THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE

“Professor Digory Kirke” by Sarah Maria Griffin

Here is the thing about being the nephew of a magician. You get used to seeing strange things. If you had a childhood like Digory Kirke’s, dipping your hands in pools in magical forests with pretty girls called Polly, awakening entire worlds all by yourself, you become weathered. Hard to stun. Lions? Whatever. Snow witches? Sure.

Professor Kirke was over it. Fauns? Been there, done that. Centaurs? Phhhhht. Giant rats and stone tables and talking ducks with monocles and what have you—Kirke was unflappable. He’d just about shagged them all, over the years. He was exhausted from these magical creatures, these other worlds. He was old now, though. Bespectacled. Mostly impotent.

He never even thought about the wardrobe any longer, really. Folks didn’t come around so much anymore. The Pevensie brats got out from under his feet after the war. It was just him and his tomes, dust and all. There was a quietness to them, an antidote to his questionable youth.

But this warm, sunny morning in early summer, a heavy knock came to his door and he dragged his feet to answer it. When he unhooked the latch—like so many enchanted brassier straps of his past—and heaved the great door open, he was faced with two of the most splendorous and beautiful creatures his old eyes had ever fallen upon.

A tall, rugged man with slightly flippy brown hair and a square jaw and a handsome, yet weirdly expressionless face stood in the doorway. He wore a black trench coat and a sharp black suit. Beside him was a short woman with hair the color of fire in a slightly less fabulous suit wearing an expression of utter disgust.

“Can… can I help you?” asked Professor Kirke coyly.

“Fox Mulder, Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said the man, his voice gravelly and American.

Rarer than all brands of magical creatures in postwar England. An American. How exciting.

“Dana Scully,” said his partner flatly. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about a closet, or, excuse me, a wardrobe.” She rolled her eyes on wardrobe, as though she were saying unicorn or magical lion or bullshit.

There was nothing Kirke liked more than a cynic. Except Americans. American cynics—what a combination. How he would delight in their company.

“Oh? I do, I do certainly have a few of those in the house, although I believe I know the one you want to see. The big one.”

Mulder nodded. “We got some word in that the wardrobe in your home has certain properties that other household storage units don’t necessarily possess, Professor Kirke.” Scully laughed aloud, a bright, scornful “Hah!”

Kirke ushered them eagerly into his extravagant home, delighted, awoken, thrilled. He led them up the creaky stairway and down the landing to the room he had moved his largest wardrobe to, a locked, beautiful room, safe from any antics should the Pevensie sprogs ever come to his home again and take liberties over other worlds, develop a monarchy, and then go and dredge snow and forest all over his fancy carpets.

The room was so lavishly decorated that Scully’s eyebrows rose so high they almost left her forehead and ascended to outer space. There were great lamps, not unlike streetlights, lush bloodred wallpaper, a fainting couch, and taxidermy running from small cute bunnies to a great lion skin draped over the four-poster bed in lieu of a blanket. The lion’s eyes were open in something between horror, shock—and—possibly arousal. (Worry not, dear reader. Aslan is all right. Your golden savior did not fall to the remorseless lust of Professor Kirke. This was just another lion that was hanging around on the wrong night and didn’t quite survive his sexual appetite. He couldn’t talk or anything. Fret not.)

The wardrobe stood erect and magnificent. Professor Kirke leaned up against the side of it and looked at the pair of agents over his eyes.

“Here it is.”

“Do, do you mind if we take a look inside?” asked Mulder, eyeing the intensity of the room suspiciously. The air was heavily perfumed.

“Why would I let you do that? Do you have a warrant to search this premises? Did I not let you in here out of my own common courtesy? I mean, I have no problem per se, showing you what’s inside this wardrobe, if you… show me… something in return.”

Mulder took a slight step back. Scully sighed deeply. This nonsense again. How she pined to go back to medicine and surgery just so she didn’t have to deal with these lunatics every goddamn day of her life. Mulder was going to take the bait too. He always did.

“Show you, what, exactly?” asked Mulder.

“Well,” purred Kirke, stepping lightly across the room, “I’ll let you see what’s inside here, but you have to show me how much you like it. You know. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t excited by the unusual.” He was close to Mulder now. “By the supernatural.” Closer again. “By the magical.”

Mulder shrugged his shoulders and shuffled, both slightly aroused and slightly uncomfortable at the proximity of the old professor—at the proximity of the possibility of something supernatural happening. He fucking loved this shit. He was into it. The old man smelled like incense and trouble.

“You cannot be serious.” Scully’s voice was flat. She walked over and sat dramatically on the bed, in refusal to participate. “Mulder, can we leave right now? There is so little science in this house that I’m not even sure I can function.”

Professor Kirke ignored her and turned away from the tall handsome American and placed his hand on the knob of the wardrobe door. He opened it.

“If you like what you see, show me. Show me how much you like it.”

As he opened it, a bright gust of summertime rolled from the doors, lighting the whole room with otherworldly sun shining through the remaining old fur coats (the ones the bloody Pevensie creatures hadn’t stolen and wrecked). Mulder was so taken by this magical revelation that he became hard immediately. Professor Kirke noticed and grinned.

“You like that? You like seeing a glimpse of another world.”

“Yes,” grunted Mulder. “Goddamn it’s beautiful. Any… any aliens in there?”

“No, no,” said Kirke. “But I’ll tell you what is in there, if you show me what’s”—he gestured to Mulder’s exquisite suit pants—“in there.”

Mulder, without any hesitation, opened his fly and removed his throbbing, excellent, American dick. He stroked it carefully, well practiced. Scully put her hands over her face. Why did it always have to be this way? Why couldn’t they just arrest some fucking drug dealers, then go to a bar and go home? Why couldn’t he just find her sexy? Why wasn’t their dreamer/cynic dichotomy enough to turn him on? Why did it have to always be this weird shit? She had simple needs.

“What’s in there?” groaned Mulder softly.

“Fauns,” purred Professor Kirke.

Mulder gasped.

“Talking. Animals.”

Mulder groaned again.

“A kingdom, a vast unknowable kingdom.”

Tears awoke at the corners of Mulder’s eyes.

“A. Magical. Immortal. Lion.”

It was almost too much for the agent to bear and Kirke was hard too. Scully was bored. She wondered what putting her fingers into her eye sockets would feel like. She’d seen this shit happen a hundred times before.

Mulder stepped forward, majestic American dick in hand, into the wardrobe. When he saw the bright forest ahead of him, he moved his hand faster. God he loved supernatural things. He loved them. He loved them so much—

Kirke pulled him by the shirt collar back into reality just as he stepped over the boundary that separated Narnia from WWII-era England. The sensation of being slightly choked pushed Mulder over the edge and he climaxed in a flurry of white, snowlike cum. It fell to the ground just where Narnia ended and reality began, the seed of it one with the soil. Mulder’s eyes lit up at the sight of this: He had finally done it. He had finally fucked another world.

Flushed, he composed himself, and Kirke slammed the door shut. Scully surfaced from her burgeoning migraine, her hands on her face. “Are we done here? I don’t see any scientific evidence that there’s anything supernatural in that wardrobe, Mulder.”

Kirke nodded. “Absolutely. Absolutely nothing.” He quietly catalogued the beautiful image of this American special police federal agent man’s improbably gorgeous cock in his memory for further use. My, how he had not felt this way in many a year.

Mulder composed himself and turned, aghast, to Scully. “Scully,” he said, dismayed, “didn’t you see? Didn’t you see?”

Scully shook her head. “No, Mulder. I didn’t see anything. I can’t find any scientific proof that anything unusual happened in that wardrobe today. Science, Mulder.”

“But—”

“No, Mulder. We’re going home.”

“But—”

“Science. That’s all. Let’s go.”

And Scully erased that day from her memory just as she always did. When she got home, she drank an entire bottle of scotch and fell into a blissful, relieved sleep, while far away, Professor Kirke wrapped himself in lion skin and brought himself to ecstasy.

“What a Wife Does for Her Beaver” by Deborah Kenmore

Snowfall is always accompanied by comfortable silence. Not a creature stirring, mugs of cocoa, flannel blankets—all of it. But tonight, rhythmic sounds of pure flesh on flesh pierced the night, sending two wide-eyed squirrels up a tree.

“Arrer!”

“ARRER!”

“Dearie, did you say ‘Aslan’?” Mrs. Beaver was concerned—her husband never used their safe word this quickly. He usually relished these post-tea hours spent getting spanked on the snout with her wide, flat tail. “Do you want me to untie you?” She readjusted her bonnet and pushed her round spectacles back up her snout before turning to her Mister. Her beloved was an arresting sight: circular lenses askew, an ill-fitting ball gag causing his cheeks to puff out alarmingly, and his paws bound beneath that argyle sweater vest she had knitted for him last Christmas. A loud snort and flash of red from the window caught her attention—Tumnus, that dirty fiend, was watching them again. She knew by now that half the scarf would be wrapped tight around his neck, tugged to a choke by whomever he could entice to join him, while the other end would be knotted around his magenta-tinged shaft. He had a fondness for the itch of wool against his tally whacker. Oftentimes he stood outside, watching their beaver play, flicking and pinching at his wormlike erection until goat-man spunk spewed onto the windowpanes. Mrs. Beaver sighed. Things had not always been like this.

Ever since those Children of Adam and Eve had been here, Mr. Beaver was simply not himself. He was nervous, gnawing at anything and everything he could find! Goodness, even their dining room table and her sewing chair—covered in teeth marks! No wood was safe! And the things he would ask her to do. Gone were the days when he would approach her rocking chair, take her paw, and lead her to their marriage bed, the same they shared for the past eighty years. He would gingerly push her down on her stomach and slowly lick up her tail. “I want to savor this… your thickness… your meaty love flap!” His pillow talk was bumbling but effective, causing all four of her nipples to engorge, pressing up against the crispness of her pinafore apron. His pointed tongue would find its way into every crease, every line, every scale of her slick extremity, to the edges that he would nibble, causing her to lean forward on her paws and stick her bottom in the air. Then he would tenderly grip her bum before lifting her tail and burrowing his twitching snout into her fundament, a pink and puckered abyss, furred in brown. He would seek out her oils, smelling and licking at the liquids she secreted, professing an addiction to that fruity taste, much to her perpetual embarrassment and pleasure. “Let me suck from that font of mixed berry goodness!” This act alone sent paroxysms of sinful delight throughout her body, carrying her to a state of paralysis as the natural juices flooded out of her notch and soaked the fur on his abdomen. “Oh my,” he would chuckle, “have I burst the dam?”

“ISHIS!”

“ISHIS!”

Mrs. Beaver was pulled out of her reverie, amorous, filled to brimming with the liquids of nostalgia. That knocking outside was undoubtedly Tumnus, that randy beast, stamping his hooves angrily as the pressure built up in his fuchsia cock-stand. Her husband was wide-eyed, glaring, clamping down on the ball with his prominent teeth and straining to be free of his sweater. She unbuckled the gag from around his neck and pulled the vest over his head.

“Dearest, I was saying, ‘HARDER!’ not ‘Aslan!’”

“Beaver darling, I do apologize, this dreadful cold, I think it’s reached my ears! Would you look at that.” She was peering at a hole in the sweater. “You’ve clawed right through. Oh do be careful next time, Mister.”

“You’d best sleep with the flannel cap on tonight, my flower—blimey!” The faun’s clomping had quickened, and he was braying hoarsely into the night, “YES! Yes! Chipmunk, you tiny bitch, tug the scarf!” while the Beavers braced themselves for the inevitable, syrupy moistness that would coat their home.

“Don’t you mind that filthy bugger, Mr. Beaver! He is not a well faun.”

She could recall the first time she noticed the change. It was that… tail job. He rarely asked for the treatment but when he did, she was always rewarded with a spray of his own unctuous emission all over her face—and it tasted just like coconut cake. She had just started when he turned his head and asked innocently, “Why… why don’t you fit it all in your mouth?” She complied, taking it inch by whiskered inch, gagging from its girth, eyes watering from its river-scented musk. “Bite it. Be a love and bite it hard.” No sooner had she clamped down than he shuddered and moaned, his organic cream spurting out all over the faded patchwork of their quilt. “That was the tickity-boo, Beaver love,” he said, before kissing her cheek and reaching for his nightshirt.

After that night he always wanted his tail bitten, and he started bringing home a vast array of accoutrements meant to be inserted in all manner of bodily openings! The ball gag, clamps, a string of silver beads she mistook for a necklace—that was a birthday she would always remember—and handcuffs a tad too large for beaver paws. But he professed a liking for the metal. “It’s the stiffness and the dark cold,” he confessed, an odd glint in his eyes, “just like the witch.” He chewed down sticks to be thrashed with, the friction of which created bald spots in his lush fur, spots she would lick afterward, while he tittered and hissed from pain, “Mmm, right there. That bit there.” He even brought home two dildos, one tan and the other black, the sizes of which every Son of Adam aspired to. They stood at either side of the fireplace, towering bastions of shameful glee. She enjoyed those toys thoroughly during her “alone times,” but the sight of his enjoyment baffled her. This was her Mister! Her Mr. Beaver, who liked his tea milky, spoke incessantly about gardening, horsed around with their grandchildren and referred to colds as the “snuffle-wuffles.” Her Mister, who seemed to have acquired a taste for having one enormous, vibrating doodle plunged deep inside his hirsute rectum with his tail propped on top while she slapped him with the other monstrously mechanical member, so huge as to require both paws to grasp. Was this age creeping up on them? As she swung floppy, flesh-toned rubber at her husband’s mouth, she lamented not being able to ask her mother about these things.

“UNGHH YES… YES!”

The faun had cum, his baby-making discharge, painted across the window. A tiny paw print in the corner of the splooge opus indicated that Chipmunk had, in fact, been there. Mrs. Beaver rolled her eyes as she pulled the vest over her husband’s head. She straightened her floral housecoat before giving the glinting string of beads that peeked out from under Mister’s tail a tender pull.

“Ready, Beaver?”

“Tug it, missus. Tug it hard for NARNIA!”

“Jadis: The White Witch” by Alan Leggitt

“All hail Her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia, Chatelaine of Cair Paravel, Empress of the Lone Islands.” The voice echoed through the throne room, bringing the great assembly to silence. Wolves, ogres, dwarves, Minotaur, incubi, and other assorted evil spirits all took a knee and fixed their eyes on the stone floor. Presenting her finest resting bitch face, the White Witch entered and slowly approached her throne, savoring the silent terror of her minions.

The Queen of Narnia wore a tight corset that showed off her milk-colored cleavage, a semi-transparent silk robe, and a lavish silver belt, encrusted with diamond skulls. The only spot of color on her person was her bright red lipstick.

“You may rise,” the Witch said after she was seated. Her voice was soft, yet it seemed to echo through the very souls of those present. “What business shall be set before the queen?”

The great wolf Maugrim, chief of secret police, stepped forward. “Your Grace,” he growled. “My wolves found a Son of Adam roaming in the Western Woods. He submitted to capture and has requested an audience with Your Majesty. He was armed with this.”

Another wolf bounded forward with a two-handed broadsword in his mouth. The queen patted his head, gave him a treat, and let out a regal, “Who’s a good boy?” before inspecting the sword.

“A fine weapon,” she mused. “Very well, bring in the prisoner.”

The doors of the hall opened and the assembly turned, chattering with excitement. Flanked by two wolves, a tall and muscular man strutted in, clad in a fur loincloth. The visitor’s body, though scarred and weathered, seemed to be carved from shining bronze—a Harlequin romance cover brought to life. He held his head high, long black hair flowing behind him, smoldering blue eyes fixed on the queen.

“Your Grace!” the guest’s voice boomed as he stood before the throne. “I am Conan the Cimmerian, Slayer of Serpents, King of Aquilonia. I have come to take your hand in marriage and proclaim myself King of Narnia.”

There was a great uproar. Goblins giggled, wolves growled, wraiths hissed, and Wooses… made that sound that Wooses always make. The White Witch was taken aback, for the first time in over a hundred years.

“Silence!” shouted the queen, her voice piercing the cacophony, and all was still. She fixed her icy gaze on the presumptuous intruder. “You will kneel before addressing the empress and speak only when spoken to. God, did feminism even happen?”

All eyes turned to the Son of Adam, who remained standing. “Conan the Barbarian kneels for no woman,” he growled. “This kingdom needs a man to rule, or it will surely fall.”

For a long time the queen stared at the barbarian like he was an insect, then slowly, a sinister smile spread across her red lips.

“Very well, Conan the Barbarian,” proclaimed Jadis. “I have heard legends of thy strength and courage, and I believe that you are just the man that Narnia needs.”

The entire court gasped, while Conan smirked, quite pleased with himself.

“But before I can consent to marriage,” the queen added, “I’ll need you to prove your virility.”

Conan scoffed. “Mine is the mightiest seed that the Age of Hyboria has ever known.”

The witch smiled. “Then you shall take me right here, right now.”

This time, it was Conan who was taken aback. “Right now?” he asked. “But… it’s not even our first date. Shouldn’t we… wait until we’re married?”

The queen waved the thought away. “A draconian relic of the patriarchy. You must take me first, so I can be sure that you are capable of producing an heir.”

Insulted, Conan boomed, “Very well! Dismiss this court and I shall take you in this very room.”

“Is the King of Narnia afraid to do his royal duty in front of his subjects?” returned the queen.

“What? No,” said Conan. “I just…”

The witch interrupted. “Ladies! Help King Conan out of that loincloth.”

From behind the throne appeared three lithe women with red wings and black horns. Though they appeared to be in their early twenties, each succubus was more than ten thousand years old.

The sex demons surrounded Conan and began stroking his barrel chest, caressing his meaty thighs, running their fingers through his windswept hair, and kissing his broad neck and mighty nipples. When one of them slipped his loincloth down, Conan coughed. “Cold in Narnia…,” he muttered. Two of the succubae set to work on Conan’s manhood, licking his scrotum and taking the head of his Thulsa Doom in their mouths. Another succubus gently flapped her wings and hovered with her unholy lady parts before his face. Though her cunt smelled of hellfire and brimstone, Conan felt compelled as if by magic to go down on her.

Meanwhile, the queen was becoming aroused. She lifted her robe and began fondling herself. (Remember that potion she used to turn the snow into hot chocolate? Turns out it also makes a great lube.) Many members of the court (except the ethereal ones… and the ones without hands) began fondling themselves as well.

“You see, Conan,” the queen whispered, though her voice echoed through the throne room, “it is always winter in my vagina. But never Christmas.”

By the time Conan was fully erect, the White Witch had removed her belt, opened up her robes, and let her supple snow-globes spill out of her corset. She beckoned him, “Come stick me with that broadsword of yours, My King.”

Conan swaggered forward, his epic erection waving before him, while the queen lay at the edge of her throne and spread her legs. With a mighty battle cry, the barbarian plunged his Jewel of Gwahlur into the witch’s cave.

“By that Hammer of Thor! It’s cold in there!” bellowed Conan.

Jadis replied with a coy smile.

Conan began hammering her ice cavern with his battering ram, but with each thrust, the barbarian seemed to lose momentum.

“What sorcery is this?!” Conan exclaimed. He had ceased his incursion and was trying to pull out, but like a wet tongue stuck to a frosty pole, his barbaric boner was trapped in the queen’s frozen abyss.

Jadis yawned while Conan grunted, tore at her corset, pushed against her throne, twisted and pulled from every angle. Despite the barbarian’s exceptional strength, his stiffy would not budge.

In a fit of rage, Conan lifted the queen from her throne and slammed her back down again. There was a sickening crunch that echoed through the hall, and Conan fell backward, clutching his pelvis.

Tossing what remained of her tattered corset to the ground, the White Witch stood naked before her subjects, some (but not all) of whom had stopped masturbating. The queen reached down between her thighs and pulled something hard and black out of her vagina. It was Conan’s still-erect penis, which had succumbed to frostbite and snapped off.

“You see, Conan,” the queen whispered, though her voice echoed through the throne room, “it is always winter in my vagina. But never Christmas.”

The White Witch sat back in her throne and lit a cigarette, admiring the frozen phallus. “You can be the king,” she said to Conan as her guards dragged his neutered body away. “But watch the queen conquer.” She tossed the icy cock to one of her succubae. “Now finish me off, girls!”