Five classic fairy tales reemerge as deliciously dark erotica stories with a BDSM twist. These stories describe the many diverse faces of bondage, discipline, sadism, and masochism in sexy encounters ranging from haunting to healing, and painful to playful. You’ll discover .how a witch really likes to punish naughty interlopers, why Beauty might love her beast more than the prince, how to produce handy bruises when a pea just won’t do the trick–and more. Ranging from present day to “once upon a time” settings, each story offers a fresh perspective to both legend and BDSM.
Many people know that today’s idea of fairy tales is a far cry from the darker, original versions. Like a Thorn explores this underbelly of the fairy tale through the many faces of BDSM. Far from run-of-the-mill handcuffs and dungeons, this diverse palette of tales features BDSM as a vehicle for unorthodox moods, relationships, and dilemmas. Mari Ness’ haunting “Cinder Feet” tells us just how high a price Cinderella might have had to pay for not making it home by midnight, yet how worthy that price might be. Next up is “The Princess and Peony” by Mercy Loomis, a charming romp between a princess and her part-time maid, full-time lover who plot to produce princess-ly bruises with a sexier method than sleeping on a pea. Kieran Dewhurst’s “The Last Mistress of the Chatelaine” tells of the sweeping yet down-to-earth romance between the dread Bluebeard and his seventh wife, who uses spunk and sense to help her husband face his sins head-on with a deliciously brutal punishment. “That Wicked Witchcraft” by Sunny Moraine follows, a present-day story in which a modern witch discovers two teenage thieves in her house–and comes close to eating them for dinner after she ties them up. Finally, Shanna Germain’s lyrical “Skin Deep” tells of a controversial Belle: one who didn’t go to the beast as his saving grace, but to revel with him (and often over him) in the darkness of the enchanted castle and the painful price he must pay for her affections. These imaginative retelling captures the complex psychology, emotion, and harmony between pleasure and pain present in every BDSM encounter–and every tale is titillating enough to become any grown-up’s first choice for a bedtime story.
Includes the stories:
Cinder Feet by Mari Ness
The Princess and Peony by Mercy Loomis
The Last Mistress of the Chatelaine by Kieran Wyn Dewhurst
That Wicked Witchcraft by Sunny Moraine
Skin Deep by Shanna Germain
Read an excerpt:
Excerpted from Skin Deep
by Shanna Germain
They say I am the Beauty. Capital, like that. Beauty. In a softly brushed script that makes you feel safe, that gives you images of beauty beyond your imagining. Sometimes with flourishes and fleur-de-lis and a bird tucked into the bower of the B, as though all of those things will make it true. They even named me Belle. Which, in some ancient country, stands for beauty. All those Bs, the way they roll off the tongue. B. Buh. Buh. A stupid sound, for a stupid, pretty girl.
But B can stand for so many other things, can it not? Beast. Bad. Bare. Bones. Bitch. Blood.
I am all of those things inside. Aren’t we all?
* * * *
My father brought me a rose from the creature’s castle. He picked the most gorgeous one he could find, I’m sure—my father is a kind, big-hearted man, if he is a bit blind. The flower was red as blood, and big around as my fist, each petal wide and curled as a tongue. I thanked him kindly—I am nothing if not a dutiful daughter—and then I took the flower to my room and stripped every petal from it, every silky slip of flesh, and threw them out the window.
Let my sisters have the dresses, the rings. The silk and pearls. Let them have their twittering laughter like fragile birds, as they twirl in the light.
I wanted for other things. The broken mirror. The poisoned comb. The cursed spindle.
They say I went willingly, and that part is true. It wasn’t for the rose, or even for the beast though—after all, I hadn’t met him yet. Would I have gone if I’d known what awaited me? Oh yes. Oh yes.
But I went for the stem, the thorns. Strong as a lash, sharp as claws. I bent the long stem of it over and over in my hands, closed my palms on their curved points until they pierced my flesh.
Oh, yes, I went willingly. Wantingly. Wantonly. A thorn in each hand.
* * * *
They say he is the beast. His b is big, but lowercase, as though it deserves no more. Carved from hard wood and boasting of sharp, rough edges. Here, the sound of b is ominous. Towering backwards d, like dirty, dangerous, despicable.
I hear him coming. Does he mean to eat me up?
* * * *
I want for nothing here, in this hidden castle of his.
He knows my pleasures as well as I know them myself. Better perhaps. An outfit that I didn’t know I wanted until it appeared. A bird that sings me awake each morning at the window. Gardens of thorns without a single flower. Chests of delights—boots made of the finest doe leather that curve around my calves, long strips of crimson and gold scarves, rings jeweled in stones and sharp-edged mouths—just mine for the picking through.
* * * *
My heart hammers to see him. Such a huge creature he is. Such big hands. Long claws, those fine points at the end. I wonder at his teeth, the tapered sheen of their curves. At the wide pink tongue that rests within the cage of his menacing mouth. His eyes golden-brown as ripe pears, soft and tender in contrast to that sharp mouth.
And then he kneels before me, his forehead nearly brushing my covered breasts. His head bowed so that I can see the back of his neck, the tendons and muscles that strain his shoulders and upper back. I want to drag my palms over the jumping swathes of skin, pull at his hair. But I stay standing, only his breath touching me, the low snarls of want that heat the space between my thighs.
But such good manners, that soft, fine voice.
“Good morning, Belle.” “Are you well, Belle?” “Will you marry me, Belle?”
“Good morning, beast.” “I am, beast.” “Never, beast.”
He will ask again tomorrow. He always does. He must.
Glutton for punishment, he is. Such a terrible, terrible glutton.
* * * *
They say I dream of a Prince. This, too, has a seed of truth. He is tall and handsome, with hands as soft as lily petals and lips as red as apples. He comes to me in my dreams, and he promises me many things. “Oh, Beauty!” he says. “You’re the only one who can save me!”
But it isn’t true. It’s the curse speaking, the witch’s voice behind those pretty, pretty lips.
I know I could save him. Return the beast to his pretty, pretty Prince. But I won’t. I won’t.
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