A prince heard tale of a princess—a beauty of many virtues, demure and reserved and modest. He even caught a glimpse of her through a portrait, finding her more beautiful than he could have ever imagined: a slender youth yet with an ample bosom, lips rich as if dyed by wine, skin pale and unblemished, face framed by loose curls of sunshine.

Her image jerked him into an emphatic love that he couldn’t hold back. Without restraint, he rode off to find her. His journey took him from the Royal Palace to the capital to the neighbouring kingdom and beyond, days turning to weeks, his infatuation strengthened by the struggle.

He had been told by a bard, “She’s held hostage, the prisoner of a fierce dragon, scales black as night and tongue of fire.” So he followed the rumours, coming to a small village in the middle of nowhere.

Yet when he asked around at the inn, the patrons showed fear as they ignored his questions. The barmaid, young and buxom, whispered to him with a smile, “Don’t mind them—they’re all scared of the dragon.”

Someone finally willing to speak to him, he asked her if the princess was truly near.

“Oh yes. Sometimes, you can even hear her moans out there in the night.” Despite that being a worrying thing to say, she kept her small smile, and then excused herself.

The day too late, he waited until the morrow to journey out. Following a path, he left the village and the farmland around it; soon, the landscape turned from rural to feral, full of scraggly shrubs and gnarled trees. Yet, just when he doubted the way, he heard in the distance a gentle song, one more alluring than even the twittering of birds. With renewed vigour, he clambered through the undergrowth towards the sound.

Once near, the harsh surroundings softened. What bushes there were were as if neatly trimmed and ripe with berries, and the trees—young trees with smooth trunks—no longer crowded him, and light spilled between the leaves.

He continued on and a cottage came into view. It was a small building, set in a clearing beside a small pond. The walls, while whitewashed, twinkled in a myriad of colours: vines climbed up it at parts, and tall flowers rose up from the ground, other flowers set on the windowsills, and upon the door a tiny mural had been painted of a dragon and a princess.

Looking around, he drew his sword. Yet he couldn’t see any signs of an actual dragon. No deep gouges marred the ground, nor charred stumps of burned down trees, nor even a nearby cave to dwell within.

Still wary, he edged towards the cottage where from within came that luring tune. No sooner did he set foot in the clearing than a loud voice called out to him.

“Hey, what’s a scrawny tramp like you doing out here, huh?”

He jerked to face the voice, finding nearby what looked at first glance to be a spectre of death. Clad in a cloak of deep violet, she stepped out from the shadows, bubbling over with a righteous anger.

“You swinging that big-ol’ sword around to compensate for something, are you? Put it away before I put it up that skinny arse of yours,” she said, walking until the distance between them had shrunk to a few paces.

After a short moment of silence, the prince slowly sheathed his sword. In a voice hesitant with confusion, he said, “I am… here to rescue the princess from a dragon.”

“You’re gonna have to rescue shit from your pants if you don’t walk yourself back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

“But—”

“Who asked you to come out here, huh? You think the princess wants to be rescued by you? Oh please, the only thing sorrier than the look of you is any woman unfortunate enough to be under you. I bet you think foreplay is French for groping a breast. If you’re not gonna let a woman do anything but be fucked, at least make her cum.”

The prince stood there for a long moment and then took a step back. “I will… return another time.”

“How about you return when someone asks you? Out here, when strange men with swords come wandering, we mistake them for vandals and crooks and we ask questions after putting them down.”

One second passed, and then another. She slowly reached into her cloak and pulled out a long, thin slip of wood before tapping it against her other palm.

He turned and fled.

She stared at where he’d stood for a few more seconds. Satisfied he wasn’t coming back, she walked over to the cottage while muttering curses under her breath. As she opened the door, she slipped off her cloak and said, “What have I told you about singing?”

The inside of the cottage was simple, nothing more than one large room and the necessary furniture to live: on one side of the entrance, a kitchen area; on the other, a table with two chairs; on the far side, a bed. Stray ledges stuck out of the walls all over, mostly packed with books (or having been packed with books until those books fell off, usually in the middle of the night and causing great alarm), other ledges homing plants and flowers. A vase of violets sat on the table, the flowers in a potion that kept them fresh and vibrant all year round, and a few paintings hung on the walls, and scattered doilies and small pieces of knitting added to the room’s decor.

Accompanying the sight, the smell of freshly baked bread filled the room, and a gentle song of only notes, no words, rang out. Yet the arrival of the woman cut short the singing.

“You told me it is most pleasant and wonderful,” said the princess.

This princess looked rather different to the one the prince had glimpsed. Amidst her slender arms stood the slight bulge of muscle, and her fair skin had seen sun, a few freckles where upon the sun had kissed and a gentle glow where it had merely touched. Her hands, while still soft and supple, had a slight roughness, her nails trimmed as short as a man’s. That hair that had been like sunshine pooling upon her shoulders now went no further than her chin, a strip of it coloured like the night. Even her breasts had changed, the accentuating corset exchanged for a more practical undergarment, milky flesh no longer spilling out of her clothes.

However, she was still called beautiful by someone and she cared for this someone’s opinion far more than anyone else’s.

With a long sigh, the witch eased down onto a chair, her hand coming up to rub her temple. “That was before I knew you were the bloody pied piper of dicks.”

The princess giggled, a refined laughter let free. “Thank you for dealing with him.”

With a click of her tongue and a wave of her hand, the witch shooed away those words. “If you wanna thank me, don’t use your lips, but move your hips.”

Smiling, the princess began to saunter over, her every step slow and deliberate, swaying side to side. Her seductive movements kept the witch’s gaze upon her and she relished the attention. When she came before the witch, she slowly bent down to take those harsh lips between her own, tasting a sweetness.

After a long moment, she drew back. “Can I not thank you with both?”

The witch returned her heated gaze before turning away with another click of the tongue. “You’re lucky you learn quick—no way I’d put up with so much trouble for a bed warmer.”