The Frog Prince
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft, Fairy Tale,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - An original fairy tale in which a boy is turned into a frog by an evil witch. It turns out it was the best thing that could have ever happened to him.
Once upon a time, in the kingdom of King Tanush, The Brave, there was an evil, ugly old woman named Abigail. I know this sounds strange, because Abigail is a nice, pretty name, and one would hope that anyone with that name would also be pleasant to be around, as well as fair to look upon.
But such was not the case with this Abigail. She was almost unimaginably ugly, with a crooked nose, upon which sat warts, out of which long, black hairs grew. Her chin was pointed and her teeth crooked. Dank, mud-colored, lifeless hair hung from her scalp. It has been hypothesized by philosophers, that her visage was the reason she had such an equally horrible disposition. And one with a horrible disposition is likely to be less than eager to be nice.
Especially to people who look at her and wince.
So most people steered clear of Abigail unless they had need of the herbs, potions and poultices she made. Though there was no proof, most people believed she was a witch, and that if she saw them and was displeased for some reason, she could cast some odious spell on them.
Some people had no choice but to interact with the wicked, old, ugly woman, however, and Galen was one such person.
Galen worked for a number of people. He basically ran errands, and did chores for whoever was in need of him at a given moment. And one day, as he passed the tavern on an errand for Old Tadec, who raised the biggest turnips any man had ever seen, a man wearing a dark, hooded cloak reached and a huge hand grasped Galen’s collar, jerking him to a halt and almost strangling him.
“Boy!” growled the stranger. “I have need of your services.”
“I’m busy at the moment, kind sir,” said Galen, lifting the garden fork in his hands. “I must take this to the blacksmith and have the tines sharpened.”
“And so you shall,” said the man, whose face could not be seen in the dark recesses of the hood, “just as soon as you deliver this parcel to the old woman who lives at the edge of town and makes medicines.”
Galen knew the old woman being referred to was Abigail, and like everyone else in town, he thought she was a witch, and sought to remain out of her sight.
“I cannot,” he said. “I promised Old Tadec I would get this sharpened and return quickly. There is a copper piece waiting for me in his purse, and it will buy my supper.”
The hand holding his collar did not waver. “I have a gold quarter-piece in my purse that will buy you many suppers,” said the voice coming from the hood. “It can be transferred from my purse to yours, should you be quick and deliver this as I instructed you.”
Galen had never held real gold in his own hand. He’d seen bits of it in others’ hands, but never felt it himself. The lure was irresistible. Still, he fancied himself a businessman, of sorts.
“I will do this, if you will take this garden fork to the blacksmith and leave it with him, so I can collect it when our business is finished,” he said.
“Done!” said the stranger. He thrust the paper-wrapped and string-tied parcel into Galen’s hands, while plucking the garden fork from the same. “Now, be quick. Take this to the herbalist, and tell her it is from a friend.”
“No sooner said than done!” announced Galen, proudly. He turned and dashed away, already thinking of all the things he could buy with a quarter piece of real gold.
Had he looked behind him, he would have seen the tall, mysterious figure negligently toss the garden fork on a pile of dung before turning to walk the other way out of town.
And he might have thought again about doing what the stranger had contracted him to do.
Galen came near to Abigail’s house, which looked like it might fall in a heaping pile of rotted wood at any moment. Upon coming closer, though, he realized the house was actually made of stone, though it was darkened with age, and covered with ivy.
He approached the door, which had shapes cut through it, those of a new moon, surrounded by stars. A dim light shone through the shapes as he reached for the huge, black, iron knocker on the door. He feared that knocker might cause the door to fall as splinters, but all there was when it fell was a flat thunk.
Then, as he was reaching for the knocker to try again, the door suddenly opened ... and there she was. His breath seized in his lungs as his eyes took in the wrinkled, sagging skin of her jowls, and the bulbous nose, with its warts and hairs.
Forcing his lungs to work, he gasped, “Here!” and thrust the package toward the old woman.
“And what is this?” asked the crone, her voice high and tremulous.
“A friend sent it,” whispered Galen. His voice had stopped working, but it doesn’t take a voice to whisper.
Rather than taking it, she extended one withered hand, and touched the package with her index finger. Galen stared at the long, blackened nail, almost a claw, on the end of that finger. No sooner than that nail touched the paper, however, than she jerked her hand back, and her voice made a keening sound.
“Magic!” she wailed. “Someone tries to destroy me!”
Galen dropped the package, and stepped back. He would have run, but it was all he could do to make his legs move him that short distance.
The old woman confirmed the rumors as she pointed that blackened fingernail at the package and uttered incomprehensible words in what could only be a spell. There was a burst of flame and smoke, and Galen saw all the colors of the rainbow as he tried to shade his eyes.
Slowly, his vision returned to normal, which would have been comforting, had not the old witch been staring at him. At her feet, devoid of its wrappings now, lay a blackened, gaping skull. It seemed to grin at him with evil intent.
“You tried to visit destruction upon me,” she wheezed.
“No!” he yelped. Now his legs became his own again, and he turned to flee.
He had taken but three steps, during which his ears heard her muttered voice again, and suddenly he was in the middle of more bright, colorful lights. At first he thought all was well, because the lights disappeared, and the way was clear before him.
Except things looked too big.
Or, to be more nearly correct, they looked too high up.
And his legs refused to work in the fashion of a boy running, meaning one leg would push him forward, while the other prepared to do the same thing in but an instant.
Instead, both his legs were pushing him at the same time.
He suddenly realized he was high in the air ... much too high, somehow. And then the ground was rushing up toward him with alarming speed, and he knew he was about to die.
Except he didn’t. All that happened was that he landed on legs that flexed and accepted his weight as if it were nothing.
He tried to yell “Help!” but an astonishing thing happened. His voice came out different than it ever had before.
“Ribbet!” he croaked.
He felt something grip his ribs and saw the ground rushing away again. But this time he did not fall to land. The world turned and his right eye saw the witch, who had an evil, toothless grin on her horrid face.
“Your punishment shall be to live as a frog for the rest of your years.” She cackled. “But I am not void of mercy. The curse may be broken if a princess loves you and kisses you.” Her cackling filled his ears as she dropped him. His legs caught his fall and then bunched automatically, making him leap, land and leap again, trying to escape.
The cackling of the old witch still rang in his ears but there was no pursuit as Galen hopped slower and slower until he landed ker-splat in a puddle. The water and mud felt wonderful on his feet. He tried to look at them, but couldn’t turn his head any more.
Things looked odd too. He could see one set of things on his right, and another on his left, but he couldn’t seem to focus on either set to the exclusion of the other.
He croaked again and, as the horror of his situation began to become evident, he smelled water. He had never smelled water before. Not like this. It was even better than the scent of newly fallen rain on a glorious morning. It smelled so good, in fact, that it was almost like a taste! Automatically he started leaping toward that glorious scent.
“She has turned me into a frog!” he tried to say, which came out “Ribbit, ribbit ribbit, croooooak.”
He was distracted as he arrived at what he knew to be the creek. He leapt into the water and instantly felt as if he could fly. He had swum with the other boys in the river, but that, compared to this, was like trying to swim in quicksand. He could bend and kick and dart any way he wished. It was fully five minutes before he realized he hadn’t taken a breath since leaping into the water.
He came to the surface, startled as the water whisked him along so rapidly he felt like he might be flying, somehow, in the water. But he knew how fast the creek ran, this time of year, and he realized its speed was magnified by his diminutive stature.
He swam to the shore and hopped onto a rock to think.
He had to find some way to get changed back into a boy.
His reflections determined that the powers that had made him what he now was were his only hope at reverting to his original state. She must have powders and potions that would undo her evil spell.
Swimming back upstream was child’s play. Or should I say frog’s play. The current was no barrier to his smooth travel. And, once on land, his hops took him quickly to the hedge that surrounded the witch’s abode. Granted, it took longer than it would have if he had boy’s legs, but he was also less visible, traveling low to the ground as he did.
He waited. A fly happened by and he was horrified when his tongue, of its own volition, shot out to strike the insect and bring it back into his mouth. He was then astonished when the fly tasted good!
By and by he heard the hinges of the door creak and the footsteps of the hag. She was leaving, no doubt on some errand to town. The gods knew no one like his former self would appear to do those errands for her, so she was reduced to doing them herself.
“Good!” he thought to himself.
Getting into the house was easy. There were gaps and cracks in abundance. Once inside he hopped around, looking for he knew not what. The separated vision his eyes insisted upon was vexing at first, but then he realized he could see the entire room at once, instead of having to turn his head, as would have been required were he still a boy. His left eye spied a table against one wall, upon which were various bottles, and baskets and bundles of things that had once grown. Above that were shelves lined with more of the same.
He hopped up to the table with ease.
Now hopping was not productive, but he found he could shuffle about and did so, his eyes examining the labels on the jars.
It was on the second shelf up on the wall that he found something that looked promising. It was a small glass tube, capped with a cork. A powder lay within the tube, pink in color, and a paper label on the glass bore the scrawled letters: One wish.
He tried to gnaw at the cork, and the tube spun to roll to the edge of the shelf, where it disappeared.
“Oh no!” he croaked, but then he heard the tinkle of glass breaking.
Hopping down, he found the pink powder scattered in a spray going away from the now shattered vial.
He lapped at it, knowing his sticky tongue would capture some grains.
“I wish I were a boy again!” he thought, frantically.
“Curses!” he groaned. “Her spell is too strong.”
Lapping up more of the powder, he changed his wish.
“I wish that a princess will find me attractive and love me as I am.”
Again, he felt nothing save a twisting sensation in his middle. That, he ascribed to despair when no princess appeared in a puff of smoke to save him.
He tried other bottles and packages but a frog’s feet are not configured for manipulating such. In the end he slipped out a crack and hopped back toward the stream.
Time passes differently for an amphibian. It was days later, though Galen could not have said how much time it was. He ate, and slept. Sometimes he slept while the sun rose or set, and so he could not count the days.
He was sitting on a lily pad, doing what frogs do, croaking, when a sudden movement startled him. A hand grabbed his body and he rose again into the air. The hand stuffed him into a bag with other frogs. It was dark in the bag and the other frogs squirmed and croaked, but he could not understand what they were saying.
There was movement, a swaying that made his frog stomach queasy, and he realized the bag was swinging in the fist of his captor.
Some time later he heard voices he could understand.
“Thomas! Where have you been?” came a woman’s strident call.
“I have frogs for you, Melanie. Many frogs. We can have their legs for our supper!” called his captor.
“Well dump them in this tub, then, and we shall see whether we will eat well, or poorly, my brother.”
“We will eat well, Melanie. I am a good hunter,” said the boy, proudly.
There was the tumbling of bodies all about him and then blinding light as he spilled into a large bowl with his new kin.
“Ahhh,” said the woman. “You are, indeed, a great hunter, Thomas. Father bemoans that you are too young, yet, to work beside him as he grinds grain into flour, but surely he will be proud of you when he sees what you’ve brought us.”
“Thank you Melanie. Can I help you butcher them?”
“That is woman’s work, Thomas. You go and tell your father to be home for supper in two hours, eh?”
Galen righted himself in the bowl and sat, despondent. There would be no princess for him. His last moments would be spent in a frying pan.
He had to watch as first one of the others, and then a second and third were pulled from the pan, laid on the cutting board nearby, and their legs removed with a sharp knife. His compatriots made no sound as they died, but he knew there must be pain. Surely one’s legs could not be removed without there being pain.
And then it was his turn. A surprisingly feminine hand gripped his sides and lifted him, suspending him so he could be examined.
“My, but you’re a stout one,” said the miller’s daughter. “My name is Melanie, and I honor and thank you for providing our dinner.”
Then she paused. Galen’s right eye observed as her face took on a look of shock. Her eyes grew round as saucers.
“What’s this?” she gasped.
Galen felt something happening, but could not have described what it was. He knew only that the hand of the girl felt entirely different than the hand of his captor, a boy. Her hand was soft, rather than callused and work-worn, but that was explained by her tender years. Galen could now see she was but a girl, not much older than he, before the curse had ruined his life.
“This cannot be,” said the girl with wonder in her voice. “What protrudes from your belly looks just like what hangs between a man’s legs! Tis green, to be sure, but otherwise exactly the same as the one I have seen when father bathes. But how can the penis of a little, green frog be larger even than that of a full grown man?! This is a puzzle that must be studied. You, my fine frog shall not become dinner this day.”
And she put him in a pot and covered the opening with a lid. He felt the pot move, but could not know she was secreting the pot in her sleeping chamber.
He dozed in the darkness, and more time passed. He was awakened when the lid to his prison was removed and light spilled in.
He croaked in surprise.
“Well you sound like a frog,” said Melanie.
She reached in and picked him up. He felt that odd tingling in his body again.
“But never have I seen a frog with such an impressive male member. Were it not green it would look quite normal, indeed. Well, I suppose it is a bit huge to be called normal. And then there’s the fact that it sprouts from a frog.”
She moved him this way and that.
“I cannot help but wonder what it feels like,” she murmured. “Any girl would feel thusly, I am quite certain.”
Galen felt something that shocked him to his core. Before the witch had cursed him, he’d been sure no girl would grip his penis for at least several more years. Then, after he became a frog, he gave up hope for that kind of touch completely.
And yet, that is exactly what he felt. As if he and his penis were both still in his original body, he felt a hand touch his stiff cock. While no girl had ever touched it before, he’d rubbed it plenty of times, and was intimately acquainted with how that felt.
Now other fingers stroked his prong!
“How can you look like a frog, yet feel like a man in my hand?” asked the astonished girl.
“Ribbit,” said Galen, in answer.
“I wonder if it squirts like a man’s phallus?” she mused.
Five minutes later she found out when, as her fingers slid up and down the thick green stalk, green goo burst from the tip of the oversized, green penis. She was unprepared for both the unannounced eruption and the strength of it. The result of her astonishment caused her mouth to open and a goodly sized dollop of green cream to inundate it.
She dropped Galen in horror and spat at once.
But then an amazing thing happened. Even after spitting, she could taste the stuff, and her dumbfounded brain registered the flavor of ... plum pudding!
“Impossible!” she wheezed, licking her lips.
She concentrated on the taste, swirling her tongue to detect any remaining traces.
“Delicious!” she proclaimed.
“Ribbit,” croaked Galen, who felt better than he had since he’d been turned into a frog.
His vocalization brought her attention to him, where he sat on the floor. He felt weak, like he had in the past when he had rubbed his prod until it spat.
He was easily caught again, and held up for inspection.
“Oh pooh!” said Melanie. “It has shrunk back into your body. I had hoped to see if it was as useful as it appeared. If you were a man I’d know what to expect.”
“Ribbet, ribbet ribbet,” said Galen which, in this case, was frog-speak for, “Thank you very much. If I must die as a frog, at least I’ve had this wonderful interlude.”
Galen saw her eyes widen and she spoke to him as if he could understand her. It was easy to personify this little pet, based on his very human looking cock.
“Not that I’ve lain with a man, understand,” she assured him in a whisper. “But my brother and father beat theirs into submission regularly when they get stiff and unruly. This is a secret, of course. They don’t know I peek at them through cracks in the boards on the walls. If father ever found out he would, no doubt, beat me instead.”
She sighed as she inspected Galen’s smooth, completely frog-like belly one last time.
“I’ve wondered for some time what one of those might feel like when snug in my cunny. Of course Daddy would kill me if I let some boy put one there. So I suppose I shall have to satisfy the cravings you’ve caused in me in my usual fashion.”
Rather than putting him back in the clay pot, she upended a wicker basket and placed him under it on her hope chest, where she could see her new pet.
Then she took of her clothing, lay on her bed, spread her legs, and rubbed between them furiously.
Galen could see this between the reeds in the basket, and was amazed. Never had he seen a girl naked. And most certainly had he never seen one pleasuring herself.
He felt the tingling in his body ... and fell sideways. It finally clicked in his brain that this phenomenon was part of the magic that had undone him. Whether it was some flaw in the spell the witch had cast, or, perhaps the product of the pink wish powder he had lapped up, there was one part of him that remained human, and reacted as it would in any human boy.
“Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit!” he croaked in stupefied wonder.
She turned her head and half-lidded eyes observed his revived condition.
“Oh goody!” she yipped. “You have grown that wonderful pecker again. And just when I am in need of it the most.”
She leapt off the bed, lifted the basket and tenderly picked up Galen. Again an oversized green cock hung from his belly where no such thing should exist.
But that didn’t matter to Melanie. Like many people who had a pet, she had personified it. It helped, of course, that it had one very personal attribute. And all Melanie thought about at that moment was that this attribute looked like the real thing. She was quite sure it would just have to feel better than her fingers, or the occasional carrot she sometimes used.
She took him to her bed.
She spread her legs again.
Galen was treated to the sight of her mysterious opening, above which a tuft of pale, blond hair bristled.
And then he swooned as she used him to satisfy her craving to be filled.
Fill her he did. She groaned as she was spread like never before. She slowed, to give her aching tunnel time to expand. It did, and she pressed him deeper, and deeper still, until the soft pale skin of his belly kissed the lips he had barely glimpsed.
Even his fist had never gripped him so tightly. Nor was his hand as hot as the blacksmith’s forge, like what surrounded him now.
His short front feet spasmed in joy and his tiny frog claws found something to grip. It was a protruding bump at the top of the slit he so completely filled, and he gripped it frantically. Had he been a dog, one might have thought he was trying to dig a hole to hide a bone. Of course the only bone he had was already well hidden.
Forgive me. I jest. I am still human, after all, and could not resist the joke.
“Ahhhhhhh,” moaned Melanie. “I die of happiness!”
Her grip on his body tightened and his grip was jerked loose as she pulled her hand away from her body, and Galen with it. He felt that delicious, hot tightness stroke him as his cock was withdrawn from her body.
“Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit!” he objected, vociferously.
Then his body was slammed against her and her innards stroked him in the opposite direction.
“I faint with joy!” she gasped.
At that point Galen’s world became a violent jerking and his brain seemed to rattle in his tiny skull as Melanie used him as if he were what would someday be named a “dildo.” Within minutes she arched her loins up off the bed and stifled a wail, at which time Galen’s penis objected to her intemperate use of it, requiring that something soothe it.
He felt the jerks of his cock and the soothing jets he was so familiar with when, in the past, he had been the one to abuse his prod.
“It spews!” gasped Melanie, slamming it home one last time and holding it deep. “Ahhhhh, the heat. It sets my belly on fire!”
And she squealed her way through another episode of what Galen now knew was the thing the older men talked about as they quaffed ale in the inn. They laughed and nudged each other, winking when they spoke of how a woman being pleased in bed acted.
And now, finally, Galen understood what they were talking about.
Again time passed, and each day Melanie brought Galen flies, or other insects she caught around the house. He ate them eagerly now, for he needed energy. And that was because each night he was liberated from his wicker cage and put to good use in satisfying the sexual cravings of the miller’s daughter.
And each night she served herself plum pudding. Galen’s magical penis rose to the challenge whenever she handled him, so there was no barrier to her being able to taste her plum pudding with her mouth, letting it slide down into her stomach, and then later get a goodly mess of it squirted into her belly from another direction.
All went well for a week, though Galen knew not that a week had passed. All he knew was that he had never been happier. There were, it seemed, compensations to having been cursed by a witch.
But then bath night rolled around, and the big wooden tub was filled with water so that all who lived in the house might wash the stink from their bodies. Modesty was a luxury that only the nobles could afford, but it bothered neither Melanie or Thomas nor the miller himself that they all bathed in order, those waiting being as unclothed as the one in the tub at the moment.
It was the miller who noticed the difference in his daughter, as he sat in the tub and she stood beside it, waiting her turn.
“Why is your nether hair suddenly green, instead of the lovely pale gold I admire so much?”
“What? What are you talking about, Pappa?”
“Look for yourself,” he said, washing his arms. “The hair you began growing when you became a woman is as green as an unripe apple!”
Melanie looked down and her eyes widened as she realized he was right. Her cunny hair was decidedly green in hue.
With a sinking feeling, Melanie had a pretty good theory as to why her pussy hair had turned green. But she couldn’t tell her pappa that theory!
“Perhaps I splashed lye on it while doing the laundry,” she suggested.
“You must be more careful, then, for some day you will marry, and your husband will be as enamored of your golden nether tresses as I.”
“Yes, Pappa,” she said, sadly. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”
She knew her nights of spectacular pleasure had come to an end. She would have to give her pet away.