In the Forests of the Night Read online

  In the Forests of the Night

  Erotic Urban Fairy Tales

  ♦♦♦♦

  by Vanessa de Sade

  Illustrated by Vanity Chase

  This book is dedicated to Chancery Stone, Scheherazade of the longest, darkest fairy tale ever told.

  ♦♦♦♦

  Vanessa de Sade

  Vanessa de Sade is a self-confessed sensualist who likes exploring the darker sides of sexual desire. An obsessive lover of old movies, operatic theatre and authors like Angela Carter, Vanessa likes to fill her stories with lush imagery, bizarre characters, and misfits in search of love.

  She is a contributor to many anthologies, including Naked Delirium. Her solo story collections include Nude Shots and Tales from a Tangled Bush.

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  In the Forests of the Night by Vanessa de Sade

  ♦♦♦♦

  A Sweetmeats Book

  First published by Sweetmeats Press 2013

  Copyright © Vanessa de Sade 2013

  Illustrations © Vanity Chase 2013

  The right of Vanessa de Sade to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-1-909181-37-3

  Typeset by Sweetmeats Press

  Sweetmeats Press

  27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.

  www.sweetmeatspress.com

  Contents

  Rapunzel

  Cinderella Story

  In the Forests of the Night

  Handsome and Gertrude

  Beauty and Her Beast

  Bluebeard’s Tower

  Thumbelina

  Rapunzel

  ♦♦♦♦

  Story One

  Chapter One

  ♦♦♦♦

  Once upon a time there lived a gentle boy called Edward Edwards who was determined to make his way in the world. He had no money but he possessed a knack for repairing mechanical things, and people, learning of his gift, would bring him broken clocks and toasters, marvelling at how he could make them good as new again. Encouraged by their praise, he started a small business that flourished, graduating eventually from his mother’s shed to a tiny workshop and, ultimately, his own factory. However, the work was hard and left him little time for a social life, but when, at the age of thirty-nine, he bought himself a large house, he had a fancy to fill its echoing halls with children, so he took to himself a beautiful but cold woman who bore him two fine sons.

  But Edward Edwards, who could put his ear to a broken watch and learn its whole mechanism like a heartbeat, knew nothing of the ways of women, and his cold wife, once she had his offspring, placed locks upon their bedroom door and wantonly spent his money while giving him no warmth or comfort when he returned late and craving from his days at the works.

  Furthermore, the cold woman loathed him for his stoic acceptance of her carnal refusals, and felt only contempt for this gentle man who had not broken her like a colt, resolving to hurt him whenever she could; and, when she saw that their twin boys brought him happiness, she divorced him and took them from him, claiming neglect and violence, showing, in court, the bruises that she paid a man from the internet to inflict on her once a week as she struggled ineffectually against her self-imposed bonds.

  And, of course, no-one questioned her story and a paper-thin old judge, elated to experience his first erection in fifteen years, slipped her photographs into a brown manila folder to examine in his chambers, and handed her everything - children, factory, house, car - admonishing Edwards as a villain and leaving him penniless.

  Which is where our story begins….

  ♦♦♦♦

  A broken man, Edward Edwards did not return to work. With no alternative but to class him as homeless, the local council allocated him a small flat in a moribund tower block and he signed fortnightly at the dole office, living frugally and seeing no-one. He did no repairs, made no more mechanical creations, and, in short, rejected everything that had previously given him joy and looked set to fade ignobly into an early grave.

  Then, one day, while out walking, he discovered the city allotments, a living tapestry of miniature urban farms emblazoned like a defiant green flag behind the decay and neglect of the concrete-grey of the run-down housing estate where he lived. Here, cheek by jowl with squalor, green cabbages blossomed like fat bullfrogs sunning themselves near algal ponds, shy cauliflowers congregated like crinoline ladies at a ball, and fat red tomatoes blossomed unashamedly scarlet in their voluptuous fruitfulness.

  And Edward Edwards found new succour in the ruins of his former life.

  He applied to the council for a plot and patiently filled in all their forms, waited for months without rancour while summer faded into winter and the town hall clerks lost the precious pieces of paper and made him recreate them, squirreled his money away each week while he pored over catalogues of garden tools, and, finally, on steely day in February, stood against the softly undulating sky, oblivious to the bite of the wind, and sliced the blade of his spade into the frost-bound earth and began to turn over the frigid soil, his heart pumping and all his senses heady with the scents of mud and loam, over-brimming with the excitement at the prospect of taking what was barren and making it bring forth fruit.

  ♦♦♦♦

  His fellow allotmenteers were, in the main, men of few words, and the girl was no exception. She laboured tirelessly at the plot next to Edward’s, daily dragging a huge plastic drum of water from the standpipe to irrigate her haphazard crop, potatoes mostly, but with some carrots and beetroots and a defiant cluster of mint and parsley. Sometimes a few ragged children, small dead-eyed creatures with sullen expressions, helped her to draw water and dig, but mostly she worked alone, lost in her thoughts, her face as blank as the one faded dress she always wore.

  He had nodded to her once or twice, even tried an ambitious hello, but she had ignored him and, being a man who valued his own privacy, he had left her to it, delighting, instead, in his own love affair with the earth. For he had tilled the soil and planted his seed in the chill of early spring, and had been joyous at the earliest green shoots, shy and virginal, that struggled out of the loam with the first tentative rays of sunshine, ecstatic as they bloomed viridian and wanton, bringing feasts of colour, reds, purples and emeralds, to what had been a waste ground a few scant months before.

  The papery judge had left him his gold wedding band and his tools, and he sold these now and bought a shed, allowing him to arrive at the plot at first light and stay till the blood-red sun sunk be
hind the stillborn dockyards, sustaining himself on sweet tea and digestive biscuits and the occasional can of soup heated on the spitting blue flame of his little gas ring.

  ♦♦♦♦

  He should have known about the coming storm, everybody else did, but Edward read no newspapers and listened to no radios, so his first inkling of the downpour was when thunder rumbled and the blazing August sky suddenly clouded and turned a sickly green and then yellow and eventually black like a ripe bruise and the rain began to fall. Edward’s crops were secure, well banked in and staked against the possibility of inclement weather, but the girl’s were not, her greenery lying thick and abundant in the loose soil, ripe for the slaughter.

  And the rain, when it came, was like a biblical torrent, great sheets of water thundering down from the heavens and washing away everything that stood in its path. Edward had not even known that she was there until he saw her from inside his shed, the rain water slewing down the window pane like a fishmonger’s display, making her form undulate like a warped film as she ran through the wet trying to keep her crop from being uprooted and washed away by the waters of Noah.

  He hadn’t thought about what he was doing, but he found himself out in the unrelenting wet with her, the two of them working as one, staking down great sheets of black plastic that billowed like ghost ship sails in the storm as they hammered stakes into the splunging-wet soil to cover the crop which, he suddenly realised, was what would keep her family fed over the coming winter. The girl worked like a field slave, her body a sinewy machine in the pouring rain, the faded dress soaked through and clinging to her, her only care the saving of her crop, and she did not rest until they had it secure, tucked in against the elements like a favourite child in its cot.

  ♦♦♦♦

  Outside the rain was still hammering on the asphalt roof of the shed and through the tiny window the world outside looked like a greenish aquarium, eerie in the storm light and everything undulating to the pulse of the tempest. Inside, though, the little hut was still warm from the heat of the day, and Edward lit the hissing gas ring to boil a kettle and dry their clothes.

  He worked soundlessly, methodically, not speaking, and was shocked when the girl broke the silence.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, and her voice was soft and well-modulated, not the coarse accent of the tower blocks. “Is there something I can do to repay you?”

  Edward shook his head. He had everything he wanted right here. He needed no more.

  The girl shivered, her wet clothing clinging to her, her long chestnut hair, worn in a single braid, hanging sodden to her back.

  “Come closer to the stove,” Edward chided. “Dry yourself off.”

  She did, and he suddenly became aware of her scent. Cheap shampoo, wet clothing, supermarket deodorant. Nothing extraordinary, but in the confines of the little shed with its comforting smells of resin and new wood, she was heady and potent.

  The girl sighed and drew nearer, lifting her arms behind her head to undo the band that held her wet hair in it plait, and he saw that her limbs were soft and white and her armpits were covered with thick jungles of soft brown hair, slowly undulating like bracken in a spring breeze and awakening in him all the long buried desires that he thought his wife and the old paper-cut-out judge had burned out of him for ever.

  He looked at the girl, fixing her long brown hair, saw the thick down in the white of her armpits and visualised her cunt, and the girl, seeing him and seeing what he was seeing, read his mind and smiled. “So there is something,” she said quietly, and Edward Edwards nodded.

  ♦♦♦♦

  There was only one chair in the shed, a steel frame and gaudy canvas folding deckchair, and she pushed him into it and unzipped him, taking his cock out with great and meticulous care, like an antique dealer carefully unwrapping the tissue paper from an intricately carved ivory tusk. He was already huge, his member like an engorged monolith, the red and purple head already inflamed beyond the confines of his foreskin and poking out insistently.

  She smiled and took him gently in her hand and pulled the soft chamois leather skin first up and then down, exposing the full proud head of his uncircumcised cock and marvelling at its size and scent, noting how the gaping snake’s eye hole was already weeping clear cum, and slipping her hand below his clothing to feel his warmth and run her fingers through his thick pubic hair.

  “You thought about my cunt, didn’t you,” she said, running her fingers up and down his veiny shaft. “You visualised me naked and this is what grew up from your dirty thoughts.”

  He nodded.

  “And now there’s something you need after all, isn’t there?”

  He nodded again.

  “Then ask for it,” she whispered.

  Edward Edwards blushed scarlet but found his voice nevertheless. “Show me,” was all he said.

  ♦♦♦♦

  She stood, almost naked, in blue and grey chiaroscuro light of the storm and the hissing gas flame. She had taken off her dress and her panties and stood before him, her eyes fixed on his huge cock, her big breasts rising and falling with suppressed excitement under the confines of her heavy white under-wired bra. She was a big girl, not fat but heavy limbed, about twenty-seven or eight, with milk-white skin and dark chestnut hair. And her cunt was, well, huge. The mound was fat and pronounced, like a cod piece, and even through the dense bush he could see her slit, deep and open like a mouth, but it was her thick fragrant body fur that fascinated him the most.

  He had not known many women, and his cold wife had shaved and waxed her tiny bush away, her tight little pussy pink and glossy like a healed wound, but once, as a boy, he had found an old magazine from the seventies, garishly coloured but full of obscenely hairy cunts and, from that moment, he had yearned for the touch and look of female body hair, its scents and patterns, and, most of all, its silky wiry feel.

  And today, in this Biblical storm, the most beautiful bush ever created stood trembling before him, and he could see the desire in her, smell her excitement. Her profuse pussy hair sprawled in an unruly vee, and a thick tendril crept up her stomach to her belly button, while still more spilled down onto her thighs.

  “What’s your most secret desire?” she asked suddenly, her eyes still riveted to his cock.

  “To kiss a cunt as big and as hairy as yours,” he replied without embarrassment, the towering monolith of his exposed erection pretty much revealing his inner thoughts anyway. “What’s yours?”

  “To see the engorged cock of a quiet man before me and be able to command him.”

  “Then tell me what you want me to do.”

  Her cunt was so wet that she was sure that he could see, but she managed to get the words out regardless. “Touch yourself for me…”

  She thought he might protest but he was too in her thrall and he gently took the head of his cock between two fingers and started to masturbate. “Like this?”

  She nodded. “As slowly as you can.”

  He drew his foreskin up and then down, exposing the whole head for her, then covering it, then exposing it again. She could smell his arousal, mixed with her own, and she wanted to sit on him and take him right up her, rip his clothes off and rub her face in his body hair, suck all the salty cum off that glistening red head, but she stood her ground, watching him, not wanting it to ever end but desperate to see him cum.

  He was moving faster now, his fingers gripping his engorged prick like a vise, pulling the foreskin down as far as it would go, letting her see everything, but, though the wide open hole was streaming clear liquid, he had not quite reached the tipping point, was not quite ready to fall over the precipice into blackness and shoot forth his thick salty jism like a long dormant geyser.

  “I want you to cum for me,” she whispered. “I want to see it. What can I do to push you over the edge?”

  He took his eyes momentarily off her pussy and
looked at her beautiful face and his voice was thick with desire and craving when he spoke. “Lift your arms…”

  She smiled and obliged, raising her heavy white arms up behind her head as she had done earlier and let him see the thick parsley beds of hair, like moor-land heather rising and falling softly in the breeze and he was lost and he came like a volcano, erupting semen like he hadn’t done since he was a teenager, like he didn’t know he still could, the scalding liquid flying everywhere, on his clothes, on her, and on the bare wooden floorboards of the storm-bound little shed.

  ♦♦♦♦

  “Can you go again?” Her voice was husky, urgent, demanding, and he nodded. He didn’t know if he could or not, but his cock was still rock hard and showed no sign of relenting, so he reckoned he was safe to agree.

  She kissed him on the forehead, quick and perfunctorily, and then turned away, treating him to a grandstand view of her of her round white Rubenesque ass, before she eased herself gently onto him, sliding his big aching cock up easily into her wetness.

  “You know how Cinderella has to be home by midnight or the coach becomes a pumpkin?” she whispered, working herself up and down on him. “Well, I have rules too if you want this magic to go on…”

  He nodded, her pussy feeling like it was hot latex mould cast to fit every last millimetre of his swollen cock.

  “No names, no kisses on the mouth, you never know who I am or where I came from, and most of all, you never fall in love with me. Is that clear?”

  He nodded again and managed something akin to an affirmative as she rode him like a cowgirl.