The Giant’s Menagerie

Vanessa de Sade

So, so, my best beloved. How shall I begin? There are so many ways that I can commence a fairy tale. Once there was a girl? Or, perhaps, once there was a girl in London? Or just plain old once upon a time? But, anyway, by now you get my drift. It is London and there is a girl. Our story is begun.

The Beatles have just released She Loves You, Carnaby Street is the centre of the universe, and Jacqueline, that is our girl, has gone to London to study music. Which sounds like a dream come true, but it had not been her dream. Her dream had always been to be a ballerina and to sparkle in an arctic white tutu spun from a silk so fine that it would look like frozen spider webs glittering in the beneficent glow of old theatre lamps. That was her dream. But, unfortunately, the Gods of Dreams and the Gods of Bodies did not often consult, and Jacqueline’s short buxom stature, though pleasing to men, would never pass muster in the conservative world of The Dance with her melon-shaped breasts, heavy hips and a rear end as round and white as the full harvest moon.

But, though she could never take to the stage herself, the sonorous melodies of the ballet plagued her day and night and played like constant tape loops in her head, and by the time she was eighteen she had already composed and choreographed four orchestral scores and was half way through her fifth when the letter arrived offering an unconditional scholarship to the Royal Ballet School of Composition.

It was good fortune, indeed, for a poor girl from the suburbs, and Jacqueline had no hesitation in accepting, though she still privately hankered after the bright lights of the stage and, in the seclusion of her room, went through her barre exercises religiously each day, stretching her small chubby limbs with surprising grace and dexterity as she visualised herself as the Black Swan in an enchanted prince’s arms.

But then, Jacqueline told herself sternly, every little girl dreams of being a prima ballerina. Now it was time to face reality and put away childish things, for she was privileged to be where she was and not typing letters in some dreary office in Croydon. So she wrapped her still-glittering dreams in tissue paper and packed them neatly away in an old chocolate box with some red ribbons and old love letters and settled down to the serious business of living her life. Without magic.

The school was well pleased with her progress and, keen to show her off, arranged to stage one of her compositions in that semester’s showcase. Suddenly her days were spent hurrying from her little flat in Soho to a rehearsal studio in Wardour Street, rubbing shoulders with grey-suited film executives and faceless journalists as she struggled with complicated orchestrations and temperamental musicians, not to mention a finale theme that just wouldn’t sound the way she wanted it to, no matter how many times she tinkered with the score.

Thus it is that we find her walking a Soho street at an hour that was far from respectable, when even the bars and coffee houses were shuttered for the night and the only sounds to be heard were the muffled melodies of basement jazz clubs, mournful saxophones wailing great throaty litanies of unfulfilled desire to a great city that trundled on indifferently.

A spring rain had fallen while she had been indoors, and, though fine now, the streets were slaked with wet, their shiny tarmac shimmering in reflected cerise from the flickering neon signs above, the ground a mirror-image world of Soho’s broken promises as she hurried briskly along, visions of toast and cups of steaming hot chocolate filling her mind as her heels clickety-clacked homeward, a truculent melody in her head floating maddeningly just out of her reach.

She didn’t even hear the big Rolls Royce as it crept up alongside her with a hearse-like quiet, its deep obsidian paintwork gleaming like wet shellac in the evening dew, and she only turned when she inhaled a taunting aroma of expensive cigars as someone rolled down a window and softly whispered her name.

“Jacqueline,” a light, not-quite-human voice trilled, as if someone had bottled a mockingbird’s song and swallowed it like cough medicine. “Mademoiselle Jacqueline, a word, if you please...”

So she turned, as heroines often do, even though you and I both know that she should just keep on walking, and smiled, thinking that it was some acquaintance from the school. The car was a dark anonymous mass like a mist-shrouded canal barge on a dark night, and all she could discern was a pale white trace of the speaker’s face, a sliver of moon on a foggy November night.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” she asked, perplexed.

The face laughed a little mockingly. “Ah, non, cherie, but we know you. You have been a person of interest to Monsieur Ours for some time now. Come,” she said as the car door swung open on noiseless hinges like the lid lifting from Pandora’s Box. “Join us, for we have much to discuss.”

Jacqueline took a step back and looked quickly up and down the street for some passer-by to seek assistance from - the girl was not a complete fool, after all - but the quiet road was a dark and echoing canyon and, in the ghostly pre-dawn hush, there was no living soul to assist or even witness her abduction.

The woman laughed again, but with kindness now. “It is all right, cherie,” she whispered, the darkness of the scented interior giving her up like an embryo as she reached out a plump but well-manicured hand to take Jacqueline’s, her touch at once cool and fiery hot. “We will not harm you. Monsieur Ours has a proposition to put to you, which you are free to take or leave. Please,” she beseeched. “Hear what is to be said before you make a decision that will impact upon your dreams...”

“What do you know of my dreams?” Jacqueline demanded angrily as she was drawn into the car’s inner warmth, the seductive pull of the woman’s touch lulling her into a sense of security that she knew she could not fully trust, and yet did.

The woman laughed yet again. “Why, everything,” she whispered, her white hands like sea slugs upon Jacqueline’s, repellent and yet oddly transfixing, waxen serpents luring her onto the rocks of her own latent desires.

“We know that you want to dance, to prove to the world that you are as fit to grace a stage as any other, and we can help you achieve this,” her honeyed voice was whispering, whispering, as Jacqueline found herself inside the cocoon of warmth and recumbent on soft leather seats, the door closed by an unseen hand as the silent motor started up and she was whisked off into the inky night, the neon signs of Soho quickly fading behind them as the big car sped quietly away.

Jacqueline knew that there was a man in the car. She could feel his huge bulk, smell his mixed aromas of Cuban tobacco and expensive cologne, the very worsted of his Savile Row tailoring and Cashmere evening scarf - but she could not see him. Though she strained her eyes she could only make out a faint impression of the woman who sat beside her, a nocturne in moonstone and opaque jade. She was white-skinned, like a wraith, but her body was almost invisible, clad in black velvet with a huge sable stole draped around her shoulders like river fog and a gossamer veil masking her pallid face. Like an old wax doll, Jacqueline found herself thinking. Or a waxwork from Madame Tussauds.

“So, this is our offer,” the woman was saying, from far away, like someone in another room. Or in a dream. “Monsieur Ours, he has a connoisseur’s taste in women, and he would like to observe your more than generous derrière for his private desires. He will pay you one thousand guineas for this, more than enough to rent your own theatre and perform the ballet you have been writing in your head for the last five years. All you must do in return is grant him the right to watch as I caress the lily-white skin of your behind with but six red wheals from his cane...”

“He wants to watch you spanking me for money?” Jacqueline spluttered, rising up on a wave of righteous indignation. But even as she launched into her speech of outrage she was aware that her cunt was getting wet and that she would eventually capitulate to the stranger’s demands.

And that everyone in the car knew that she would.

***

The place they took her to was a large fortress-like mansion house in Bloomsbury. Its exterior edifice was cavernous and dark, as if hewn from some anthracite cliff-face of ebony-black basalt. Inside, it was all lowering stygian pillars and arches, the vast ceilings dotted with thin spidery candelabras that gave just enough light to navigate by but still left limpid pools of gloom in every shadowy corner.

She had thought that they would take her through some side entrance to a secret bedroom of shame by a labyrinth of hidden passageways, but instead she was led from the front door to a thickly-carpeted chamber on the ground floor, with black marble walls and pillars, a warren of shady niches filled with obsidian busts of long-dead Greeks, the only furniture a single Romanesque chair such as the Caesars might have addressed the Senate from. Leaning on it for support, Jacqueline turned unsteadily and addressed the room, peering through the gloom to discern her captors.

“Sir, I am here, what would you have me do? Disrobe?” she asked, unsteady on her feet as if the thick air in the car journey had somehow been laced with some insidious blend of tobacco and Indian hemp, drugging her senses and heightening her desires.

The woman smiled in reply, but the shadowy figure of the huge man only loomed soundlessly out of the opacity of the room’s far corners, watching her intently but conveying nothing.

“There is no need to denude yourself, cherie,” the woman whispered, approaching and draping an arm around Jacqueline and turning her to face the wall. “Removing your undergarments for him will suffice. Here, allow me to assist. Bend over and place your hands on the chair arms, so...”

Velvet ribbons the colour of thunderstorms deftly bound her wrists like apron strings to the heavy chair, and she felt Madame Rossignol’s hands - for that was the woman’s name - behind her, lifting her short skirt and pinning it to the back of her satin blouse, her wide white bum in her tiny lacy pants suddenly exposed to the whole room.

“This excites you, no?” the woman whispered. “Having me expose you like this in front of him, it is making you wet?”

Jacqueline shook her head, no, but it was a lie. She had worn her highest heels this morning, and, on a whim, selected her sheerest stockings, and she knew just what the silent man would be seeing as she stood bent over with her skirt in the air, her chubby thighs above the charcoal glossiness of her stockings snow-white and goose pimpled with cold and excitement, her big round ass quivering like a jelly and begging for the pain that she knew was about to be inflicted on her.

“I am going to show him everything now,” the woman’s voice said softly in her ear, the hint of a kiss on her painted lips, her breathing rapid as if it were she who were about to be exposed; but as her hand found the waistband of Jacqueline’s tiny panties to inch them down the curve of her ass, the man spoke for the first time.

“No,” he said in deep sonorous bass voice, like the growl of a huge and towering grizzly. “Not like that. Cut them. Leave her no shred of cover. No dignity.”

Jacqueline gasped as she felt the cold shiver of a quicksilver blade on the bare skin of her thigh, then she heard two vicious snips. Her knickers floated away like blossom as her unclothed bum was exposed in all its naked glory, a huge white iceberg upon a glacial sea.

Monsieur Ours let out a contented breath, like a man of culture swilling an old brandy in the warm globe of a particularly voluptuous balloon glass, and then spoke again. Three words. “Part your legs!”

Jacqueline hesitated, but the woman intervened and gently caressed her, her fingers kneading the girl’s quivering flesh as she spread her heavy white thighs for her master’s gaze, luxuriating in the knowledge that, bent over like this, Jacqueline’s splayed cunt would be fully visible, her slit a wide-open coral-pink flower in the midst of the thick forest of her dark bush, her ass-crack split open like a ripe fruit and her tiny tight hole an inviting second orifice.

Jacqueline had only ever made love with a man once, a silver-haired old impresario in his box at Covent Garden, who had run his hands inside her dress and slid her silky panties down in the plush-curtained darkness. Fondled her big and sensitive rear from behind as Calais sang the closing arias to Norma, the oiled fingers of one calloused hand penetrating her front and back simultaneously - a single slim, almost skeletal, digit of the other circling her clit in maddeningly wide circles in time to the music, keeping her on the boil until the final crescendo when her cries of satisfaction mingled with Bellini’s last triumphal notes.

But this was more exciting than anything she had ever dreamed possible and she shivered and almost came as she felt Madame Rossignol run an appreciative hand over her quivering cheeks.

“I have your permission, Mademoiselle, to cane you?” she asked softly, almost imperceptibly, a nod to politeness when they both knew that she was powerless to resist.

But she bobbed her head, yes. And then she heard a sharp swish like a gasp as a bolt of pain shot through her, more powerful and more exquisite than any orgasm she had ever experienced. Her very flesh sang with desire.

“One,” the fat woman said in her sing-song birdcall voice. She swung the cane again and a second stroke seared Jacqueline’s other cheek. Then another, and another, and another in quick succession.

“Three, four, five,” the bird woman trilled. “One more, cherie. Be brave!”

Swish. Number six cut across her stinging flesh like lightning striking a dead tree and setting it alight, and she felt a warm rush that could have been an orgasm or her bladder betraying her. She could not tell which and, frankly, didn’t care.

“Excellent, excellent,” she heard Ours exclaim, his voice thick and gravelly with desire and his breathing hoarse from the spanking he had just seen meted out.

Jacqueline was suddenly aware of a new scent in the room, like the sweat of a victorious athlete and the stench of a lion’s cage combined; raw, visceral and loaded with pheromones, and she knew that he had taken his huge cock out and was going to take her from behind with a rough ferocity that that would transport her into paroxysms of debauched delight.

And Jacqueline, who only ever slept with shy bespectacled girls from the School of Music who wore hand-knitted sweaters and played obscure instruments in the orchestra, found herself overcome with the desire to be fucked.

“Yes, fuck me,” she whispered in her mind as he gripped the tender flesh of her fat thighs with his huge hangman’s hands. “Cunt-fuck me, or bugger me if you want to. Push your colossal cock right up inside my tight little flower and have your way with me. As hard as you like. I would expect no less.”

But he made no move as his breathing became more and more laboured, and she realised with a jolt that he had no intention of touching her and was merely masturbating over her nude red-streaked derrière, hard and urgently. Then his scalding cum was splashing all over her big fat behind, gallons of it, like a prize stud bull pumping litres into a collection jar, and, then, like the morning mist when exposed to sun, he was gone.

***

Jacqueline wasn’t sure how long had passed as she stood there bent over - her big white ass in the air and her hands bound, her traitorous cunt still throbbing with unfulfilled lust for his giant’s cock - when she felt kind hands on her stinging rear and a scented cloth soaked in warm water washing her clean of his now cooling ejaculate.

She reared up, arching her back like an animal in season as she heard a woman’s heartfelt sigh. “I am sorry, cherie, this urge will not leave you. I am afraid that he has bewitched you with his devil’s sperm,” Madame Rossignol whispered, drying her and starting to apply a cool salve to her wheals. “He enchants young women to crave fulfilment from him and then he withholds it. It is how he gets his pets to stay here in this house of gloom. It is how I have stayed.”

“He has done this to you too? Beaten you too, humiliated you?”

“Oh yes, many times, and yet because of the spell still I crave more...”

“And there are others like me?”

“Many, many others, languishing in their rooms like a menagerie of caged nightingales, all hoping that this time when he summons them it will be the final one, the one that will grant their desires and break his spell.”

“And is that to be my fate too?”

“Yes. Unless you are strong enough to undo his enchantment and undo the spell he has used to bewitch you.”

“But I know nothing of magic and enchantments,” Jacqueline whispered in a small voice, feeling the woman’s hands, slippery with lotion, caressing her ass-crack and venturing dangerously lower. “Can you not assist me?”

“Cherie, I think can,” the other nodded slowly, “for I sense in you the kindred spirit that I have sought for so many centuries, and I think I can finally cast the one spell that I have kept hidden about my person for all these long years.”

Jacqueline shivered as Madame Rossignol’s fingers found her slit and began to play idly around her hungry orifice.

“Madame, I am of the Sapphic persuasion and know the delights of sucking at the female flower, but I am unsure if a woman’s loving can slake this thirst for cock he has instilled in me,” Jacqueline said sadly, but Madame Rossignol only smiled.

“Come,” she whispered, unbuttoning her long black dress and letting it fall to the ground like the final curtain signifying the conclusion to an operatic tragedy. “Look upon me, child, and tell me that you feel nothing.”

The woman’s body was a desert landscape of wind-caressed curves in myriad shades of ivory. Large, low-slung breasts with huge nipples like swollen sweetmeats, a long curved abdomen swelling out to large womanly hips, and a full convex stomach sitting wantonly above a deep statuesque cunt, her dark full bush depilated to smoothness and her deep slit bare and proud, inviting curious tongues and fingers to violate her womanliness.

Jacqueline sighed. “My cunt indeed salivates for you, but, in this frame of mind, it would drool likewise for a dog. And I fear that your pussy, beautiful as it is, cannot fulfil me when Ours has cursed me thus so that only his bestial cock may satisfy me.”

But Madame Rossignol merely smiled again as she undid Jacqueline’s bounds, then kissed her so softly that at first it was like the caress of snowflakes on her face, a fleeting touch of gossamer on a summer’s night. Then suddenly they were welded together and exploring each other’s mouths with desperate tongues, Jacqueline raking up her skirt and grinding her hot and hairy cunt into the older woman’s smooth thigh.

“This is our magic,” the woman gasped, her hands kneading Jacqueline’s large and heaving breasts through her sweater and bra. “This is not that stolen kiss with the bassoon player in the orchestra pit, or the ensuing fumble without climax in the ladies’ powder rooms. This will be beautiful. Animal. The full and ancient majesty of two female beasts aroused and hungry. This will be every pent-up desire that you ever experienced for your professor of music and her pointy little breasts, the unsung love poems you write for the prima ballerina that you saw naked in the dressing room and have worshipped ever since. This will be the raw and bestial love that only two inflamed pussies can create, and, if you throw away every inhibition in your body, we can defeat Ours and his wolverine cock by satisfying every primitive urge we have ever felt!”

“Then make me yours,” Jacqueline groaned, her hands all over Madame Rossignol’s big naked body, curious fingers kneading the heavy breasts, the round globe-like buttocks, but hesitating slightly as she ventured into the heat of the older woman’s deep and cavernous ass-crack.

“You cannot hesitate,” Madame Rossignol implored, her own fingers clawing at Jacqueline’s hot and heaving bum. “Violate my most secret of places with impunity if that is what you crave. Enter me, fuck me, pee on me, do whatever the beast in you desires so that the spell will be broken.”

Jacqueline almost came on the spot as her finger found the other woman’s tight little starfish and pushed its way inside the hot tight tunnel, and, before she knew what she was doing she had knelt and her tongue was in Rossignol’s smooth and slippery pussy, her lips kissing and licking as her finger wormed its way up the other hot tight hole.

“Suck me, suck me hard,” Rossignol screamed as Jacqueline’s tongue found her big and erect clit and began to circle it, momentarily withdrawing her probing finger from Madame’s asshole to slide it deep up her cunt and then return it, hot and slippery as an eel, to the puckered rear slot and worm its way right up to the hilt.

“I’ve never seen a cunt like yours, all shaved and exposed like a marble statue,” Jacqueline managed to gasp as she paused for a moment in her sucking and licking to regard her lover’s bare pussy. “And I love how your crinkly pink lips peep like flower petals, all sticky with sap like a botanical specimen. I want to suckle like a child on the nipple at your hot hard clit that tastes like sweet kirsch and marzipan combined.”

Rossignol made a strange animal noise in reply, raw, like a vixen’s bark in the dead of night, but melodious like an owl’s lethal call. “I am close,” she whispered. “Do not be afraid of the ferocity of my orgasm, and suck and lick up all my sweet spendings as I come, for my magic is deep within me and it will free you when you release all your own pent up desires to my lover’s tongue...”

Aroused beyond compare, Jacqueline bit hard at the soft and buttery flesh of Rossignol’s plump inner thigh and then pushed her face into her cunt, her tongue merciless against the older woman’s nut-hard clit, ramming her finger up her arse as she did so and feeling every throbbing spasm of her lover’s climax as Madame howled like a lone wolf on a midnight skyline.

***

Jacqueline was pushed to the floor as Madame raked her body with her nails, not lingering to explore, but shooting rapidly downwards like a man would do, desperate to lose herself in Jacqueline’s bush and have her fingers penetrate her hot wet fanny.

“Yes, yes,” the girl cried, feeling Madame splitting her open like a clam and finding her hot and hungry girl-cock, standing up stiff and ready and desperate to be rubbed. “But do it with your mouth. Clasp my head between your thighs and push your pussy in my face so that I can taste you again as you pleasure me. Suck my clit hard but slow as I mirror your movements, and bring me to orgasm as I bring you. Hot, hard and desperate.”

Her lover spoke no words as she obeyed, her big sweet cunt, fragrant with sap and spendings, rushing to meet Jacqueline’s pleading lips as they gave themselves up to every wanton desire they had ever experienced, becoming one body, one dangerous animal, as they began to rock and growl with the force of their mutual climax and howled out their satisfaction to the last shreds of the magical night.

***

Jacqueline came raw and ragged and then came again as Rossignol’s tongue and fingers fucked her unmercifully, the woman’s desire tireless as she pushed deeper and deeper into Jacqueline’s slippery wet cunt, fulfilling every gratuitous desire that Ours had instilled in her and shattering the spell that bound her to this house of pain.

“The spell is broken, you are free now,” Rossignol finally whispered, her own heart thumping and her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her ebony locks somehow greyer now and a thick jungle of jet black pubic hair starting to curl on the shaved areas of her abdomen and up towards her tight belly.

“But what of you, and the others?” Jacqueline asked, straightening up, her pussy still singing from the tongue-and-finger-fucking Madame had just given her.

“We shall stay as we always have,” the woman replied. “His playthings, unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you possess the courage to challenge the Giant in his own lair and capture his spendings in my magic phial to break his hold on all of his songbirds.”

Jacqueline thought for a moment and then nodded. “I do and I will, if you will accompany me.”

Rossignol nodded. “Then follow me, for he sleeps now in his tower bedroom and we might approach, but first you must disrobe completely, for his animal ear will detect even the faintest rustle of petticoats or the creak of elastic.”

Jacqueline allowed herself the luxury of a small smile as she quickly pulled her clothing off and stood quite naked before Madame’s approving gaze, her bare breasts, freed of their heavy underwired bra like large orbs of snow with their tiny incongruous-looking nipples standing up invitingly like minuscule sugar almonds, her plump belly round and fecund and her cunt a thick dark jungle.

“Is your clit still stiff?” she whispered to Rossignol, raking her body with her gaze and running a bold hand down the underside of her huge and now hairy cunt.

Though Rossignol’s eyes ate up her beauty, she took Jacqueline’s hand gently from herself and shook her head kindly. “It is just this house,” she replied sadly, turning to lead the way to Ours’ bed chamber. “I will be permanently aroused until we break the spell, as will you while you stay here. But come, already I hear the cries of roosters in the distant countryside and soon he will awaken. And then we are all lost.”

***

Ours’ chamber was vast and dank, with a huge bed hung in jet brocades and surrounded by melanoid carved-wood statues of fearsome beasts; lions rampant, crouching tigers, growling bears. The Giant, himself, though, lay recumbent on the vast divan like a sleeping minotaur, uncovered but surrounded by myriads of pillows, all upholstered in black silk. His large grizzly-like body was completely naked and covered from head to toe in profuse curly fur, light on his shoulders and back, but thick as an animal pelt on his chest, legs and forearms, and an impenetrable jungle around the biggest cock that Jacqueline had ever seen.

Somnambulant, it lay there confidently in its parsley bed on his taut belly, not erect, not flaccid, like a huge butcher’s sausage on a fur salver, the head peeping lazily out of the slack foreskin like raw meat or animal cock. His skin was unexpectedly white under all the body jungle, but his dick was dark, almost brown, and two huge balls that seemed to be bursting with the craved-for semen lay below, insolent and incredibly alluring.

Rossignol handed Jacqueline a silken cord, and, quiet as mice, they both silently began to bind the sleeping Ours to his own bed, affixing his vast hands and feet to the carved frame like a crucifix. His cock, sensing their presence and starting to rise, stood up obscenely like the sole tree on a flat landscape as the dawn began to break over the soot-blackened buildings of the London skyline.

Ours’ eyelids flickered open as the sunlight began to peep through cracks in the thick layers of black brocade drapes that lay in labia-like folds across his towering windows, and a smile creased his wide and bearded face as he took in the scene around him.

“So, my little rodents have been at play while their master slept,” he mused, taking in their naked bodies and inhaling the scent of their recently satisfied pussies. “But your magic is not strong enough, Songbird, for even now my servants awaken and come up the winding marble staircases of my mansion to take hold of you and drag you back to your mockingbird cages.”

Rossignol cupped a hand to her ear and smiled sadly. “But I hear nothing, Monsieur Beast. Could it be that someone added a sleeping draft to the sweet absinthe and sugar cubes that they stole from your study last night, and today they lie abed and restless in their wanton dreams?”

Ours cursed silently but continued to smile, turning his scorn on Jacqueline. “And, you, Hummingbird. You presume to lick a pussy and be able to shatter my spell and let these pathetic creatures in my menagerie roam free in their native forests once more? I have already had your plump ass tanned, what makes you think you can draw my seed a second time?”

“Because I have known the love of this woman and it is has unleashed stronger emotions in me than your huge stallion’s cock can ever imagine, Giant,” said Jacqueline, taking Rossignol in her arms and kissing her. “Now your male body is nothing but our puppet and we shall draw your seed and store it, then your spell shall be broken and your pets go free.”

As they embraced again they could see his prick rising up hard from his vast hairy body, his bare cockhead glinting red and purple, the gaping little hole where his precious fluids would erupt from already salty and sticky with sap and pre-cum.

“Ha!” roared the giant as he tugged angrily at his bounds like a tethered horse. “I shall huff and I shall puff and blow down your card house like paper in an autumn wind.”

But Rossignol had secreted a magic rope for this purpose many years before and, try as he might, the Beast could not tear it asunder.

“So, Giant,” Jacqueline enquired, straddling him like a colossus and sliding the glittering crystal phial that Madame handed her over his raw arousal and capturing his fragrant pheromones as he was inhaling hers. “Look upon my huge and hairy cunt and tell me that you are not stimulated and do not crave the feel of my hot wetness on your mighty cock?”

“I am aroused, but I shall not grant you my seed,” Ours replied gruffly, but his chest was heaving and his breathing rapid as Jacqueline guided his throbbing member deeper into the glass dungeon.

“Let him watch as I ride you hard,” Rossignol beseeched from behind her, caressing Jacqueline’s breasts with a bird-like hand as, driven by their Sapphic magic, the collection jar began to slide slowly up and down the Beast’s carved-wood monolith. “For already I hear his magic harp begin to play and his drugged servants are stirring, and he is skilled in the arts and will hold back his orgasm for as long as he is able.”

“No, he shall not,” Jacqueline replied breathlessly, her fingers playing with the wet and sticky hardness of her own clit as the jar slid up and down the Giant’s monster cock. “For in his head he can see again my big soft arse bound and naked before him, untouched as virgin snow and begging for him to sully me and streak my lily-white skin with red, my pretty little puckered starfish all exposed and willing to be violated, my huge cunt flowing with desire and open like a hungry mouth for his hardness. Yes, he sees all this in his mind now and, though he tries to deny himself, he is still as aroused as he was last night when he had to take recourse to the inadequate measure of shooting his own seed into nothingness, when now he is buried in this jar which feels just like my hot, wet and insatiable slit. Already the pressure builds up in him and I can feel those stinging blows of his cane again as you stroke and caress by salt-slick pussy and...”

“Curse you!” Ours suddenly cried out, arching his back and thrusting into the air with a roar, stretching at his restraints and pushing himself deeper and deeper into the magic bottle’s slippery depths, his minotaur’s semen gushing out of his huge bestial cock and filling it up to overflowing, the profuse white liquid seeping out at the edges and onto his own thick pubic fur, coating it like a tenuous snow on an undulating pine forest.

“Tear down the curtains,” Jacqueline called out triumphantly as she quickly sealed the jar. Light flooded the charnel house gloom of the Giant’s bedchamber, and all around her she could hear the sound of running feet as cage after cage flew open and the incumbents let out bird cries of sheer joy and soared off to their longed-for freedom.

“We did it, Rossignol,” Jacqueline began to say, turning to her friend, but she stopped mid-sentence as she watched Madame’s complexion begin to fade and crumble in the clear light of morning.

“What is it, Madame Rossignol? What is happening to you?”

“Ah, cherie, I am centuries old,” the frail old Nightingale replied, her sad face already almost gone. “There is no life left for me in the leafy boughs of your mortal forests. But I die with a glad song in my heart, for the Beast is dead and I am free at last. Thank you, Jacqueline.”

With a sigh like the first caress of frost on an autumnal wood, she faded before Jacqueline’s eyes.

Wrapping the precious bottle in a swathe of black silk, the girl sadly left the scene of her victory, where a trussed-up brown bear howled and thrashed upon the Giant’s bed.

She would be dressed and long gone before the drugged servants fully awakened and the authorities arrived, but the melody that had alluded her for so long was suddenly in her head, a triumphant but bittersweet air where swish-like crashes of timpani were underpinned by a haunting piccolo refrain that perfectly captured a dying nightingale’s final song...