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Beauty and the Beast

By´╝ÜShoshanna Evers


Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a handsome young prince named Frederick. This is not his story alone, and this is not quite where our story begins. But without what happens here, Beauty would never have met the Beast.

So we shall begin with what occurred on that fateful night when everything changed: when a lover was betrayed, a man deformed, and a castle shrouded in an enchantment.


Frederick smiled as Nadine’s dress slipped to the floor. She covered her breasts modestly, but the teasing grin on her face told a different story.

“Am I distracting you enough yet, my Prince?” she asked.

“Drop your hands,” he said. Lately, it seemed he needed any distraction he could get.

Nadine laughed and lowered her hands, revealing the pale globes of her full breasts.

“That’s better.” He gently grasped her wrists and held them above her head, pressing them against the tall wooden column that made up the corner of her four poster bed. “But you mustn’t call me Prince.”

“I don’t care if your father disinherited you,” she whispered. “It’s a mistake. It will be fixed.”

Frederick didn’t bother arguing. With the King dead, nothing could be fixed.

He grabbed her scarf from the edge of the bed and wrapped it around her wrists, binding her in place.

“If you aren’t a Prince anymore, why couldn’t I come to the funeral with you?” Nadine asked. “Am I still your dirty secret, the peasant girl you fuck?”

Frederick responded by slapping his hand hard against her ass. The will hadn’t been read until after the King was buried, and that was over a month ago. His stepmother’s doing, no doubt.

“I think you’ve forgotten something,” he said.

Nadine laughed and tried to shrug, an impossible motion with her arms so high above her head.

“Do you really still want me, Nadine?” Frederick asked, punctuating each word with another spank. She moaned breathlessly. He ran his finger between her legs, touching her wetness, her desire. “I have nothing now.”

“You have me,” she gasped.

Frederick opened his breaches and thrust into her from behind, gripping her hips. Nadine grabbed onto the post and moaned with delight. He rammed into her, harder, until he could feel her cunny clench around his cock.

“Oh, yes, Prince Frederick,” she cried. “More.”

He gave her more, relishing every moment of it, until his climax overtook him and he pulled out, letting his seed spill onto her back, gazing upon her as it dripped down over her reddened ass.

Nadine seemed to believe he was still a Prince, that the enchantress who had married his father wasn’t really going to throw him out of the castle. But his stepmother despised him—and nothing would change.

Frederick released Nadine from her restraints, and she collapsed breathlessly into his arms.

“Do you love me, Nadine?”

She gazed up at him in a post-orgasmic haze. “How can I prove it to you?”

He kissed her lips. He considered telling her what she’d forgotten, but reconsidered with a wry smile. “Just…stop calling me Prince. And accept me for what I’ve become.”


Frederick slipped back into the silent castle. Nadine had forgotten it was his eighteenth birthday. When she remembered, he’d punish her for it (hardly a punishment when she always begged for more, but that was Nadine). Time spent with his lover over his lap would be the perfect birthday present.

He certainly wouldn’t be getting any presents at home. The grief that still filled the cavernous hall—long after his father’s funeral—threatened to close in on him, to suffocate him.

Frederick made it to his suite without arousing any of the servants, and sat on the edge of his bed. No use thinking about getting his old life back. There would be no grand feast to celebrate his birthday this year, nor any year thereafter. His stepmother had poisoned the King’s heart against him, and there was no way to undo the damage she had done.

How ironic that Frederick had been disinherited so any child the King had with his stepmother would become the next in line for the throne—and yet she’d never given his father a child. Now his father was dead, and Frederick couldn’t even properly mourn him.

Hard to mourn a man who never spoke to him, who believed in his heart that Frederick—at the tender age of four—had been the cause of his mother’s death.

Frederick picked up his journal, determined to jot down that evening’s sexual adventure. Determined to get rid of the images coursing through his mind. Images of his mother drowning to save his life.

His father was right about him. Frederick growled and shook his head, staring at the words scrawled on the page before him.