Twatzapooner’s Revenge: A Fucked-Up Fairy Tale
“Forgive me, Trollkins love, I feel ever so sleepy.”
Princess Cherrypop, 19, stretched, yawned and placed a dainty hand over her luscious, nubile lips.
Her Troll attendant, whose name was Hermione Plunger, started.
“No no no no, young miss, that will not do,” she said.
“And why ever not?”
“Because you must be vigilant. We must ever. Be. Vigilant. We must take the potions and the remedies, maintain our lookout at all times. She is awake now, and dark upon the land. She. Nair. Cuntingham.”
“To be honest,” said Cherrypop, depositing a kiss upon her beloved handmaiden that was ever-so-innocent even as she inserted a sly, experimental bit of tongue, “I am dead tired of the constant wakefulness, and I see nothing wrong with bedding down…I mean, we could, you know, separately…or…together. In an innocent, experimental way, of course.”
Hermione gently fingered the Princess, who sighed and oozed moisture from the Pussy of the Realm.
“Thank the goddess Twatzapooner for investing the hereditary pussy power in these mine nether lips,” sighed Cherrypop as Herrmione’s firm, nimble fingers played with her. “That feels so good, and better than good. Indeed, I feel a royal explosion coming on.”
“No, no, no, you mustn’t,” said Hermione. “For is it not foretold that the release of such power would cause great destruction and devastation throughout the Land of Euphoria, and your father, Herbert Longwood the XI, will lose of his wood, and the Queen Griselda will lapse and become a slushycorpse once more, and then…deadfucking will be the rule rather than the exception, as the peasantry always follow our example, be it good or bad.”
“I’ve never felt that was quite healthy,” sighed Cherrypop. “But then again, I am young in years and, aside from reams of experimentation, innocent of man.”
“It is what it is,” conceded Hermione. “At least it keeps him from plunging the royal fleshscepter willy-nilly amongst the entombed like Count Edward of Geine.”
The Princess shuddered.
“Could you help me out of mine royal costume?” asked Cherrpop? She was beginning to feel that odd itch and wished to engage in such activity as corresponded to it, which generally resulted in her suspension from the ceiling with a gag harness over her head.
“Nay, Princess, I dare not and will not. You must attempt to dial back the sensations. Think of that awful toad, Crust Pellotone, who made his advances upon the royal pussy but recently. Think of what occurred to his body after Twatzapooner’s wrath.”
Cherrypop shuddered again with a mixture of delicious dread and outright horniness. “Oh my goodness yes. He was stripped of his clothes, stuffed into a leather sling, pinioned and punctured in every major artery. We watched that sling leak for days while he bled out, but due to the magic of the court sorcerer, Fuzzlewick, he never truly died. He’s still around somewhere,” she said. She frowned. “I’m glad he suffered. I know my father the king always admonished me to think kindly of all creatures, even the horrid, but Pellotone truly was the worst of the worst. His open and obvious slaverings! And him a peasant!”
“And him an ill-bred yob,” said Hermione. Without thinking, Cherrypop’s servant had gone knuckle-deep. Suddenly realizing what she had done, Hermione retrieved her fingers, then caressed the Princess’s cheek. Cherrypop sucked her slick fingers and licked her lips.
“I love to taste myself,” she said. “Could we play that lovely game now, the one with numbers?”
“We cannot,” said Hermione.
The Princess pouted. “You go from hot to ice cold. Which is it to be?”
***
High above Euphoria, nestled in a pink cloud, the goddess Twatzapooner was vexed. Her hereditary nexus with the royal pussy made her feel every sensation Princess Cherrypop did. And this ridiculous Hermione person was not only deliberately lying to the bearer of the Pussy of Power, she was blocking Cherrypop’s release, which caused her great frustration.
She heard the familiar whinnying of the Baroness Cuntingham, Queen of Nair, in the far distance. Nair craved the pussy power for herself, and took every opportunity to try and ambush the Princess in an attempt to carve the pussy from between her legs and extract its puissance.
“Can you believe Mistress Hermione’s boldness?” said Cuntingham partially to herself, but knowing Twatzapooner could read her thoughts.
“Yes, I can,” said Twatzapooner. “You know what, we both deserve relief. Let’s first edge the Princess, then allow her release, whereupon I will grant you what you have long desired.”
“Oh goddess, that would be…so very fucking great. Seriously though. I would do anything for you.”
“Are you mental?” asked Twatzapooner, infuriated. “I was just this close to granting your wish of obtaining the Quim Chalice, and then you pull this toadying shit.”
Twatzapooner grew angry, and angrier still, at the general impertinence.
The heavens began to boil and teem. A horrible stench filled every nostril in the kingdom, the smell of rotten meat lying in the sun for days stirred together with the guts of a fishmire and the piss of a Nocturnicorn.
Then the meat rain began.
Chunks of bloody flesh descended. They splattered rooftops and patios and yards and hedges and trees and the Dark and Light forests. Bits and pieces of blood slime smeared across cheeks and splashed down faces, making no distinction between royal and commoner.
“Oh no, the goddess is PIIIIISSED,” cried Hermione. “We need to give her discharge now.”
So saying, she tied the Princess to an x-cross, muffled the royal lips with a bit gag and proceeded to lash her until she bled. The Princess screamed through the gag, tears welling. She felt a convulsive sensation begin in her toes, then spreading up her body in violent waves.
Till it reached the pussy of power.
And detonated.
On her pink cloud, the goddess Twatzapooner experienced the Law of Unintended Consequences. Linked as her pussy was with that of the Princess, her discharge was even greater.
The meat rain increased, gathering clouds and turbulence until it became a meat storm.
The stinking flesh gobbets began to whirl in the sky, causing sucking columns to form. Houses were wrenched from their foundations, trailing bricks and sod. Horses were smashed against rocks as they screamed and screamed again. Many peasants were battered with clubs of meatcurrent until they expired.
Looking at the scene through her Mirrorcast, Hermione’s eyes widened.
“Royal shitmix,” she said. “The goddess is displeased!” She rapidly undid the Princess from her bonds. “You need to use the royal pussy power now!”
“What?” said the princess, a tad dizzy from the bondage and blood coursing towards and away from the pussy of power. “Come again?”
“Yes, Mistress, cum again. You must cum again, and restore the balance.”
“Very well then, Hermione. Eat me in that special way, and I will partake as well of the sweet game of numbers curled inside themselves.”
After a furious bout of Ye SixtyNine, both the Princess and Hermione exploded with hot, frothing orgasms. A column of Pussy Power ™ ascended through the heavens, spearing Twatzapooner’s ethereal body.
The heavens sucked up the meat rain the way one might use the heel from a loaf of bread to mop up extra shpegoootiin sauce. The storm collapsed in upon itself, rested, relaxed and smoked a cigarette.
In their respective places, the goddess Twatzapooner, the Princess Cherrypop and her servant Hermione dozed off to sleep, quite sated.
The only one who remained unsatisfied by this arrangement was the Baroness Cuntingham, Queen of Nair.
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me, Twatazapooner. Seriously?”
And with that, she stalked off to her Eggsucking Hut.
