Erotic Fairy Tales: Rumpelstiltskin & The Golden Promise

By Veronica Sloan

The good news is that King Udolf wants to marry Lorelle, a starving little nobody from the poorest village in the kingdom. The bad news is that her drunken father swears she can spin straw into gold. Now Lorelle has until sunrise to prove him right, or both she and her father will face the hangman. Enter Rumpelstiltskin, a hideous hunchback with a serious attitude problem. His magic is the only thing that can save her life, but first she must submit to his carnal desire. Lorelle is prepared to hate him for that. She isn't prepared for the way his clever tongue makes her laugh...or the way it makes her moan!

This erotic romance is 27,000 words and for readers 18 and up.

~~~ Excerpt ~~~

Rump waited for her nervous fingers to relinquish his buttons. Then he said, with muffled anger, "I told you not to call me again. I told you that it would go hard for you. And yet--"

"--I did!" she snapped. "I have no other choice."

"No!" he said. "And did I not tell you that, too? There is always a choice."

"So you would have me choose my own death?" she said.

"Yes!" he shouted. The word was so loud and so fierce that Lorelle shrank from the hunchback. For a moment, his ugly face faltered and his golden fingers opened, as if to reach for her, as if to apologize for his outburst, but when the moonlight touched his hand, when it glinted back its cold metal, his heart hardened once more. "You owe them nothing, Lorelle, not even your life. Give them death. It is the only freedom in this world."

Lorelle clutched her throbbing chest. "How can you say such a thing?" she whispered. "Death is freedom? Only one who has lived so long could be so arrogant. If my mother taught me anything, you miserable man, it is that life is fleeting. It cannot be dispensed with so casually, not when its span is unknown or its quality variable by the moment. A week ago I was a worthless brewer's girl. Tonight I am a heartbeat removed from the crown. What will I be tomorrow? Would you prefer a corpse?"

The Rump clawed his fingers through his limp hair and threw his cap at his feet. "No," he said. "Only, it will not end here, Lorelle. The King will have you spinning until your dying breath."

"Yes," she said.

"I cannot save you indefinitely," he said. "There is only so much you can sacrifice."

"I will give what I must," she said.

"That," he said, "I do not doubt. You are as tenacious a maid as ever I met."

"I am no longer a maid," she said. "You saw to that."

The Rump gazed into her sweet brown eyes. "Aye. That I did. Though I took no pleasure in it."

"Liar," she said. "You took as much pleasure in it as I did." Then, remembering that he could never finish the act, she amended her statement. "Some pleasure."

"Pleasure is irrelevant to this new affair," he said. "Lorelle, I beseech you to reconsider."

"Why?" she said. "Is this not what you do? Is this not your demonic mission? To seduce women into your power?"

"My power?" he laughed. "Oh, Lorelle, if you knew..." He shuffled to the spinning wheel and gave its wheel a formidable turn. As it blurred into motion, silent sparks rolled forth into the shape of golden teeth. The teeth grimaced and melted into smoke. "I wasted my young years seducing women. What I do now is penance. Do you know what sacrifice I would ask of you for this second wish?"

"Some new depravity?" she hoped. "I confess, I've exhausted my imagination as to what it could be."

"You've been fantasizing about me, have you?"

"Let us not go so far," she said. Her fingers traced the circumference of the wheel until they rested close to his own golden hand. "Only that I have been preparing myself to be defiled."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Veronica Sloan
• Release date: Sep 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370697793

Veronica Sloan

Veronica Sloan writes dirty stories and naughty romances. Her erotica is explicit and steamy, and no topic is too taboo. A Chicago girl at heart, Veronica graduated from the Columbia School of Journalism with every intention of writing very important things about very important people. Currently, she spends her days writing about pop culture and her nights writing about lusty men and women and their naughty predilections. She loves big dogs, hot yoga and songs that are stupidly catchy. Visit her at https://www.veronica-sloan-erotica.com/home/.

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Rumpelstiltskin & The Golden Promise

© Copyright 2017, Veronica Sloan, All Rights Reserved

NOTICE: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: This story contains explicit content, including graphic descriptions of sexual intercourse. It is intended for adults only. All characters depicted are 18-years-old and older. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Cover created by Veronica Sloan. Cover Photos © Can Stock Photo Inc.

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Prologue

Once upon a time, in the poorest of the five kingdoms, a young woman was charged with an impossible task. She was of the common folk, and so this was no great surprise. Common folk, and common women, were often tasked with the impossible in that wretched age. Scrounging enough food for a simple meal was frequently impossible. Traveling from one village to the next without suffering violence or plunder was almost always impossible. Finding a husband with all his teeth? Impossible. But the gaps in a man's smile are not so repulsive when compared to the gap in his heart. Unfortunately, in those impossible days, whole hearts were in short supply.

The King of Dolfland was at war with the world and with himself, and while his soldiers despoiled the land to keep themselves fed, the common folk went hungry. The young woman with the impossible task was hungry most of her life. That was why, when the King locked her away, she did not despair. Despair can only afflict those whom hope has deserted, and hope was a stranger to young Lorelle of Dolfland.

And yet, what is a stranger but a friend lacking introduction?

On second thought, that is too poetic. A stranger can just as easily be a scoundrel. In fact, introducing oneself to a stranger was the leading cause of death in Dolfland (after the various cow-related ones). Consequently, strangers rarely became friends. It was this unhappy state of affairs that rendered Lorelle both hopeless and friendless when the King snatched her up.

There was but one creature in the kingdom that could save Lorelle from her fate. He was an unconventional savior, not handsome to look at, and the price of his assistance was high. However, when faced with death, even the lowliest peasant will scratch and claw and fight for just one more day. One more day was what he promised, if Lorelle could endure the impossible.

This creature, who might be called a man under the most generous definition, had haunted Dolfland since before it was known by that name. His own name, and how he came to be, was lost to the tongues of humankind. A fragment of his tale survived in the winds, where birds could still hear it, but that is hardly worth mentioning. For what lonely soul cares for the babble of birds?

Chapter 1

Baul the Brewer was not an evil man. He was a liar, a fool, and a drunk, but he never raised a fist in anger or betrayed the love of his dear wife. In the lowly village of Gorse Heath, where uncultivated men lived uncultivated lives, even these meager qualities marked Baul as an uncommonly gentle soul. To hear his wife and daughter tell it, Baul was indeed a gentle sort. He was that gentle sort of annoyance that is seldom favored by fortune and whose schemes are too incompetent to do harm. His girls loved him dearly, as only peasants can.

It was for love alone that Golda wed herself to Baul. The man was a poor brewer and forever reaching for some grander calling. In her starry eyed youth, Golda believed Baul would take her from Gorse Heath and that his mind, churning with such delightful fancies, would propel them to wealth and wonderment. After many years of marriage, Golda humbly accepted this as the dream of youth. She did so without bitterness, for few escaped the borders of their rude village and fewer climbed above the peasant's lot. There was no home in their future absent a thatched roof, nor a winter bereft of cows to keep them warm at night.

There were women (and not a few men) who questioned why Golda, so keen and comely, remained with Baul. It was rare that the man could be roused to do real work and what little ale he produced was, at its finest, a punishment to the tongue. Without his wife's supervision it would have been nothing at all, for she was the only creature in God's great kingdom that could bend him to his trade. As to why she stayed, the answer was simple. He made her laugh.

Baul would sing dirty songs and songs of surpassing strangeness. Baul told jokes that had no end. Baul, at his drunkest, made pledges to the moon and stars that put the Greek poets to shame, and always reserved his most auspicious odes for the Venus of Gorse Heath: Golda, his darling wife. Were Golda born a noble lady she might not be susceptible to bawdy limericks and grotesque riddles, but their little cottage resounded with her laughter from morning to the evening's final hour. The couple's daughter, Lorelle, found more embarrassment in Baul's tales than merriment, but even she conceded that her mother's snorting chuckle lightened an otherwise dreary existence.

Thus, the tragedy of Golda's death was threefold. Gorse Heath, a dank pit in the shadow of Udolf Castle, lost the only beauty within its borders; Baul the Brewer lost the only soul to find him charming; and Lorelle lost her childhood.

Without his wife to guide his lazy hands, Baul descended into complete idleness, leaving his daughter alone to manage the broken pieces of their hardscrabble life. The brewer forsook all labor that did not aid his stupefaction. His merry heart was cracked in half, and into that rift he poured the dregs of this pathetic ambition.

Despite her father's constant inebriation, young Lorelle could not hate the man. He was gentle, miserable, and useless, like the swaybacked mule that wandered their barren farm. She loved him because her mother taught her that love must prevail over anger and starvation, that love emboldens a weak and weary world, and bitterness leads to brittleness. A brittle soul cracks, her mother said. A loving soul binds. So Lorelle bound herself to her father.

It was a love that proved as laborious as her daily chores. In the morning, if her father was not abed, she'd scour the village's taverns and pig sties until she found him. There were seldom enough eggs or oats to pay a strong fellow to cart him back to the farm, so this task frequently concluded with the simple verification that Baul had not drunk himself to death. If he was still comatose by noon, a sympathetic villager might drop him on her doorstep. When Baul awoke (and after he vomited), he made crude attempts to delight Lorelle as he once delighted her mother, but Lorelle had no time for jokes or songs while she tilled their worthless soil or milked their bony cows--and if she did not hide the oats and malt she gathered, Baul would drink the wort before it fermented.

In time, Lorelle's beauty was the equal of her mother's. Her temper, however, was the rival of any troll in the five kingdoms.

A visitor to Gorse Heath might believe the girl was unmarried because of her father's helpless condition. Without his daughter's begrudging intercession Baul's fate was assuredly starvation or a stabbing, and so she simply had no time for wedding proposals. The locals knew better. Lorelle suffered from her own condition--being a pretty maiden in a village of louts and lushes--and was presumed to be as helpless as her old man. After a decade of