A Well-Placed Pinch Read online

  The King and Queen of the Fairies love to watch the human world through their magic mirror. When they see three young women rehearsing for a university production of Shakespeare’s romantic comedy Twelfth Night, the observers see more than the performers know they are showing. Will the shy butch disguised as a page win the heart of her idol, who plays the countess? And will the countess’ maid play a few tricks that aren’t in the script? The royal couple make a bet about how the real drama will be resolved. When the prize is sex, everyone wins!

  A Well-Placed Pinch

  Jean Roberta

  ForbiddenFiction

  www.forbiddenfiction.com

  an imprint of

  Fantastic Fiction Publishing

  www.fantasticfictionpub.com

  Copyright 2017 Jean Roberta

  Smashwords Edition

  A WELL-PLACED PINCH

  A ForbiddenFiction book

  Fantastic Fiction Publishing Hayward, California

  © Jean Roberta, 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the publisher, except as allowed by fair use. For more information, contact [email protected].

  CREDITS

  Editor: Lon Sarver

  Cover Design: Siolnatine

  Cover photo: Adapted from photos © Fotoatelie at Dreamstime.com

  Production Editor: Kaye O'Malley

  Proofreading: Emma Williams

  SKU: JB2 1.000294-01 SW

  ISBN: 978-1-62234-330-0

  Published in the United States of America

  DISCLAIMER

  This book is a work of fiction which contains explicit erotic content; it is intended for mature readers. Do not read this if it’s not legal for you.

  All the characters, locations and events herein are fictional. While elements of existing locations or historical characters or events may be used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental.

  This story is not intended to be used as an instruction manual. It may contain descriptions of erotic acts that are immoral, illegal, or unsafe. Do not take the events in this story as proof of the plausibility or safety of any particular practice.

  Such content should not be read as a depiction of the desires, opinions, or fetishes of the author or the staff of ForbiddenFiction.com.

  Contents

  Disclaimer

  1. A Well-Placed Pinch

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  A Well-Placed Pinch

  Oberon, the Fairy King, watched the action in his enchanted mirror. He was always aware that foolish mortals might require his intervention in their affairs.

  “My Lord,” laughed Titania, his queen. She had donned a sheer gown after their recent tumble in the grass, but the King preferred to remain skyclad, especially while watching mortals. He claimed the air on his skin helped him to concentrate. The queen approached from behind and captured his broad shoulders with her silken arms. “Dear heart, have you remembered to ward us?”

  “Of course, my love,” he said absently, assuring her that the magic circle around them would shield them from the eyes of intruders, mortal or otherwise. “Come see: you might like this, an amateur production of Twelfth Night with all the female parts played by females.”

  “How avant-garde,” drawled the queen. “I love to see curves that owe nothing to padding.”

  “You have much to see in the current age,” her lord responded, “but I rather liked the all-male performances when Queen Bess was alive. There is such tender charm in a young man trying to mount the stage in a gown without tripping over his train.”

  Titania ran her hands over her lord’s hairy chest, gently raking her fingernails over his skin. She was pleased to feel his shiver of pleasure. Without taking his gaze from the glass, he seized one of her hands and kissed it, ensuring that the caress of his beard would awaken her skin.

  “Frolicsome wife,” said the king, “I will make a wager with you. Do you see these two young women struggling to remember their lines?”

  The queen leaned closer to the silvery glass. “Oberon,” she chided. “They look like students with neither fluency in their tongues nor grace in their bodies. How many such performances have you watched since our Will left this world’s stage?”

  “No matter,” Oberon said, “Watch them and learn how they feel. They are such poor actresses that they display their hearts to us, if not to each other.”

  Titania pressed her head close to her lord’s as she studied the expressions of the two young women. “Oho! One has an appetite for the other, and that one is nervous and lovelorn. And who’s this? A third nymph is giving directions to the other two. What is your wager, my Lord?”

  “That the one with a hearty appetite will declare her love to her nervous admirer before they perform for an audience in three days’ time.”

  The queen chortled. “I wager you that the third will come between them and raise up a storm to break someone’s heart. There will be no vows of true love there.”

  “Will you bet on it?”

  “I will,” she laughed. “What are the penalties?”

  “If I win,” declared Oberon, “you must please me and my loyal subject Sir Mandrake with your sweet mouth. My man and I must each enjoy three paroxysms of delight, and you must swallow all the nectar we give you.”

  “I accept, my Lord. And if I win, you must submit to a flogging with cattails before kissing my little button for as long as I like.”

  “Such a demanding wife! I could never tire of you, Titania. We are agreed.”

  “Oh, Claire.” Rosie sighed loudly enough to rustle the leaves of the nearby birch tree. “You’re supposed to be serious. You think the Countess Olivia has no idea that you’re really female, but you’re not used to wearing tights and a doublet. You feel exposed and you’re worried about blowing your cover. You think your twin brother died in the shipwreck that left you stranded in Illyria, and you miss him. Your job is to get Olivia to fall in love with your boss, the Duke, not you. You need to focus on your character.”

  Claire, who’d been chosen for the role of cross-dressing Viola because of her boyish cuteness, had offered her parents’ garden as a private place to rehearse while they were out of town. It was a lot better than a dorm room. Performing in a love scene with Irene — the object of her fantasies for over a year — was Claire’s dream come true. The intensity of Rosie, with her red hair and her firm convictions, was definitely not part of the dream, but Claire knew she was right about Viola in the play.

  “Look,” said Irene, “reciting the lines from memory isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s improvise.”

  A classmate of Claire’s had told her that Irene was a fan of impromptu sex parties, but Claire felt too far out of the loop to know whether the rumor was a joke, a barb, or a casual statement of fact. As the androgynous suitor flanked by two bossy femmes, Claire was out of her league.

  “Good idea,” Rosie agreed. “We can stay in character but make up our own words.” As she shook away a strand of hair that had fallen across her face, she grinned at Irene. The two looked like conspirators, which was definitely in-character. Rosie was playing Countess Olivia’s maid, Maria. Beams of light bounced off the glossy black helmet of Irene’s hair as she moved purposefully forward under the trees. Even in an old T-shirt, she looked imperious.

  The competing perfumes of different flowers wafted through the air as Irene seated her delectable bottom on the iron bench near the fence. Claire knew from experience that the bench was more for show than for comfort, but it served well enough as a makeshift throne for a noblewoman.

  Claire resisted the impulse
to press down the cowlick at the crown of her head; the wind was doing its best to make her short hair stick up at odd angles. Focus, she thought. She threw herself into a supplicating pose, on her knees in front of Irene.

  “Is this a jest?” demanded Irene as the Countess.

  “No such thing, my Lady,” swore Claire, the swain. “I bring a totally honest message of love from my master, the Duke of this fair city.” Rosie stood smirking beside the bench, which didn’t help Claire’s concentration.

  Irene spread her arms as though they were wings. She spread her legs, too, taking up as much of the bench as possible. Claire couldn’t help noticing a rogue crotch-hair poking out of Irene’s ridiculously short shorts.

  “But I find your master’s declarations of love to be worthy of laughter.” She laughed in a theatrical voice as though she wanted the neighbors to hear. “Fair youth,” declared Irene, “I prefer the messenger to the master. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Claire. “I would make up love-poems and sing them to you in the middle of the night and yell ‘Olivia!’ to the mountains to hear the echo.” She reconsidered. “But I wouldn’t do all that for my own sake, of course. My Lady, please don’t mistake me for the one I serve. I am not what I appear to be.”

  “I am intrigued, my lad,” announced Olivia to an invisible audience. “What secret could you be hiding? Do you have some monstrous deformity under your clothes? If you want me to believe you are a trustworthy messenger and not a scoundrel or an ogre, you must reveal yourself as God made you.”

  Claire hoped Irene didn’t really expect to see a strip-tease. She wondered if this was Irene’s idea of a fair test, an ordeal that a suitor must survive to gain a lady’s attention and respect.

  “Rude boy!” exclaimed Rosie, tossing her hair over her shoulder and pushing out her chest. “My mistress wants you to take off your clothes.” Claire tried to think of a Shakespearean response, but words failed her.

  “You know you want to,” said Irene, clearly as herself, looking Claire in the eyes. Then, resuming her role, she went on. “I wish to see what is covered by thy rich doublet and cunning codpiece. What better way to display your courage and honesty than by showing me what you’ve got? If you do as I ask, I may grant you a favor in return.” Irene bubbled with sensuous implications, but Claire noted she wasn’t making any promises.

  “This isn’t part of the plot,” muttered Claire. She didn’t want her idol to think she was a spoilsport, but her panic was sincere when she burst out, “For the love of God, your Grace! We are in the open air. Besides, you would be sorely disappointed.”

  “How do you know?” demanded Irene.

  Claire clung to her role as a kind of Renaissance drag king. “Because,” she said, “I lack the manly equipment to compete in the wars of love.”

  Irene and Rosie both laughed. “You could buy it...” started Rosie.

  Irene interrupted. “Such equipment is available in yonder sex market, my fair angel. ‘Tis said that angels have no organs of generation, but I shall believe that when I see it for myself. Cesario, I bet your master the Duke knows what you have between your thighs.”

  What was Irene suggesting, if anything? Did she think Claire was getting it on with Mark McLeary — always referred to by his first and last names as if he were already a star — who was playing Duke Orsino?

  “He certainly does not,” Claire pointed out, regaining some of her confidence.”You mistake me, Madam. The Duke... prefers the company of gentlemen.” Quickly, she added, “Like your kinsman, Sir Toby! And his drinking buddy, Sir Andrew.”

  Irene was neither surprised nor distracted. “Oho! So thou hast a hairy clam between thy legs and it has — hath been neglected. Thou hast come to the right place, poor starving girl. We love womanly parts, my maid and I.” She lowered her tone.

  “You’re stalling for time, Claire, but you know you want to.”

  “Here?” whispered Claire, as if they were really on a stage with an audience within earshot.

  “Would you like to go inside?” asked Rosie, also sotto voce.

  Claire considered her options. She could just call off the rehearsal and tell the other two to leave. This would probably mean missing the chance of a lifetime and making a fool of herself on stage Saturday night. She could invite them into her parents’ house and indulge in every carnal pleasure the three of them could think up. Or she could host a little naked party in the garden, which was, after all, separated from the neighboring lots by a thick hedge on one side and a fence on the other. Indoor sex could leave stains on carpets and furniture, and guilt on the soul of Claire, as caretaker of her parents’ home.

  The pastoral setting won. She rose and made a courtly bow. “Your wish is my command, fair ladies.” With a grimace, she added, “Please try not to laugh at your humble servant.” She seized the lower edge of her T-shirt and heroically raised both arms, pulling it up to reveal her comfortable beige bra. Her small breasts didn’t really need support, but she preferred to have her nipples covered by more than one layer of cloth. Cool breezes and sudden tingles could produce unfortunate results — as they were now.

  Irene made a guttural sound somewhere between “ch” and “tsk.” “No one will laugh at you in my presence, servant-girl.”

  Rosie calmly reached behind herself to unzip her cotton skirt. “Sweet tits, Cesario,” she said. “You deserve to be punished for hiding these from us.” For a few minutes, the only human sound in the garden was the rustling of clothing as it was unfastened and taken off.

  “O what a banquet of female flesh is here!” declared Irene at last. Her own round, generous breasts were capped with dark-pink nipples that hardened when exposed.

  Claire couldn’t help but wonder how Irene and Rosie defined their relationship. She sensed a kind of hum between them that only dogs could hear, and both seemed amused by Claire’s troubled expression.

  Rosie held herself back, even when Claire glanced frankly at her pale, freckled body and noticed that while her upper body was delicate, her thighs and buttocks were more solid.

  Irene pulled her away from such mundane contemplation as she swept Claire into her arms and kissed her passionately. Claire melted as Irene’s tongue plunged in. Irene ruffled Claire’s hair with one hot hand while holding her close with the other.

  “Mm,” murmured Irene into Claire’s ear. “How much do you want me?”

  Claire hadn’t known that desire could be measured, and she couldn’t think of a witty answer. “All year,” she said, and that seemed good enough.

  “Mistress!” called Rosie, still in character. “Does our guest still have a maidenhead? And shall we relieve her of it?”

  “What say you to that, Cesario?” asked Irene. “Do you need to be thoroughly ruined by a pair of wise-women who know too much?”

  Claire felt delirious. Was her innocence so obvious? But she mustered control and found her character once more. “Oh, yes,” she enthused. “I have been so sheltered in the Duke’s household where all the men love cock with their cakes and ale. Your Grace, I have dreamt of you but never thought you could accept me for myself. You seem so worldly and depraved.”

  Irene and Rosie cackled together, like crows or the conniving older women they pretended to be. Irene ran her fingertips down Claire’s back from her neck to her waist and then back up. Claire shivered with pleasure.

  Suddenly, Claire felt another hand below. She jumped as Rosie pinched her cheeks. Soon, the pinches grew harder and more deliberate. Rosie seemed determined to awaken every inch of Claire’s bottom.

  Irene slid her hands around to grab Claire’s girlish breasts, one in each hand. She bent her head to take one of Claire’s nipples in her mouth and suck. At intervals that seemed timed with Rosie’s rough tweaks, Irene flicked the nipple with her tongue and grazed it with her teeth.

  Claire felt as if she were being tested. “O Madam!” she gasped.

  “I bet this is new to you,” gloated Rosie from behi
nd. “I bet your last girlfriend had no idea what to do.”