Snow White

It’s four in the morning like in the Leonard Cohen song; “It’s four in the morning, the end of December,” and it sure feels like December in this crappy cottage out in the middle of nowhere.

At least I’m still alive, though; there’s a thought to comfort myself to sleep with. Gee willickers, I’m safe and sound in Shrekville. Great. What a pigsty. Jumpin’ Jesus on a pogo stick, not even a decent bar around here. Just me, the birds, and the seven dwarfs.

I’m tired, pre-menstrual, over-emotional and my arms ache from scrubbing dwarf’s underwear all day and all night long. (Those gussets are the pits, more skid marks than on a Grand Prix starting grid.) What wouldn’t I give for a decent bath, a gin and tonic, Ricky Martin on MTV or even some hi-brow entertainment like Jerry Springer. Because If I hear Hi Ho Hi Ho, one more time, I’m gonna murder somebody.

I finally get off the bed, where I’ve been lying in a stupor for the last hour with the smell of Grumpy’s reeking pantaloons clinging to my skin. I strip outta this so stupid fancy dress. I take off the bonnet, red skirt, sleeveless blouse, the cape, every stupid thing. Then I peel down my panties. The night air on my naked body feels nice. Kinda sexy. The breeze blowing in through the opened window caresses me, raises delicious goose bumps on my arms, thighs, even my nipples crinkle and harden.

Sighing, I cup my breasts. They’re so small, it’s unfair. I’m eighteen and I want real breasts, not these itty bitty apples. Fondling my pink little strudels, I’m thinking how nice it would be to have a man stroking them, feeling their soft weight, making them jiggle as he sucks on succulent breast flesh. Oh boy! Such wicked thoughts- time to get my jollies. I feel a bit guilty about doing it to myself, but what’s girl all on her lonesome to do when she can’t get some shut eye? My hand wanders down to my belly to have some fun down there. There’s an itch that needs scratching, but then suddenly I’ m too pooped to do anything except sleep.

Sweet, dreamless sleep.

Ten past four. I’m back onto Leonard Cohen. ‘Give me crack and anal sex, take the only tree that’s left and stuff it up the hole in your culture.’ Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep, sleeping beauty.

Quarter past. My eyes refuse to close, my mind’s still buzzing like a big fat vibrator wedged up a Dwarf’s fundament. I don’t count sheep, I do Dwarfs. Their little legs run their stumpy, malformed bodies over the fence and into a big tub of hot lilywater. Seven smelly bossy dwarfs…

Something wakes me up. Someone or something is groping my right leg, just below the knee. It feels nice, scary and nice. It wasn’t meant to wake me, but it has.

It’s murderously quiet, just me and him, whoever he is. I try to identify my liberty taking guest by their breathing; it’s not grumpy, Sneezy, Happy ( who would have by now give himself away with his hyenaish giggling,) or Doc ( Halitosis that cuts through bank vaults.) I’m scared. Callused hands continue to stroke my calf. Whoever it is, doesn’t know I’m awake yet. I’m warning you mister, I say silently, no funny business, okay?

Oh my. The hand feels good, real good. Please don’t stop, continue. I’m asleep, honest. Who are you, though who are you so bold as to molest an innocent girl lying naked, tummy down on her lonely, eiderdown bed.

Ah yes, that’s nice.

The thought leaps into my head; Might it be Bashful? Oh Bashful, you! That little kiss I planted on your hamster-like cheek this morning didn’t mean nuthin’, it weren’t no come on. No, it can’t be you, it can’t be your hand on my skinny leg, getting more ponderous as you feel how soft, smooth and virginal I am… oh Lordy. Your hand moves to the top of my thigh, and I’m getting wet in response, so hot. My figlet must be dripping into the hollow of your perverted palm. Despite my shame, my nervous horror, my legs spread imperceptibly, wanting you there, higher, just another inch or two.

Oh Bashful, you naughty, wicked little troll…

I open my mouth to gasp, to complain, to let you know finally that I’m awake and I know what you are up to and you, nasty manling- perverted little elves aren’t supposed to go wandering into a girl’s bedroom in the dead of night and feel their thingies.

Maybe it’s not Bashful. Heavy breathing… which one of those psychotic, runty cave trolls breathes like that? Like a freight train, like a pair of mighty bellows, like the steel pipes of a church organ.

Part of me is so horrified, so ashamed, so humiliated… this is a fairy tale, I want to cry out loud. This is the sanitised, Hans Christian Anderson version, and I may not be the ugly duckling, but I’m too innocent and unsullied for this. But another part of me, the Tracy Lords in me, is begging for Shorty to spread my legs and plunge his horse cock into me, to bang my sweet, ne’er fuck’d body like a salvation army drum.

So I bite into my lip, but I’m so wet now I’m overflowing, I can smell my cunny, so can he. My head is swimming, and I don’t think I can take anymore when I feel my hot dwarf lover’s second hand on my other ass cheek.

A thought occurs, scything through my secret excitement; could it be Pinocchio? He did try to fuck me in anum with his nose that time. And he lives around here, in the next cottage around the corner. One time I sat on his cute chipboard face and he told fibs, dirty great whoppers and it started to grow, that wooden snubby nose. That walnut whorled proboscis I was sitting on.

Pinnochio, yes, only that wood wormy queer little puppet would attempt to do it this way with me. I snarl. I want to see who my lover is, but I’m afraid that if I turn around, they’ll stop, leave, and I really don’t want that to happen.

There’s a silent gasp as I feel my buttocks being slowly, but deliberately unclinched. Oh my, oh no. This is definitely wrong. Taboo. That’s one way traffic only. The cool air rushes in and my tender bud tautens against this audacity; the rude prod of a nose, a tongue, a finger, and I know whoever is touching me has seen it palpitating.

An inquisitive finger pushes in where it’s not supposed to, and I whimper at the finger’s penetration, but I’m still quiet, behaved, desperate, writhing in delicious torment. Please… Don’t… please… it penetrates further, twisting slowly into me and for the first time an invasion into my back passage actually feels fabulous, better than that time I tested myself there with a small carrot, better than when Pinocchio’s hooter sprouted and pushed its way past my defiant anal ring. There’s some discomfort, but the lubricant, my own vadge gloop, is helping to ease the pain as it works in deeper. It feels nice, friendly and intimate.

Oh God.

I want it to go on. Upward you intrepid explorer, go further than you’ve boldly gone before. Higher and hither. More. I want more, damn you. More. My hips shift and back up, humps the finger to encourage it higher. Whoever it is reads my body language like a book, like an encyclopaedia of perversion, like the karma sutra, and starts to really bend my spine.

Pinocchio, weird wooden pinny! Oh .. oh… no… oh yes…


A cool breeze still covers my nakedness, embroiders for me a cloak of delectable dreams until, waking from my reverie, a hand clasps my tummy, pulls me up so that I’m kneeling, waiting to be serviced doggy style. Some more jostling me into position, no pretence at all now that I’m asleep and non compliant. All of a sudden my hair is unbraided. I have beautiful hair, shiny and as black as a raven’s wing. It tumbles about my shoulders in a dark cloak.

Then, for the first time I hear him. He grunts. He starts to get rough. Hey! I want to exclaim, ‘I’m a maiden, a woman-child, virgin flesh and blood. Be more careful, mister.’ The crack in my butt is spread apart and the pig on my back hawks phlegm and a heavy globule splatters onto my skin and trickles down into the dimple of my anus.

The hand bracing me moves up to cup one of my tiny tits. I can’t see a thing, though. My head is buried in the pillows, my mop of crow feather hair spilling over my eyes. No, this can’t be happening.

But then again, I’m so hot now…

Fuck me in the ass, goddamnit. Fuck me, you whorefucker!

And it’s like he’s inside my head as well as my ass, reading my thoughts. His hard cock, slick, wholesome and huge, more real than dwarf cock or puppet pip, begins to penetrate my tight anal ring. But this time, the breach is not like when I squatted over Pinny’s acorn snout, this feels good, natural and dirtily clean, and I am prepared, my body quivers, fighting to ward off climaxing too soon.

The cockhead is caught in the grip of my anal ring and his arms hold me still in a grip of iron. Pierced by sudden pain, I contract and clench, but he refuses to quit and I can almost feel the flexing of his thighs as he struggles to socket me deeper. I begin to moan, softly then shrilly that I want him forever up there. The pain is nothing to the pleasure this cock is giving me, a mini-gasm tornadoes up out of nowhere. I buck, straining not to scream and straining to expel my intruder. Then he’s in all the way. Up to the hilt, ensconced, entrapped.

I start to wail, my cries getting louder and louder, but the man, be it puppet, dwarf or some crazed incubus conjured up from my wildest blood dripping nightmares, doesn’t care and doesn’t slow. He begins to seriously do me, grunting as he slams in and out of my tight, girlsome derriere.

“Oh…ah…oh”, I can’t stop myself. Monkey chatter. Panic poetry. Pleasure babble. I don’t think I can take this any more, the pain intensifies, but oh my, sweet Lord on fire, so does the pleasure. I tighten up again inside and I feel like it’s so big he must be up my entrails, up as far as my tits. If he fucks me much harder, that thing’s gonna come jumping up out of my throat. I continue to shunt back. The man battling into my behind thinks I’m trying to fart him out and he pushes, pushes, pushes back into me mercilessly, refusing to leave this sacred grotto where he’s making himself so at home and comfortable.

A massive, frightening orgasm is welling up, a second cumming as wide as the abyss I’ve toppled into as my head is pulled back, my black hair coiled and wrapped around his knuckles as he reigns me in like he’s breaking in a filly. And I can’t scream, can’t even breathe I’m orgasming so hard. I see lights, I see demons, I see the fiction and the friction of my short unfortunate life flash past, and then I mercifully pass out.

“Snow white? Can you hear me?”

Eyelids twitch and flutter as I regain my sanity and struggle to interpret a voice I should know well; a kindly sinister posh accent cradled inside a bed of cruelty. A pale, naked form leans over me, I read a gloating concern in the washed-out denim of her eyes.


“Snow-white, dahling. I had no idea you had lesbian inclinations, you naughty little girl…”

Queen bitch stares down at me. She’s propped up on her pointy elbows, her face all puckered, dripping sweat and cheesy charm. Her breasts sweep across my closed lips. Nipples hard as black bullets seek a way in past my lips. I look down the length of our bodies and see there between us a black rubber truncheon smeared with my own mess- shit, blood and cum; an obscene ebony-dark animal horn curving out from the pale angles of her pelvis in a tangle of straps and harnesses from between her long, toned thighs.

Oh Jesus.

She holds an rosy red apple in her other hand.

“Want a bite, lover?” I hear her say and her tongue stills the ringing in my ear.

And I think to myself, through my tears and pain and pleasure; oh Lord, whatever next?

The apple tastes good, though. Juicy and sweet. A song comes to mind: ” And now the wheels of heaven stop, you feel the devil’s riding crop, get ready for the future: it is murder.”

It’s by Leonard Cohen, of course.

© 2002 G.E. Russell. All rights reserved. Reproduction in any form prohibited without written permission of the author.

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