This one is by Edith Wharton of "Ethan Frome" fame. I had to read that around this time of year in high school, maybe some kid will find this while researching a paper.

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“I have been, you see,” he added gently, “so perfectly patient—”

The room was warm and softly lit by one or two pink-shaded lamps. A little fire sparkled on the hearth, and a lustrous black bearskin rug on which a few purple velvet cushions had been flung was spread out before it.

“And now, darling,” Mr. Palmato said, drawing her to the deep divan, “let me show you what only you and I have the right to show each other.” He caught her wrists as he spoke, and looking straight into her eyes, repeated in a penetrating whisper, “Only you and I.” But his touch had never been tenderer. Already she felt every fiber vibrating under it, as of old, only now with the more passionate eagerness bred of privation and of the dull misery of her marriage. She let herself sink backward among the pillows, and already Mr. Palmato was on his knees at her side, his face close to hers. Again her burning lips were parted by his tongue, and she felt it insinuate itself between her teeth and plunge into the depths of her mouth in a long, searching caress, while at the same moment his hands softly parted the thin folds of her wrapper.

One by one they gained her bosom, and she felt her two breasts pointing up to them, the nipples hard as coral, but sensitive as lips to his approaching touch. And now his warm palms were holding each breast as if in a cup, clasping it, modeling it, softly kneading it, as he whispered to her, “Like the bread of the angels.”

An instant more, and his tongue had left her fainting mouth and was twisting like a soft, pink snake about each breast in turn, passing from one to the other till his lips closed hard on the nipples, sucking them with a tender gluttony.

Then suddenly he drew back her wrapper entirely, whispered, “I want you all, so that my eyes can see all that my lips can’t cover,” and in a moment she was free, lying before him in her fresh young nakedness, and feeling that indeed his eyes were covering it with fiery kisses. But Mr. Palmato was never idle, and while this sensation flashed through her, one of his arms had slipped under her back and wound itself around her so that his hand again enclosed her left breast. At the same moment the other hand softly separated her legs and began to slip up the old path it had so often traveled in darkness. But now it was light, she was uncovered; and looking downward beyond his dark, silver-sprinkled head, she could see her own parted knees and outstretched ankles and feet. Suddenly she remembered Austin’s rough advances and shuddered.

The mounting hand paused, the dark head was instantly raised. “What is it, my own?”

“I was—remembering—last week—” she faltered, below her breath.

“Yes, darling. That experience was a cruel one—but it has to come once in all women’s lives. Now we shall reap its fruit.”

But she hardly heard him, for the old swooning sweetness was creeping over her. As his hand stole higher, she felt the secret bud of her body swelling, yearning, quivering hotly to burst into bloom. Ah, here was his subtle forefinger pressing it, forcing its tight petals softly apart, and laying on their sensitive edges a circular touch so soft and yet so fiery that already lightnings of heat shot from that palpitating center all over her surrendered body, to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her loosened hair.

The sensation was so exquisite that she could have asked to have it indefinitely prolonged; but suddenly his head bent lower, and with a deeper thrill she felt his lips pressed upon that quivering, invisible bud, and then the delicate, firm thrust of his tongue, so full and yet so infinitely subtle, pressing apart those closed petals, and forcing itself in deeper and deeper through the passage that glowed and seemed to become illuminated at its approach.

“Ah—” she gasped, pressing her hands against her sharp nipples and flinging her legs apart. Instantly, one of her hands was caught, and while Mr. Palmato—rising, bent over her, his lips on hers again—she felt his firm fingers pressing into her hand that strong, fiery muscle that they used, in their old joke, to call his third hand.

“My little girl,” he breathed, sinking down beside her, his muscular trunk bare, and the third hand quivering and thrusting upward between them, a drop of moisture pearling at its tip.

She instantly understood the reminder that his words conveyed. Letting herself downward along the divan till her head was in line with his middle, she flung herself upon the swelling member and began to caress it insinuatingly with her tongue. It was the first time she had ever seen it actually exposed to her eyes, and her heart swelled excitedly: to have her touch confirmed by sight enriched the sensation that was communicating itself through her ardent, twisting tongue. With panting breath she wound her caress deeper and deeper into the firm, thick folds, till at length the member, thrusting her lips open, held her gasping, as if at its mercy; then, in a trice, it was withdrawn, her knees were pressed apart, and she saw it before her, above her, like a crimson flash, and at last, sinking backward into new abysses of bliss, felt it descend on her, press open the secret gates, and plunge into the deepest depths of her thirsting body….

“Was it… like this… last week?” he whispered.

Really, I'm only using these because they're easy to copy and paste once I've found them. Next up is James Joyce, who wrote some fucked-up love letters. The author of Ulysses had to be messed up in the head.

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To NORA


Dublin 2 December 1909
………………………….
My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the very stink and sweat that rises from your arse, glorying in the open shape of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you while you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.


You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.


Nora, my faithful darling, my seet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! My little fucking whore!) you are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark-blue rain-drenched flower.


JIM

"Fucked up" by the standards of people who read Joyce is probably nowhere near "fucked up" by the standards of the people who read /elit/ here. You guys like some kinky shit.

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To NORA


Dublin 3 December 1909
……………………………….
……., you seem to turn me into a beast. It was you yourself, you naughty shameless girl who first led the way. It was not I who first touched you long ago down at Ringsend. It was you who slid your hand down down inside my trousers and pulled my shirt softly aside and touched my prick with your long tickling fingers and gradually took it all, fat and stiff as it was, into your hand and frigged me slowly until I came off through your fingers, all the time bending over me and gazing at me out of your quiet saintlike eyes. It was your lips too which first uttered an obscene word. I remember well that night in bed in Pola.


Tired of lying under a man one night you tore off your chemise violently and got on top of me to ride me naked. You stuck my prick into your cunt and began to ride me up and down. Perhaps the horn I had was not big enough for you for I remember that you bent down to me face and murmured tenderly "Fuck up, love! Fuck up, love!"


Nora dear, I am dying all day to ask you one or two questions. Let me, dear, for I have told you everything I ever did and so I can ask you in turn. When that person (Vincent Cosgrave) whose heart I long to stop with the click of a revolver put his hand or hands under your skirts did he only tickle you outside or did he put his finger or fingers up into you? If he did, did they go up far enough to touch that little cock at the end of your cunt? Did he touch you behind? Was he a long time tickling you and did you come? Did he ask you to touch him and did you do so? If you did not touch him did he come against you and did you feel it?


Another question, Nora. I know that I was the first man that blocked you but did any man ever frig you? Did that boy (Michael Bodkin) you were fond of ever do it? Tell me now, Nora, truth for truth, honesty for honesty. When you were with him in the dark at night did your fingers never, never unbutton his trousers and slip inside like mice? Did you ever frig him, dear, tell me truly or anyone else? Did you never, never, never feel a man's or a boy's prick in your fingers until you unbuttoned me? If you are not offended do not be afraid to tell me the truth. Darling, darling, tonight I have such a wild lust for your body that if you were here beside me and even if you told me with your lips that half the redheaded louts in the county Galway had had a fuck at you before me I would still rush at you with desire.

I am totally going to start referring to boners as "cockstands". Joyce truly was a great wordsmith.

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To NORA
Dublin 6 December 1909
………………………………..
I would like you to wear drawers with three or four frills one over the other at the knees and up the thighs and great crimson bows in them, I mean not schoolgirls' drawers with a thin shabby lace border, thigh round the legs and so thin that the flesh shows with a full loose bottom and wide legs, all frills and lace and ribbons, and heavy with perfume so that whenever you show them, whether in pulling up your clothes hastily to do something or cuddling yourself up prettily to be blocked, I can see only a swelling mass of white stuff and frills and so that when I bend down over you to open them and give you a burning lustful kiss on your naughty bare bum I can smell the perfume of your drawers as well as the warm odour of your cunt and the heavy smell of your behind.


Have I shocked you by the dirty things I wrote to you? You think perhaps that my love is a filthy thing. It is, darling, at some moments. I dream of you in filthy poses sometimes. I imagine things so very dirty that I will not write them until I see how you write yourself. The smallest things give me a great cockstand - a whorish movement of your mouth, a little brown stain on the seat of your white drawers, a sudden dirty word spluttered out by your wet lips, a sudden immodest noise made by you behind and then a bad smell slowly curling up out of your backside. At such moments I feel mad to do it in some filthy way, to feel your hot lecherous lips sucking away at me, to fuck between your two rosy-tipped bubbies, to come on your face and squirt it over your hot cheeks and eyes, to stick it between the cheeks of your rump and bugger you.


Basta per stasera!


I hope you got my telegram and understood it.


Goodbye, my darling whom I am trying to degrade and deprave. How on God's earth can you possibly love a thing like me?


O, I am anxious to get your reply, darling!


JIM

I wonder if anyone saved Nora's return letters? If anyone finds them, I would be very grateful.

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To NORA
Dublin 8 December 1909
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.


You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.


Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.


JIM

To NORA
Dublin 9 December 1909
My sweet naughty little fuckbird, Here is another note to buy pretty drawers or stockings or garters. Buy whorish drawers, love, and be sure you sprinkle the legs of them with some nice sent and also discolour them just a little behind.


You seem anxious to know how I received your letter which you say is worse than mine. How is it worse than mine, love? Yes, it is worse in one part or two. I mean the part where you say what you will do with your tongue (I don't mean sucking me off) and in that lovely word you write so big and underline, you little blackguard. It is thrilling to hear that word (and one or two others you have not written) on a girl's lips. But I wish you spoke of yourself and not of me. Write me a long long letter , full of that and other things, about yourself, darling. You know now how to give me a cockstand. Tell me the smallest things about yourself so long as they are obscene and secret and filthy. Write nothing else. Let every sentence be full of dirty immodest words and sounds. They are all lovely to hear and to see on paper even but the dirtiest are the most beautiful.


The two parts of your body which do dirty things are the loveliest to me. I prefer your arse, darling, to your bubbies because it does such a dirty thing. I love your cunt not so much because it is the part I block but because it does another dirty thing. I could lie frigging all day looking at the divine word you wrote and at the thing you said you would do with your tongue. I wish I could hear your lips spluttering those heavenly exciting filthy words, see your mouth making dirty sounds and noises, feel your body wriggling under me, hear and smell the dirty fat girlish farts going pop pop out of your pretty bare girlish bum and fuck fuck fuck fuck my naughty little hot fuckbird's cunt for ever.


I am happy now, because my little whore tells me she wants me to roger her arseways and wants me to fuck her mouth and wants to unbutton me and pull out my mickey and suck it off like a teat. More and dirtier than this she wants to do, my little naked fucker, my naughty wriggling little frigger, my sweet dirty little farter.


Goodnight, my little cuntie I am going to lie down and pull at myself until I come. Write more and dirtier, darling. Tickle your little cockey while you write to make you say worse and worse. Write the dirty words big and underline them and kiss them and hold them for a moment to your sweet hot cunt, darling, and also pull up your dress a moment and hold them under your dear little farting bum. Do more if you wish and send the letter then to me, my darling brown-arsed fuckbird.


JIM

To NORA
Dublin (?) 13 December 1909
....................................
I would be delighted to feel my flesh tingling under your hand . Do you know what I mean, Nora dear? I wish you would smack me or flog me even. Not in play, dear, in earnest and on my naked flesh. I wish you were strong, strong, dear, and had a big full proud bosom and big fat thighs. I would love to be whipped by you, Nora love! I would love to have done something to displease you, something trivial even, perhaps one of my rather dirty habits that make you laugh: and then to hear you call me into your room and then to find you sitting in an armchair with your fat thighs far apart and your face deep red with anger and a cane in your hand. To see you point to what I had done and then with a movement of rage pull me towards you and throw me face downwards across your lap. Then to feel your hands tearing down my trousers and inside clothes and turning up my shirt, to be struggling in your strong arms and in your lap, to feel you bending down (like an angry nurse whipping a child's bottom) until your big full bubbies almost touched me and to feel you flog, flog, flog me viciously on my naked quivering flesh!!

To NORA
Dublin 15 December 1909
………………………………………….
No letter! Now I am sure my girlie is offended at my filthy words. Are you offended, dear, as what I said about your drawers? That is all nonsense, darling. I know they are spotless as your hearth. I know I could lick them all over, frills, legs and bottom. Only I love in my dirty way to think that in a certain part they are soiled. It is all nonsense, too, dear, about buggering you. It is only the dirty sound of the word I like, the idea if a shy beautiful young girl like Nora pulling up her clothes behind and revealing her sweet white girlish drawers in order to excite the dirty fellow she is so fond of; and then letting him stick his dirty red lumpy pole in through the split of her drawers and up up up in the darling little hole between her plump fresh buttocks.


Darling, I came off just now in my trousers so that I am utterly played out. I cannot go to the G.P.O. though I have three letters to post.


To bed - to bed!
Goodnight, Nora mia!


JIM

If I ever get a time machine, I think I'll give Joyce Omegle and see what comes out.

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To NORA
Dublin 16 December 1909
My sweet darling girl At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don't fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling as I am so small and soft now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many new ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back an pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, with your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half sleeping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand in his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.


Basta! Basta per Dio!


I have come now and the foolery is over. Now for your questions!


…………………………………………..
Get ready. Put some warm-brown-linoleum on the kitchen and hang a pair of red common curtains on the windows at night. Get some kind of a cheap common comfortable armchair for your lazy lover. Do this above all, darling, as I shall not quit that kitchen for a whole week after I arrive, reading, lolling, smoking, and watching you get ready the meals and talking, talking, talking, talking to you. O how supremely happy I shall be! God in heaven, I shall be happy there! I figlioli, il fuoco, una buona mangiata, un caffè nero, un Brasil (cigar), il Piccolo della Sera, e Nora, Nora mia, Norina, Noretta, Noruccia ecc ecc...


Eva and Eileen must sleep together. Get some place for Georgie. I wish Nora and I had two beds for night-work. I am keeping and shall keep my promise, love. Time fly on quickly! I want to go back to my love, my life, my star, my little strange-eyed Ireland!


A hundred thousand kisses, darling!


JIM

To NORA
Dublin 20 December 1909
My sweet naughty girl I got your hot letter tonight and have been trying to picture you frigging your cunt in the closet. How do you do it? Do you stand against the wall with your hand tickling up under your clothes or do you squat down on the hole with your skirts up and your hand hard at work in through the slit of your drawers? Does it give you the horn now to shit? I wonder how you can do it. Do you come in the act of shitting or do you frig yourself off first and then shit? It must be a fearfully lecherous thing to see a girl with her clothes up frigging furiously at her cunt, to see her pretty white drawers pulled open behind and her bum sticking out and a fat brown thing stuck half-way out of her hole. You say you will shit your drawers, dear, and let me fuck you then. I would like to hear you shit them, dear, first and then fuck you. Some night when we are somewhere in the dark and talking dirty and you feel your shite ready to fall put your arms round my neck in shame and shit it down softly. The sound will madden me and when I pull up your dress


No use continuing! You can guess why!

Anne Rice seems to have written some erotic Sleeping Beauty fanfiction, but it's a trilogy of novels. I'm going to try to pick out a few good parts.

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Beauty was covering her breasts with her hands, and her long straight golden hair,
heavy and full of a great silky density, flared down to the bed around her.
She bowed her head so that the hair covered her.
But she looked at the Prince and her eyes struck him as devoid of fear or cunning. She
was like those tender animals of the wood just before he slew them in the hung: eyes
wide, expressionless.
Her bosom heaved with anxious breath. And now he laughed, drawing near, and lifting
her hair back from her right shoulder. She looked up at him steadily, her cheeks
suffused with a raw blush, and again he kissed her.
He opened her mouth with his lips, and taking her hands in his left hand he laid the
down on her naked lap so that he might lift her breasts now and better examine them.
"Innocent beauty," he whispered.
He knew what she was seeing as she looked at him. He was only three years older than
she had been. Eighteen, newly a man, but afraid of nothing and no one. He was tall,
black haired; he had a lean build, which made him agile. He liked to think of himself as
a sword -- light, straight, and very deft, and utterly dangerous.

And he had left behind him many who would concur with this.
He had not so much pride in himself no as immense satisfaction. He had gotten to the
core of the accursed castle.
There were knocks at the door, cries.
He didn't bother to answer them. He laid Beauty down again.
"I'm your Prince," he said, "and that is how you will address me, and that is why you
will obey me."
He parted her legs again. He saw the blood of her innocence on the cloth and this made
him laugh softly to himself as again he gently entered her.
She gave a soft series of moans that were like kisses to his ear.
"Answer me properly," he whispered.
"My Prince," she said.
"Ah," he sighed, "that is lovely."

The full text (of the first one?) is here: http://soft.rosinstrument.com/lib/In_Russian/Anne_Rice/The_Claiming_of_Sleeping_Beauty.txt

These next few sections are continuous.

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And as he drew near her now, he thought he must be merciful and make her punishment
quick. And seating himself on the side of the bed, he reached out for her, and pulling
her wrists into his left hand he brought her naked body down over his lap so that her
legs dangled over the floor helplessly.
"Very, very lovely," he said, his right hand moving languidly over her rounded
buttocks, forcing them ever so slightly apart.
Beauty was crying aloud, but muffling her cries into the bed, her hands held out in
front of her by his long left arm.
And now with his right hand he spanked her buttocks hard and heard her cries grow
louder. It wasn’t really much of a slap.
But it left a red mark on her. And he spanked her hard again, and he felt her writhing
against him, the heat and moisture of her sex against his leg, and again he spanked her.
"I think you are sobbing more from the humiliation than the pain," he scolded her in a
soft voice.
She was struggling not to make her cries too loud.
He flattened out his right hand, and feeling the heat of her reddened buttocks drew it
up and delivered another series of hard, loud slaps, smiling as he watched her struggle.
He could have spanked her much harder, for his own pleasure, and without really hurting
her. But he thought better of it. He had so many nights ahead of him for these delights.
He lifted her up now so that she was standing in front of him.
"Toss your hair back," he commanded. Her tear-stained face was unspeakably beautiful,
her lips trembling, her blue eyes gleaming with the dampness of the tears. She obeyed
immediately.
"I don't think you were so very spoilt," he said. "I find you very obedient and eager
to please, and this makes me very happy."
He could see her relief.
"Clasp your hands behind your neck," he said, "under your hair. That's it. Very
good." He lifted her chin again. "And you have a lovely modest habit of looking down.
But now I want you to look directly at me."
She obeyed shyly, miserably. It seemed she felt her nakedness and her helplessness
more fully now as she looked at him. Her lashes were matted and dark, and her blue eyes
larger than he had thought.
"Do you find me handsome?" he asked her. "Ah, but before you answer, I should like to
know the truth from you, not what you think I should like to hear, or what would be best
for you to say, you understand me?"
"Yes, my Prince," she whispered. She seemed calmer.
He reached out, massaged her right breast lightly, and then stroked her downy
underarms, feeling the little curve of the muscle there beneath the tiny wisp of golden
hair, and then he stroked that full, most hair between her legs so that she sighed and
trembled.
"Now," he said, "answer my question, and describe what you see. Describe me as if you
had only just met me and were confiding in your chambermaid."
Again she bit her lip, which he dearly loved, and then, her voice a little diminished
by uncertainty, she said:
"You are very handsome, my Prince, no one could deny that. And for one...for one..."
"Go on," he said. He drew her just a little closer so that her sex was against his
knee, and putting his right are about her, he cradled her breast in his left hand and let
his lips touch her cheek.
"And for one so young to be so commanding," she said, "it's not what one might expect."
"And tell me how does that show itself in me, other than my actions?"
"Your manner, my Prince," she said, her voice gaining a little strength. "The look of
your eyes, such dark eyes...your face. There are none of the doubts of youth in it."
He smiled and kissed her ear. He wondered why the wet little cleft between her legs
was so very hot. His fingers could not keep from touching it. Twice already he's had
her today, and he would have her again, but he was thinking he should go about it more
slowly.
"Would you like it if I were older?" he whispered.
"I had thought," she said, "that it would be easier. To be commanded by one so very
young," she said, "is to feel one's helplessness."
It seemed the tears had welled up and were spilling out of her eyes, so he pushed her
gently back so he might see them.

Aw, damn, the webpage does manual line-breaks.

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"My darling, I have awakened you from a century's sleep, and restored your father's
Kingdom. You're mine. And you won't find me such a hard master. Only a very thorough
master. When you think night and day and every moment only of pleasing me, things will
be very easy for you."
And as she struggled not to look away, he could see again the relief in her face, and
that she was in complete awe of him.
"Now," he said, pushing his left fingers between her legs, and drawing her close again
so that she let out a little gasp before she could stop herself, "I want more of you than
I've had before. Do you know what I mean, my Sleeping Beauty?"
She shook her head; for this moment she was in terror.
He lifted her up onto the bed and laid her down.
The candles threw a warm, almost rosy light over her. Her hair fell down on either
side of the bed, and she seemed on the verge of crying out, her hands struggling to keep
still at her sides.
"My darling, you have a dignity about you that shields you from me, much like your
lovely golden hair shrouds you and shields you. Now I want you to surrender to me.
You'll see, and you'll be very surprised that you wept when I first suggested it."
The Prince bent over her. He parted her legs. He could see the battle she fought not
to cover herself or turn away from him. He stroked her thighs. Then with his finger and
thumb, he reached into the silky damp hair itself and felt those tender little lips and
forced them very wide open.
Beauty gave a terrible shudder. With his left hand he covered her mouth, and behind
his hand she cried softly. It seemed easier for him with him covering her mouth and that
was all right for now, he thought. She shall be taught everything in time.
And with his right fingers, he found that tiny nodule of flesh between her tender
nether lips and he worked it back and forth until she raised her hips, arching her back,
in spite of herself. Her little face under his hand was the picture of distress. He
smiled to himself.
But even as he smiled, he felt the hot fluid between her legs for the first time, the
real fluid, which had not come before with her innocent blood. "That's it, that's it, my
darling," he said. "And you mustn't resist your Lord and master, hmmmm?"
Now he opened his clothing and took out his hard, eager sex, and mounting her he let it
rest against her thigh as he continued to stroke her and work her.
She was twisting from one side to the other, her hands gathering up the soft sheets at
her sides into knots, and it seemed her whole body grew pink, and the nipples of her
breasts looked as hard as if they were tiny stones. He could not resist them.
He bit at them with his teeth, playfully, not hurting her. He licked them with his
tongue, and then he licked her sex, too, and as she struggled, and blushed and moaned
beneath him, he mounted her, slowly.
Again she arched her back. Her breasts were suffused with red. And as he drove his
organ into her, he felt her shudder violently with unwilling pleasure.
An awful cry was muffled by the hand over her mouth; she was shuddering so violently it
seemed she all by lifted him on top of her.
And then she lay still, moist, pink, with her eyes closed, breathing deeply as the
tears flowed silently.
"That was lovely, my darling," he said. "Open your eyes."
She did it timidly.
But then she lay looking up at him.
"This has been so hard for you," he whispered. "You could not even imagine these
things happening to you. And you are red with shame, and shaking with fear, and you
believe perhaps it's one of the dreams you dreamed in your hundred years. But it's real,
Beauty," he said. "And it is only the beginning! You think I've made you my Princess.
But I've only started. The day will come my Princess. But I've only started. The day
will come when you can see nothing but me as if I were the sun and the moon, when I mean
all to you, food, drink, the air you breathe. Then you will truly be mine, and these
first lessons...and pleasures..." he smiled, "will seem like nothing."
He bent over her. She lay so very still, gazing up at him.
"How kiss me," he commanded. "And I mean, really...kiss me."

The Prince thinks he saw Beauty eyeing another man.

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Beauty was now alone with the Prince, and the Prince was sitting quietly by the fire
looking at her. She was in a great state of agitation; she knew she was blushing as
always, and that her breasts were heaving slightly. She rushed forward quite suddenly
and pressed her lips to the Prince's boot, and it seemed to move as if it welcomed her
kiss, rising slightly as over and over again she kissed it.
She was moaning. O, if only he'd give her permission to speak, and when she thought of
her fascination with the punished Prince, she blushed all the more.
But her Prince had risen. He took her wrist and lifted her and drawing her hands
behind her back so that he held them firmly, he spanked both her breasts hard until she
cried out, feeling the heavy flesh sway and the sting of his hands on her nipples.
"Am I angry with you? Or am I not?" he asked softly.
She groaned, imploring him. And he placed her over his knee as she had seen the young
Prince over the Page's knee, and with her bare hand he gave her a smart torrent of blows
that had her crying aloud in an instant.
"To whom do you belong?" he demanded in a low, but angry voice.
"To you, my Prince, completely!" she cried out. It was dreadful, and then, suddenly
unable to control herself she said, "Please, please, my Prince, not in anger, no..."
But instantly his left hand clamped over her mouth, and she felt another terrible
torrent of hot spanks until her flesh was stinging and she couldn't control her crying.
She could feel the Prince's fingers against her lips. But he would hardly be satisfied
with this. He had her on her feet now and by her wrists he led her to a corner of the
room between the blazing fire and the curtained window. There was a high stool there
made of carved wood, and on this he sat while he stood her beside him. She was crying
softly, but she dared not beg again, no matter what happened. He was angry, fiercely
angry, and though she could endure any pain for his pleasure, this was unbearable for
her. She must please him, must make him loving again, and then any pain at all would not
be too much.
He turned her and she stood facing him as he sat inspecting her. She dared not look
him in the face, and then he drew back his cloak, and laying his hand on the golden
buckle of his belt said, "Unfasten this."
At once she went to obey, with her teeth without being told that was how she might do
it. She hoped and prayed he would be pleased. She pulled on the leather, her breath
soft and fast, and then pulled the strap back so that the belt came loose.
"Now pull it off," said the Prince, "and give it to me."
She obeyed at once, even though she knew what would follow. It was a thick, wide
leather belt. Maybe it would be no worse than a paddle.
Now he told her to raise her hands and her eyes, and she saw above a metal hook just
over her head hanging from a chain on the ceiling.
"You see here we are not without provisions for disobedient little slaves," he said in
his usual gentle voice. "Now clasp that hook, though it will put you on tiptoe, and you
will not dream of letting go of it, do you understand me?"
"Yes, my Prince," she cried softly.
She had hold of it, and it seemed to stretch her out, and the Prince moved back the
stool on which he sat and appeared to make himself comfortable. He had ample room in
which to swing the strap, which he had made into a loop, and he was silent for a moment.
Beauty cursed herself for ever admiring young Prince Alexi. Yet she was ashamed that
his very name had formed in her mind, and when she felt the first hard smack of the belt
on her thighs, she let out a frightened little cry but was glad of it.
She deserved this, and she would never again make such a terrible mistake, no matter
how beautiful or enticing were the slaves, and her boldness to look at them had been
unforgivable.

The wide heavy leather belt struck her with a loud, frightening sound, and the flesh of
her thighs, more tender perhaps than her buttocks, even sore as they were, seemed to
ignite under it. Her mouth was open, she could not keep herself quiet, and suddenly the
Prince ordered her to lift her knees and march in place.
"Quickly, quickly, yes, in rhythm!" he said angrily, and Beauty, astonished, struggled
to obey, marching fast, her breasts moving with the effort, her heart pounding.
"Higher, faster," the Prince commanded.
She marched as he commanded, her feet slapping the stone floor, her knees coming up
very high, her breasts a terrible aching weight as they swayed, and again came the belt
smacking her and stinging her.
The Prince seemed in a fury.
The blows came faster and faster, as fast as she was moving her legs, and very soon,
Beauty was writhing and struggling to get away from them. She was crying aloud unable to
stop herself but the worst of it, the worst of it, was his anger. If only this were for
his delight, if only he were pleased with her. She was crying and burying her face in
her arm and the balls of her feet were burning, and her thighs felt swollen and blotched
with pain as now again he took out his temper upon her buttocks.
The smacks came so quickly, she had no sense of how many there were, only that it was a
great deal more than he'd ever given her before, and it seemed he only grew more
agitated, his left hand now thrusting her chin up and closing her mouth so she couldn't
cry, all the while he commanded her to march faster and lift her legs higher.
"You belong to me!" he said without ever stopping the loud spanking belt. "And you
will learn to please me in all things, and you will never please me with your eyes upon
the male slaves of my mother. Is this clear to you? Do you understand?"
"Yes, my Prince," she struggled to say.
But he seemed at wits ends to punish her. And stopping her suddenly by lifting her
around the middle, he brought her up over the stool which he had just left, so that
dangling from the hook which she held for dear life, she was now thrust over it, the
wooden seat of the stool pressing into her naked sex, her legs out helplessly behind her.
And then he sent his worst rain of blows on her, hard snapping spanks that made her
calves quiver and sting as her thighs had done before. But no matter how he busied
himself with her legs, he always returned to her buttocks, punishing them the hardest so
that Beauty was choking with sobs, and felt this as endless.
Quite suddenly, he stopped.
"Let go the hook," he commanded, and then he scooped her up over his shoulder and
taking her across the room, he flung her down on the bed.
She fell back on the pillow, and immediately beneath her sore and swollen buttocks and
thighs felt a prickling and a roughness. She had only to cast her head slightly to the
side to see the jewels glittering on the coverlet. And she knew how they would torture
her as soon as he had mounted her.
But she wanted him so badly. And when she saw him rise up over her, she felt not the
hot throbbing pain in her body but a flood of juices between her legs and a new moan
coming out of her as she opened herself to him.
She couldn't keep from lifting her hips, praying it didn't displease him.
He knelt over her, removing his erect cock from his breeches, and then he brought her
up on her knees and impaled her upon it.
She cried out. Her head fell back. It was a great hard driving thing inside her sore
and quivering orifice. But she felt it bathed with her juices, and as the Prince forced
it in deeper and brought her down upon it, it seemed a spit that rubbed against some
mysterious core in her, sending the ecstasy washing through her so she was giving great
guttural moans in spite of herself. The Prince's thrusts came faster and faster and then
he too gave a soft cry, and held her close to him, her breasts aching and pressed to his
chest, his lips on the back of her neck, his body softening slowly.
"Beauty, Beauty," he whispered. "You have conquered me as surely as I have conquered
you. Don't ever arouse my jealousy again. I don't know what I would do if you did it!"
"My Prince," she moaned and kissed him on the mouth, and when she saw the distress in
his face, she covered it with kisses.
"I'm your slave, my Prince," she said.
But he would only moan and press his face into her neck, and seemed bereft.
"I love you," she implored him, and then he laid her down on the bed, and drawing up
beside her, took his wine from the bedside stand and, gazing at the fire, seemed for a
long time to be thinking.

I think that's all for now. Let me know if you guys like this idea, I can try to find more.