turns to me and removes the complicated set of leashes—but leaves the clamps on my nipples, along with the chain connecting them.

He points to a statue at the center of the garden. “Do you know who that is?”

He strides a few steps closer and I follow, studying the hunched figure. “The Thinker, Master. It's a copy of a famous statue.”

“You mean a
casting
. But no, it's the original.”

“The one in Paris is a copy?”

“No. They are the same.”

I don't get this, but it's all in my head, so it doesn't matter. “Okay.”

Master reaches out and grips my chin, tilting my head back so I'm forced to look at him. My heart thumps, and I brace myself for an angry reaction. But he says, “Your first trial is to find out what he's thinking. Come back when you have the answer.”

He releases my chin. His hand moves to my ass, fingers brushing just underneath in a way that makes me want to break the rules and push into them, and he gives me a shove.

This is hands-down the hottest fantasy I've ever had, and the last thing I want to do is go talk to a damn statue. I'm increasingly intrigued by my sponsor, and by my body's responses to his rough treatment. What would happen if I defied him? Could I anger him into taking me? I feel a contraction in the flesh between my legs at the thought.

But my legs keep moving, and I find myself standing before the bowed head. Studying the dark-bronze, literally chiseled flesh. He's sat in this position at least a hundred years—he's probably not trying to decide on his favorite flavor of ice cream. So what's the test? Am I supposed to come up with a smart-sounding bullshit answer on my own—which, having written a thousand papers in my eight years of college, I am eminently qualified to do—or am I supposed to figure out a way to interact with him?

I circle around the pedestal, and on my second pass I drag my fingertips over the exposed ribs of his back. Down the well-muscled biceps. He's no exaggerated, romance-style figure. He's a realistically well-formed man.

Stepping closer, I run the palms of my hands over his back. “You don't even have a name, do you?” I murmur.

Without any conscious impulse, my hands knead at his shoulders, then down his arms and back, the hard bronze not giving in the slightest. Well, no wonder he's epically tense and knotted—he's cursed by an artist to spend his whole life in this hunched position.

I bend close and whisper near his ear. “I'd be thinking about revenge.”

What is that?

My hands stop in their work. Did he speak? It had been more like a whisper across my thoughts.

I bend again to his ear. “Revenge is what you do to someone who's wronged you.”

For what purpose?

My hands resume their kneading. “Satisfaction, I suppose.”

The response to this is just a sound. A grating noise. I step back, wondering, is his torso a little straighter?

I continue the massage, moving closer now, so my breasts brush at his back, metal clamps scraping at his metal torso. When he straightens again I feel it, his back pressing into me.

You haven't answered my first question.

I frown, confused, but I bend forward and press my lips to his neck.

“What do you mean?” I murmur.

The metal heats up under my hands, slick from the oil and sweat in my skin, but he doesn't reply.

I move around slowly to his front, keeping my body close, brushing my skin against his. He has straightened enough that his hands have left his chin and his arms now dangle beside him. There is room for me on his lap.

I remember the rules I've been given and glance back at Master. His lips have parted, and his cock is hard and pointing my direction. He catches my glance, and he reaches up and closes his fist over it.

A soft groan in my throat, I return my attention to the Thinker. Raising one leg I straddle his lap, sliding in close. He, too, is hard, eternally. But I'm pretty sure he has never been this erect.

I raise my hands to his face and wonder if he sees me. There's no movement there that I can see. No animation of his features. Moving close, I touch my lips to his. Feeling only cold metal, I push my tongue against him, licking and teasing. No response.

Sitting up, I remove one of the nipple clamps, letting it drop on the chain, so it dangles from the other breast. I rise on the balls of my feet, and I press my nipple against his mouth, moving in slow circles until my hips begin to buck in the air at his abdomen.

My nipple slips into his mouth. It's not soft, or wet. It's hard and rough, like the clamp. I continue the circular motion, stimulating the pebbled tip against his unmoving lips and tongue.

And then I feel the sucking.

The heat between my legs is unbearable. I'm not sure whether I'm breaking the rules but I don't care. I wriggle closer and sit on his cock, crying out at the glide of his smooth hardness inside me. Bucking against him, I bend my mouth to his ear.

“What question?”

You said, “I'd be thinking.” What does it mean?

Possibly his bronze ears don't work very well, but more likely this is some kind of riddle. Master had called it a “trial” after all.

But I can no longer focus on the question. I feel the cold, hard hands on my hips, tugging and thrusting. His mouth hinges open wide, taking almost my whole breast in his mouth. One hand rises to play with the still-clamped nipple of the other breast.

I think about Master's cock, and his long, slow tease on the walk through the woods. I glance at him—find him grasping his cock without stroking, his eyes locked on me.

With a slow smile I throw my arms around the Thinker's neck, mashing my breasts against his face, and shove my hips forward, forcing the climax through my body.

I give a shout of release, riding him hard until his body begins to slow.

He's bending already, I realize, resuming his former posture. With a yelp I slip off his lap before his elbow descends to his knee.

I turn to Master. His stare is hard as his cock, but his hands now hang stiffly at his sides.

“Come,” he orders.

I can't help smiling at the innuendo.

“On your knees,” he says as I move to stand before him.

I kneel. As a show of obedience—and because I miss the sensation—I lift the nipple clamp and reaffix it. Then I bow my head.

“What is he thinking about, Nymphet?”

“The nature of thought, Master.”

Ten beats of silence pass before he replies, “A satisfactory answer. You have passed your first trial.”

I raise my head, but before I can speak he's grabbed hold of my hair. “In the process, I'm afraid you've broken the rules, and that cannot go unpunished.”

My mouth opens to protest, but he yanks me forward and fills it with his cock. Both hands twine in my hair now, and he rides my mouth hard, the head of his cock bumping into my throat. I'm choking before I remember to breathe through my nose, but he never lets up.

I gaze up at him, the word in my mouth. But I don't use it. I couldn't if I wanted to, with my speaking parts wrapped around
him
. And I've half begun to believe that it wouldn't work anyway.

Suddenly he releases me and withdraws, so quickly I pitch forward onto the ground. His hoof comes down on my back, and I listen to both of us panting. Then I feel his hands on me, grabbing my wrists, and the pinch of a chain as he further binds me.

“What have I done to displease you, Master?” My voice comes out a frightened sob, but every nerve in my body is alive with want.

He leans close, muttering in my ear, “I didn't give you permission to come.”

“I'm sorry, Master. Let me…” My breath works me so hard it's difficult to speak. “Let me please you. Let me suck you.”