The Love Song Of The Seven Dwarves

Where did these horny little men come from, and where were they going to cum next?

I guess this whole situation started when my mother, the Queen, was sitting and sewing beside an open castle window during a winter snowfall, when she either pricked her finger or fingered a prick, causing three drops of red blood to drip onto the snow-heaped-up on the window sill.

Now, I’d show you my magic bean if you could only tell me what in the hell was she doing sitting by an open window in a snowstorm, anyway?

I mean, that’s definitely wasting energy.

No wonder the heating bill was so damn high.

Anyway, she sat there and looked at those three drops of blood on the white snow heaped up on the ebony window sill and she got the damndest idea.

“I wish for a daughter with skin as white as freshly fallen snow, with lips as red as blood and hair as black as ebony.”

No, I don’t know what she was smoking, either, but I bet you it was pretty “grim” weed indeed!

Mind you, I’m just telling you the story the way it was told to me.

Well, by and by the Queen’s belly swelled right up, and quicker than you could say “Go forth and multiply, you fuckers!” she realized that she was with child.

And by “with child” I mean that she was up the hoop.

You know, like her baby bump was all swollen up.

I mean, her eggs were neatly in her basket and her seed had been planted.

She was totally prega-saurus-wrecked and a definite Milf-to-be!

Well, you know how it was back then in the days of yore, with no medical planning or hospitals or such.

My darling mother died giving birth to me, her very own daughter, and my daddy, the King took one look at my white-as-snow skin, my red-as-blood lips, and my hair as black as ebony and he said “Shit! That bitch has been Draculated! She is totally a vampire! Get the garlic! Get the holy water! Bitch, don’t make me get cross with you!”

I never said much about my Daddy being all that big in the brain department, but you try wearing a crown all day long and see what all that crown-inspired brain pressure gets you.

Fortunately, my Mom had thought to leave a will with a wise man (whose name happened to be Will, but he doesn’t appear anywhere else in this story so you can just forget I ever mentioned him, okay?), and old Wise Man Will spoke up and let the King know that I was supposed to be called Snow White.

So I was born, and then grew up, and somewhere in between all that my wicked old stepmother Evilla, showed up and crooked her finger around my Daddy’s cock ring, (You know that ring that you get around your cock if you don’t wash regularly), and the very next thing you know he was doing whatever she told him to do.

Besides being wicked, my stepmother had a magic mirror that could tell her no lies.

She’d look in that mirror and she’d say “Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”.

And the mirror would usually say “Well shit, you are, bitch!”

Mostly on account of that mirror knew how pissed off she would be if he said anything else than that. I mean, stop and think about it, would you? We lived in a castle made out of brick and stone, so there was ALWAYS some rock lying around for step-mommy to pick up and chuck if she got seriously pissed off at that magic mirror.

Then one day, after I’d hit puberty and turned up on the magic mirror’s radar, everything turned to total shit.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” Evilla said.

“Oh hell,” the magic mirror replied. “Pretty please Evilla, don’t throw no stone, for your stepdaughter Snow White is the fairest alone.”

Well, faster than you can say “eviction notice,” I was walking through deep dark thorny woods being escorted by a Huntsman, who spent the whole journey telling me just how sorry he was being out here with me with orders to take me out and get me lost and then to kill me and cut my heart out to show to my evil step-mommy, and didn’t that make me feel so goddamned special and all.

Well, I know that some storytellers will tell you that I got down on my knees and I cried until my cheeks were wet and that the Huntsman took pity on me and let me live.

However, the truth of the matter is that I did actually get down on my knees, and my cheeks did get all wet and splashed as well as my face and my lips and even a little bit of backsplash spilled onto my bosom (which is a term used by old-time storytellers whenever they were talking about tits).

And so he let me live.

Then the Huntsman killed a poor, innocent little deer that wandered by. He cut out the deer’s heart to bring back home to my evil step-mommy and he left me outside of a cottage where the seven dwarves lived.

I mean, what could my evil step-mommy do about it?

Run a damn DNA check on the heart?

You know the dwarves I’m talking about — Grampy, Harpo, Zippo, Snuffo, Gumbo, Oboe and Yoyo.

Note — Although the term dwarf is often used and dwarfism is a medical term, some people are not as comfortable with that term. “Little Person” or “Person of Short Stature” are generally considered to be more acceptable. “Midget” is highly offensive and considered a derogatory and oppressive term. As with most people, Little People prefer to be called by their names rather than using a label. However, I’m going to go with calling them the Seven Dwarves, just because that’s exactly what they told me they were called!

So, after the Seven Dwarves found me napping in their bedroom we came to a mutual agreement as to our sleeping arrangements.

Basically, it was a calendar situation.

There were seven days a week and seven dwarves, so Monday night Grampy slept with me, Tuesday night belonged to Harpo, Wednesdays to Zippo, Thursdays to Snuffo, Fridays to Gumbo, Saturdays to Oboe, and Sundays I spent the night with Yo-Yo (who always came back for more).

In between all that, I tried to get as much rest as I could manage. Those fellows were pretty active. I mean they all worked in a mine full of jewels and precious metal, so they were physically fit, and some of them were rather well-hung.

I let a whole year go by and then, one day while they were down in the mine, I spent the day carefully tying seven lovely hemp neckties and before the night was over with I made certain that ALL seven of them were totally well hung.

And I know that strictly speaking, I should have written “hanged” instead of “hung”, but I wanted to make a pun, so FUCK YOU, GRAMMARLY!

So, after I’d hanged all seven of my captors — because let’s face it, after a year of having to pay my rent with group sex every night — I had begun to feel a little constrained, Stockholm Syndrome or not.

Then I lay down with a rope that I had braided out of toilet tissue looped around my neck, waiting to be rescued.

Now, you’d think that after living there for a year, and not seeing anybody but my somewhat less-than-magnificent seven captors, I might have been a little bit more proactive in my search for freedom.

Only I never said that I had all that much more in the way of brains than my dear, darling, Daddy had, crown or not.

Anyway, I actually figured I was going to pass this whole episode off as a cult mass suicide, when along came Prince Charming who took one look at me lying there with that toilet paper noose wrapped around my throat.

As quick as you can say “choke joke”, Prince Charming decided that it was a fine time for him to demonstrate his ancient monastery-honed techniques of Shibari Rope-Bondage.

Well, even though the rope he was using was made out of easily shredded toilet tissue, I just didn’t have the heart to break the news to him.

After a while, we both decided on marriage.

I mean, with us both being of royal blood and sharing a surprising amount of similar kinkiness, we just ought to get together and tie the knot.

I mean, one more knot.

So we got home to the castle, and the first thing he did was to punish my evil old step-mommy.

He had a blacksmith hammer and a pair of red-hot iron fuck-me shoes and my evil step-mommy was sentenced to dance in those red-hot shoes until she dropped dead, or fell out of step with the music.

And the two of us lived happily after, so long as my Prince Charming doesn’t find out about my part-time love affair with the shoemaker blacksmith, who has promised to make me a pair of red-hot high-heeled fuck-me shoes.

I’d like to thank Laura Knapke (Nap-Key) whose story “My Five Horney Voyeurs” inspired the writing of this weird, sick, twisted fairy tale.

Oh, and since you’ve read all this way, how about a bonus short story?

The Seven Dwarves Visit The Vatican!

(A Ginger Bangs bonus story)

So Dopey and the other seven dwarves go to to the Vatican to visit the pope. Doc goes up to the pope and asks, “Pope can you tell me, are there any dwarf nuns in the Vatican?”

Now that question really freaked the Pope out.

He scratched his chin, looked around in a bit of confusion, and then shrugged eloquently.

“No,” he told Doc. “As far as I know there are no dwarf nuns here in the Vatican.”

“What about in Europe?” Doc went on. “Are there any dwarf nuns in Europe?”

Which REALLY stumped the Pope.

“What an odd question,” the Pope replied. “But, as far as I know there aren’t any dwarf nuns in Europe.”

Doc burst out laughing.

“See,” he said to the other Dwarves. “I told you that Dopey had to be mistaken.”

Now the dwarves broke out in a giggle fit that sounded a little bit like a flock of starlings twittering in an apple tree.

“I don’t get it,” the Pope said to Doc.

“Don’t you see?” Doc replied. “Dopey didn’t seduce a smoking hot dwarf nun.”

“So who did Dopey fuck?” the Pope asked.

“Don’t you see? Dopey fucked a goddam penguin!”