Fractured Fairy Tales (29 page)

“Where will we live, Larrick?”

“At my house.” He chuckled softly. “It’s not much, but I can make it better for you. I can even expand it if you want me to.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t want you to go back to the village. You don’t belong there. You belong with me.”

He was right. I didn’t belong in the village. “I just need to go back and get a few things.” I slowly shifted off of him, my eyes drifting over his marvelous body as I grabbed my shirt and cape and put them on.

Larrick smiled. “I’ll go get dressed and tidy up my house some.” He placed his hand on the side of my face. “What do you say we meet outside the village in about an hour? Will that give you enough time to get what you need?”

“More than enough.” I leaned forward, placing my lips on his. “I’ll see you then.” With those words, I jumped up from the forest floor and raced away from Larrick and toward the village. I had to hurry, because I wanted to get back to him as fast as I could.





When I entered the village, I was unable to hide the smile on my face. As the women began to surround me, I completely ignored them, making my way to the inn.

I was almost there when one of the women shouted, “The whore bears the mark of the beast!”

I spun around, having no idea what she was talking about. Everyone turned their attention to me, their eyes focusing on my neck.

My hood. In all my excitement, I totally forgot Larrick had bit me earlier. I struggled to pull up my hood, but it was too late. They had all seen me.

Two of the townsmen seemed to appear out of nowhere, grabbing my arms and dragging me toward the center of town.

“No,” I screamed. “Let me go!”

Suddenly, the entire town had ended up in the same area, encircling us.

“Burn the whore,” they all chanted, pumping their fists in the air. “She’ll draw the wolf to our town! Kill her now!”

These people are nuts
, I thought as my breathing intensified. They couldn’t possibly be serious. However, as some of the people stacked piles of wood inches from me, I knew they were serious. I struggled to fight my way out of their grasps, but it was useless.

Hot tears rained from my eyes as one of the men threw a match into the pile of wood, igniting it. Fear and terror erupted inside me. “Larrick!” I screamed my lover’s name, even though I knew he was too far away to hear me.

Two more men moved toward us, carrying a pole. “Tie her to this so she doesn’t escape.”

The men holding me pushed me over to the pole. I kicked and screamed, trying frantically to escape the grasps of the crazy town, but instead, they forced me to the ground. As they placed me over the pole and looped the string over me once, a loud growl emerged from the trees.

The entire town turned toward the forest as a huge, snarling wolf jumped out, gaze directed at me.

I took a deep breath, and exhaled his name. “Larrick.”

The townspeople backed up, some of them turning and running toward the buildings—but they didn’t have a chance. Larrick was faster than anything I’d ever encountered, as if he was equipped with the super power of speed.

As he raced through the crowd, he snapped every person’s neck with the power of his massive jaws. Ten men dropped within minutes. Larrick felt no mercy for anyone in the town, including the women, which were his easiest targets.

I slipped the rope off of me and quickly stood up, wondering how well Larrick could control the beast.
Do I look like all the other townspeople to the wolf, or will he recognize me?

My question was answered as Larrick turned his head, greenish-yellow eyes peering in my direction. He trotted up and nuzzled me with his large nose, pushing me toward the forest. I turned and started for the trees, but something caught my eye.

As Larrick continued to take the town down one by one, one man stalked him, a knife in his hand. Not sure whether a blade could actually hurt Larrick, I couldn’t chance it.

I raced toward the guy, but as I closed in on him, he spun around to me.

“Devil child,” he screamed and lunged.

Larrick swung his huge tail around, knocking my attacker off balance. The guy crashed to the ground on his back, the knife slipping from his hand.

I grabbed the knife and peered into the man’s eyes. I had no mercy for him. “You say I’m the devil, but you’re the one going to hell. And you deserve everything that’s coming for you.” I lifted the knife in the air, and dropped my arms, ramming the knife into his chest.

I released the handle of the knife and sat there, staring as blood bubbled up from his mouth. Then I gazed around the town, taking in the dead bodies littered everywhere. I felt nothing for these people. Nothing at all.

A hand landed on my shoulder, causing me to spin around in defense.

“Red,” Larrick exhaled my name.

I swallowed hard as the blood dripped from the edges of his lips, and then I stood up, flinging myself into his arms. “Larrick!” I stood on my tippy toes and crushed my lips into his. I’d never been happier to see him.

Larrick broke off the kiss and looked me up and down. “We should go get you cleaned up. You’re all bloody, Red.”

Bloody Red.
For some reason, I liked the sound of that.

“Yes, Larrick. Let’s go home.” I smiled.

Larrick smiled back, his eyes swimming in happiness as he took my hand and led me into the forest, into my new life.

The King’s Wizard – Sword in the Stone

Lillian MacKenzie Rhine

*This Story is an excerpt from the full length novel, The King’s Wizard, is written in UK English, and contains adult content. Ages 18+ suggested*

Outside was beautiful. Warm and delicious. Arthur loved this time of year when things were in bloom and the world was multiplying before his eyes. The floral aromas of day. The sticky, wet nights under molasses surrounded moons. Yes, spring was definitely, hands down, the best time of year. He so longed to be outside. To walk the gardens. Maybe a dip in the luxurious pond that bordered the castle and the booming village. The village was amazing in spring. Full of life. Blacksmiths working their wares outside. Bakers switching from the sustaining fare of baked breads to succulent fruit pies and sugar-laden pastries. Even the butcher would be taking in the herd for the influx of banquets and balls that the great season brought.

Sure, the castle life was great as well. Servants and any and everything he could wish for. But living the life of a king had its own problems. Of course. Certain things were expected of him. A standard to uphold. Arthur had to admit to himself near daily that he had come into his position of power under what would deem a whim. Frankly, he was lucky. The previous ruler had yet to bear an heir thus making the kingdom vulnerable and up for grabs after his death. To alleviate any confusion and to give any man in the kingdom a chance at keeping the ruling party “in house” so to speak, the magnificent sword, and what some would say slightly magical, Excalibur, was inserted into an enchanted stone.

It was not Arthur’s plan to go up to bat. He didn’t want to take a stab at the competition. He ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Next thing he knew, his small, juvenile palms—sweaty devils that they were—had ended up around the hilt of the glorious piece of finery that he had seen in his entire life. When it was freed from the stone, Arthur fell backwards under the weight of a weapon that was almost as tall as he was. His first thought in that moment, “Oh crap, what have I done.” In his feeble attempt to place the sword back into the stone, Arthur—exasperated and scared—swallowed the lump of failure as his onlookers watched in awe. Their new king. King Arthur. A part of him shook inside when the crowd—his subjects—bowed. His stomach churned and his heart fluttered. What was he to do? Merely a teen, peasant boy, he had no formal knowledge on ruling a kingdom. How in the hell was he—Arthur—to pull off a feat that was sitting on the cusp of defeat?

Arthur sighed. That was so long ago. Many moons and suns had passed since then. He eventually was mentored. A great wizard had taken him under his wing and reared him to sit on the throne that he occupied in this very moment. His throne. His castle—Camelot. His kingdom—Britain. And what some would say—ruler of the world. But other woes had plagued him over the years. Wars with neighboring lands were not many but some had occurred. Thank goodness his army were pillars of strength. They were always at the ready to take on any force. Sure, Arthur had his non-supporters. Who wouldn’t in his position? He was not a blood heir. Many of the land had to learn him. Get used to his rule. But another issue had arisen in the past year or so that troubled him. His twenty-third year of birth was upon him and his world had shrunken. The same nightmare that he was sure that haunted his predecessor was now his daily threat. Like a cancer, it was something he could not avoid. An heir was needed and he, King Arthur, was not getting any younger as the new world was emerging before his eyes.

To think of an heir was to revel in his prominent, yet personal, issues. Yes, Arthur had tasted the forbidden flesh of the opposite sex. He had no issue partaking in the carnal sin of fornication, but once his advisor informed him of what he needed to provide to his kingdom, his world had crumbled. Lackadaisical and carefree was his life once he got the hang of things. Sign this. Appear here. Vacations on the countryside. Lavish dinners with outside dignitaries. But now—an heir was needed by Britain. The weight of the stress was enough to knock him off of his feet. To be able to
perform
in a manner of intimacy was just too much to swallow.

Many beautiful ladies of the court had been thrust upon him. One he found on his bed after he had completed a brisk horseback ride through the forest. She was completely nude. Milky thighs spread apart with an interesting smooth, wooden handle in her hand. She was the brightest of blonds. Hair like a bushel of straw. A rare maiden, unlike one he had never seen. Pale. Not in the sick sense. But in the pure sense. She was magnificent. As Arthur happened upon her, he approached his bed, halting only at the foot to watch her display. She took the small handle—about the size of a sword’s hilt—and she place it between her sweet, tenderness. She was swollen and plump like puckered rose buds with the lightest shade of pink that matched the thick morsels sitting atop her heaving bosom. As she rubbed herself, up and down, with the apparatus, she release light breaths that deepened over moments as she hastened her movements.

Arthur licked his lips. He watched her essence appear before him. Filled with desire and hunger for new flesh, the maiden was more than whetting his appetite. She began to fondle at her silky breasts that looked like billows of clouds rumbling over the plains of her chest. Her moans transformed into groans and Arthur was not going to allow himself to stand back and be a mere spectator.

Knowing that it would be a chore to unlace his boots and remove them while watching a woman as exquisite as the blond beauty perched upon his calfskin bedding, he opted to unlace his trousers instead. Once he freed himself of his cloth restraints, he began quick work on bringing himself to life. As he fisted his flesh, she watched him. Spying his determination. The maiden opened herself wider to him—her king. He so wanted to rule every orifice that she possessed, but something was wrong. With every pump of his hand against his shaft, nothing happened. The life was missing. It remained limper than a stalk in desperate need of water. There was no way he could invade her wet and ready body with his apparent deflation.

“Blasted!” Arthur shouted. Something was wrong. He was broken and in need of repair.

That was the defining day that the greatest mission of Britain’s history began. Not the mission of creating an heir, but the task of stiffening Arthur’s own Excalibur.

Many doctors, specialists, and chosen elders had been requested for a showing at Camelot. The king was desperate. He was not too worried about giving Britain what it needed to survive—an heir. Arthur was worried about not being able to lay with a woman any more. The thought of not being able to make a woman scream out. Put her into a senseless state of insanity just from his intrusion. None of that could be accomplished without an erection.

The first hypothesis was that the king was tired. They had finished a small dispute with a neighboring land. Not quite a war, but a battle or two was had. That was it. The king is exhausted the first expert stated. After resting in bed for nearly two weeks nothing happened. He had rested long enough and still could not perform.

“Next!” Arthur blurted for another specialist to be called upon.

“Herbs…medicines,” the ugliest of elder women said in a raspy voice to his advisors.

Everything in Arthur wanted to run for the hills when she entered the room. Short, stumpy, the stench of a thousand motes. Plainly, Arthur did not want any parts of what she was offering. Then he looked down to his crotch and saw no movement. God, he had been blessed with a tool that even soft took two hefty hands to grip and now, it was dead. Arthur looked up to the woman who was wiping a stream of drool from her mouth. She had more gum than teeth. Foul. He motioned for her to bring her potion to the throne. After downing the putrid concoction, Arthur fell into a deep state of hysterics. He was placed in his room as he was not able to care for himself. Hours of sweats and hallucinations occurred immediately. Then the test. Three of the most taut, wet, and rounded in the right places ladies entered the royal chamber without a stitch of clothing on their desirable bodies. Even though Arthur could not make out specifics, he knew that all three were assaulting him in the most debaucherous manner. Two were making fast work on his problem area. He heard their moans and felt the grips to his flesh. The third was on a separate mission. She hovered over his face, touching of her folds. Droplets of her sweet nectar danced across Arthur’s lips as he luxuriated in the carnal event.

Within an hour, the strong potion had run its course. Arthur exhausted from the effects and raw from the rubbing and friction looked to his reddened flesh to see that his shaft still slept.

“Next!”

Once a few more trials ended in error, Arthur found himself in his current state. Wishing that he could be outside. Amongst the booming life that spring brought, but that was not to happen. He was confined to his throne. The throne room would normally be teeming with people. Advisors all the way down to the jester, but at the moment, it was just him and
her
. Arthur didn’t know her name—he never did know any of the maidens’ names. Honestly, he did not even know what she looked like. Was she beautiful? Tall? Short? All those things over time had become inconsequential. He was willing to near defile a wart-faced, three-legged witch if it meant he could harden.

This particular lady, wench, maiden…whatever she was…was positioned in his lap. Specifically, her head was in his lap. Her mouth, wet and vibrant with movement was in his lap—on his shaft. She had been there for almost an hour. It used to be a time when Arthur loved to be sucked and licked. His head tickled by a wet tongue and his balls sucked while he shot his cream into a waiting mouth, face, breast, or even hair. Hair. He loved to run his fingers on a lover’s scalp. To grip at the root. To hear a high-pitched, yet muffled yelp while he shoved more of his shaft down her throat. But, now…now, he was bored with it all.

Arthur watched her for a few moments more. Definitely a master at what she was doing. As far as he knew, his team had searched a few lands over just to bring her in, hoping to complete the mission. Her tendrils were pinned to her head in several loops and links of braids. Her robes were of a bright, colorful nature. Nothing like the drab inhabitants of Britain. No. She definitely wasn’t of their land. This woman was
exotic
. In the past, Arthur would have been chomping at the bit to bed her. Willing to take her outside of his private chambers and touch and feel her exquisite mouth and tongue anywhere at any time. That…was the past.

Her head bobbed up and down. Slackening his shaft with her endless amount of saliva. He could definitely feel her warmth. See her expertise in the act. A rarity amongst his previous conquests. This woman did not use her hands to grip at him. A plus. Less chaffing and rawness. It was also the single reason he had allowed her to continue on in her attempt to pleasure him for over the usual time when he would cut a maiden off. He was studying her. Taking mental note on her performance. A part of him believed that his problems would not last. He would eventually harden. And when he did, the first maiden he bedded, would suck his cock in a manner that this exotic, feminine creature did.

Arthur yawned. He was tired. Sick of failed attempts. “I’m done. Thank you, miss.”

Just like that, she released his limpness from her oral depths and she stood. God she was magnificent. Curvy, olive tinted skin, hair the color of night. Even Arthur gulped with intensity at her rare beauty. It was if she had a glow to her. However, there was no need to prolong her visit to Camelot. No need for her.

“You may return to your land.”

She bowed to him then she walked out of the throne room, leaving him to his own thoughts. His birthday was only a week away and he had wasted a year trying to fix his problem. No one else was on the list to aide in his plight. Arthur needed something to happen and soon. Even though spring was a happy time amongst his people, the British were not opposed to uprising and revolt. When Excalibur was implanted in the stone the first time, not many were too pleased especially when they witnessed the outcome.
A boy king.
So going that route again was not going to work. He had to bring an heir, but how? Arthur looked to the right of his throne. On a small table, there was his usual bowl of seasonal fruits, a bowl of water for cleansing, and a small saucer with a tiny bell sitting on top. Engraved onto one of the handle’s side, it read, “
ring me
.” On the opposite side, “
when needed
.”

Arthur groaned then rolled his eyes. He had made a promise to himself to never call upon
him
. He picked up the brass bell and held it in his hands. He repeated in his mind,
there’s nothing else I can do
. It was a last resort. The final straw. Arthur carefully held onto the handle not sure of exactly what was going to happen and then he gently flicked his wrist. After the first sound of the clapper hitting the metal of the bell, a thunderous gust of wind flooded the throne room. Tapestries and paintings blew from the walls, papers were thrown about. Even Arthur shifted in his seat once a dark, ominous cloud entered the room through a nearby window.

Arthur hurriedly placed the bell back on the table as to stop the action, but it was too late. The blackness filled the room. The smell of smoldering cinder scorched his nose. Hot death was approaching and Arthur did not know whether to run, call for help, or stay put. His skin prickled from the rising fright that inched up his core then he heard it. More importantly, Arthur heard
him
. It started as a hum, and then thickened into a rattle, a drumming of his throat. Each bellow of his deep rumble filled the expanse of the room until his laughter turned into a haunting cackle.

“Merlin?”
Arthur murmured not even realizing that the name had escaped his mouth.

Once his lips snapped shut, the cloud sucked from the room. The artwork…the disorder…back in
order
. Arthur sat up on his throne, eyes franticly looking about for any evidence of an invasion by the man—the wizard—who had made most of his developing years a misery. Instead, sitting on the windowsill was a bird that peered about the room. But this was not any ordinary bird, but a beautiful, majestic owl. The purest of whites with only a slight line of black that outlined its face into a heart shape. His eyes sparkled like diamonds, but his claws gripped the edge of the sill causing the wood to moan into a splinter. This was no nice bird. He was rare and deadly. Not because of the species type, but because of the owner.

“Archimedes?”

Again, Arthur did not realize that he’d uttered the name until after it was spoken.

You called?
Archimedes could not outright speak through his beak like humans with their lips, but he did more than communicate. He was downright incessant at times.
Is there an issue? The master is very busy and only to be summoned when emergent. You are not to abuse the bell.

“Eh,” was all that Arthur could muster. Nervous tension had taken hold of his tongue preventing his words.

Speak child. Arthur?

With him being the king, his subjects were to refer to him as such. But that only applied to those who fell under his jurisdiction. Archimedes was not his subject. Merlin was his master and Merlin did not reside under any jurisdiction but his own.

Archimedes flew to the throne. Twice the size of a normal owl, his eyes met Arthur’s then he traveled his gaze down Arthur’s body, presumably looking for injury. He twitched his head then hummed in acceptance as he moved his sights to the next section. Archimedes glared at Arthur’s limp, exposed flesh for a few moments.

Mhm.
With that, Archimedes jumped back off of the throne back to the window. He turned his head a near three hundred and sixty degrees to glare back at Arthur then the owl faced toward the open window and took flight. Arthur quickly tucked himself back into his trousers and ran to the window only to see the sparse clouds in the picture perfect sky. The doors flew open to the chamber and in walked one of his advisors.

“Are you alright, your highness? We feared you were in trouble.”

Arthur glared back at them. Not many in Britain or Camelot believed in the power of sorcery and witchcraft or even that their king’s transition had been a result of the power of magic. So talk of Merlin was hush, hush.

“I’m fine, Lance. I just need some rest.”

“Yes, your highness. I will have the servants prepare your chamber for your slumber.”

The two men exchanged nods, and again, Arthur was left in the same way that he started. Looking out the window at the remarkable sky. He did not know what was to come. He was not sure if his affliction was emergent enough for Merlin’s expertise. As he spied his unmoving crotch, he said, “I sure as Hades hope so.”