Chapter 1

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, NonConsensual, Reluctant, Magic, Slavery, Fiction, Humor, BDSM, DomSub, Spanking, Rough, Humiliation, Sadistic, Torture, Snuff, First, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Water Sports, Pregnancy, Size, Body Modification, Slow, Caution, Violent, Military, .

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - When a former Marine's life spirals out of control, even little steps, like quitting smoking, sound like a good idea. This was just the first step to a complete rampage through the Magic Kingdom, smiting the wicked on behalf of a very pissed off Fairy Godmother. Lots of gun porn, bad language, bad attitudes, and some extremely nasty non-consentual fun with a very naughty treasonous Princess. Lots of Codes.

It was somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the anti-smoking drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel like total shit ... maybe I should pull over." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around me and the desert seemed to be full of what looked like brightly colored unicorns, all screeching and galloping around my old truck, which was just barely able to make the speed limit on the road to Las Vegas. My voice was screaming: "Holy Crap! What are these goddamn animals? Where's my gun?" Then everything was quiet again.

There was a diminutive fairy, barely a foot tall complete with little gossamer dragonfly wings on her back and a magic wand, now sitting on the passenger side of the truck's bench seat next to me. She had pulled the top of her gauze-like diaphanous dress down to her waist and was rubbing Estee Lauder moisturizer over her bare tits, to facilitate the tanning process.

"What the fuck are you yelling about?" She muttered, staring out the passenger window at the sun with her eyes closed and her small face covered with tiny Prada sunglasses.

"Never mind," I muttered. "I'm not driving anywhere and unless you want to drive shut the hell up for a minute." I hit the brakes and aimed the Little Red Rollerskate toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those unicorns, I thought. The silly little fairy twat will see them soon enough.


I had been desperately trying to stop smoking since I left the military about six months ago and was frankly having a very rough time accomplishing this goal. I had first started to smoke when I was a teenager and now a decade later I had finally decided that I really needed to stop. Spending two years with the Marines in a mountainous shithole called Afghanistan had jacked up my habit from two packs a week to nearly two packs a day. That was a guaranteed recipe for disaster. Like my life didn't already have enough of those already.

I came back home to San Diego after doing my service time to a faithless wife that had apparently pretty much already picked out a replacement sleeping partner even before my side of the bed had gotten cold. I hadn't been overseas for more than a few weeks before I got my first Dear John letter. I say first, because she'd start up a relationship with a new man, write me to say she wanted a divorce and then a month later break off the affair and then beg for reconciliation with me.

The first time, sure I guess I could forgive her, ok. The second time, well maybe ... but the third and fourth repeats of this cycle just began to piss me off royally. It took a year for the whoring slut to finally sign the gawddamn divorce papers, and that was only after I'd agreed to take sole responsibility for all our joint credit cards that she had maxed out while I was gone. A major and horrifically expensive mistake that ate up most of a year's worth of overseas combat pay by the time I finished settling the last bill.

She'd sorted out our stuff and put most my things into storage (paid for with my credit card of course) for the last year I was overseas. She needn't have bothered. There weren't ten things left out of any of my stuff that I would have paid anyone at a garage sale a dollar for. TV ... gone. Stereo ... gone. Dad's Morgan silver dollar collection, his old LP's and my CD collection ... you guessed it, all long gone.

Basically it looked like her revolving cast of boyfriends was able to cherry pick through my stuff in turn and each take their pick, leaving me with the leftovers no one else wanted. Thanks a fucking heap! One of the fucktards even had the balls to offer to sell me back some of my own stuff! I offered in return to bust up his kneecaps and kick his balls so far up into his body that he'd sneeze splooge instead of snot.

Fortunately, no one had wanted my nearly twenty year old small beat-up to heck red Toyota pickup truck I called my Little Red Roller Skate. It looked like a refugee from a scrap yard and had more Bond-O than original body metal and paint, but the engine ran like a dream. She wasn't a speed queen and hated to be driven on the freeway, but she had 200k miles on the odometer and was still purring. It was also now the only thing that I had left of my father.

I packed up about two small boxes of stuff barely worth rescuing and left the door open at the storage unit so that some of the local Mexicans could salvage whatever they wanted from the rest. Why not, everyone else had already had their pick.

As they say on TV, then I loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly. Hills that is ... swimming pools ... movie stars. And a crappy armed security job that paid peanuts guarding the rich, obscenely rich, and insanely and disgustingly rich. The rich also try hard to stay rich by stiffing their employees as much as possible and giving them endless amounts of insane crap, hoping you'll quit so they can hire someone even cheaper. Still it was better than shooting Taliban ragheads and I was slightly less likely to get shot back at.

The jobs sucked and my life was starting to suck even worse. I'd go home to my tiny efficiency apartment and drink a six-pack of beer for dinner (or breakfast) and crash. It wasn't much of a life, but it was at least one all of my own making. I started to seriously think about reenlisting. I could keep my three stripes and go back to the Middle East again ... and probably lose what little sanity I had left, but I was already going nuts as a civilian.

The stress didn't help my smoking and soon I was chain smoking like a freaking chimney, up to nearly three full packs a day before I made the decision that I had to stop. I tried and failed cold turkey repeatedly for over a month and gave that up as a bad idea. It shot my nerves completely to heck and made me jumpier than a Baptist preacher in a room full of trannie hookers. It also made the rage that I felt on a daily basis nearly uncontrollable and it cost me an almost decent job with a boss that I almost liked.

I hated the taste of the nicotine gum and using the nicotine patches soon gave my arm a violent allergic rash that I couldn't stop scratching. Nearly ready to give up, I checked over the crappy insurance coverage that my new employer offered to find a skid row general practioner or Doc-in-the-Box that I could go to get something to kill the constant overwhelming urges to chain smoke ... or else take up a new occupation killing other things. After talking it over with a few of my coworkers I found a Doc that they had liked and who would accept our grade Z health insurance plan. This fact alone meant that he was probably an utter quack, but I went anyway.

For the next three weeks he tried different prescriptions, starting off with relatively mild medications and then graduating up to the more aggressive drugs. Zyban and an alphabet soup of anti-depressants just seemed to do nothing at all no matter how we adjusted the dosage.

Paxil was the worse by far. It partially soothed my urges to smoke but made me hyper touchy and perpetually on a hair-trigger temper, and it gave me nightmares. Chantrix was even worse, giving me a constant feeling of rage I could just barely suppress. It was worse even than going cold turkey ... how I managed to avoid killing anyone I'll never know.

My dreams at night were even more unsettling and just made my waking hours even worse. I'd have vivid and violent nightmares of gleefully carving up my coworkers and employer into tiny pieces, of walls melting, and my cat turning into a giant snake that slowly choked me with its tail. Another night I dreamed I climbed endlessly up and down a gold brick staircase into the sky that ended up absolutely nowhere, while weird animated flying creatures and clouds laughed at me. Real crazy shit. I'd wake up in the morning if anything more tired and irritated than when I went to bed.

Add to this the weird sleepwalking & sleep-drinking side effects and I gave up and dumped the whole bottle of pills down the drain after just four nights. The last straw was when I suddenly woke up outside at 3:30 a.m., fully dressed, trying to unlock the door to my truck using my K-Bar combat knife.

The cure for smoking so far was much worse than the disease. The 'miracle' anti-smoking drugs all seemed to me to be just like the 'new and improved' anti-malaria drugs, Lariam and Mefloquine, which the docs had given to us when we got to Afghanistan the first time. Useless shit that give insane nightmares to half of my unit and guaranteed to get a soldier or jarhead a good head start on their Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder long before they ever heard a bullet fired in anger.

The quack thought that I might have a bit of PTSD left over from my Marine service in Afghanistan (Duh!), and that combined with the anti-smoking drugs (and my habit of drinking dinner) were all making me just a bit unstable. No shit Sherlock!

He now claimed that he was not a big fan of Chantix, and told me it had been linked to numerous cases of severe depression. He joked with me that Chantix was apparently the "Ultimate quit-smoking drug, because when you kill yourself, there's no chance of relapse." Ha-ha. Somehow I wasn't terribly amused. Gee, thanks asshole for prescribing it to me if you knew it might make me even crazier!

Fortunately, he had a slightly more useful recommendation. He had a psychiatrist acquaintance that ran a small private counseling service that covered both behavioral modification and PTS disorders. She often handled Vets and could directly bill the VA for the majority of my treatment, including prescriptions. If I was lucky, she could handle pretty much everything all together all at once with very little out of pocket expense, if any, to me.

It sounded like a good deal and I agreed to go see her. I'd more than suspected I was more than a little bit too wound up at the moment for civilian life. The only alternative otherwise was to return to military life and accept the fact that I was to either smoke myself to death or go crazy. I accepted the proffered business card and made arrangements to see her the very next day.


My new shrink, a Ms. Linda Lovegood, MD., had the complete package; beautiful looks and magnificent breasts that defied gravity in her braless skin tight sleeveless skin tight knit top. She liked to keep the A/C in her office nice and cold which revealing nipple tips that stood out like telephone poles. Her short dark leather skirt showed off lots of lovely creamy thigh as she sat, and her patent leather high-heeled black boots more than hinted she was in the mood to play. Her hair was long and blonde and she often teased a tassel of it into her mouth as if she were wishing she had something more substantial to put in it instead. There was no wedding or engagement ring on her finger, but there was no doubt at all in my mind that Ms. Linda could indeed love very good indeed.

Oh yeah, she also had some brains apparently too.

I was her final appointment of the day that Friday afternoon and she had originally only allotted about a half hour for me, but we squeezed out closer to two full hours before I had to leave to go to work that evening. All of this time, unfortunately, just spent on business.

As much as I would have liked to have been the one steering the conversation to more socially friendly topics, such as when I could take this gorgeous creature out to dinner, it was me trying to keep the topics more or less on business. Ms. Linda was apparently a very holistic councilor who liked to look at the 'whole person' and not just the few dozen minor things that I felt were screwing up my entire life. The key issues at the moment being: quitting smoking, severe sleep deprivation, hallucinations about wanting to kill everyone around me, uncontrollable rage, etc. Just the usual minor everyday shit that everyone deals with in their daily modern life.

She listened to my rants about my former military life, how I got screwed in my divorce and left penniless, and how I normally count dead ragheads I'd shot in Afghanistan in my head instead of sheep in bed at night. I tried counting sheep once and didn't like it a bit when they all pulled out AK's and started to bleat something about "Baa'lah Ack'baa'r" while chasing me all night up and down the mountains. I made a mental note to myself to eat more lamb when I could afford it.

She nodded a lot, changed the subject thirty or forty times with extraneous questions that half the time I didn't understand, and she crossed and uncrossed her legs at least a hundred times more ... each time completely destroying whatever limited train of thought that I could manage at that moment. Damn those were good legs and they seemed to go up forever.

By the time I left her office, I assumed that she considered me to be a complete mental wreck, but she just smiled and said that she knew exactly what sort of treatment I needed, and she'd soon turn me around as right as rain, like the flowers that bloom in the spring ... and all that jazz.

Bugger the flowers that bloom in the Spring! I'd happily settle for turning her ass around over her sofa and give it a right good treatment instead. The things I wanted to do to her breasts don't even bear further repeating.

She gave me a sampler pack of another new experimental anti-smoking drug for me to try over the weekend, and I agreed to try this new stuff out. I had also told her that I was hoping to get out of town over the weekend, as I didn't often get any weekends off, and she strongly encouraged me to hold to that plan.

I think she was half disappointed I didn't try to kiss her or grab one or both of her stupendous tits, but I was in a hurry to get to work on time. It might have been a sucky, lousy, and worthless job that was destroying what was left of my soul, but it was the only one I had. That and well my self-esteem was at pretty near being at bedrock bottom. I wasn't up to another romantic rejection this week, especially if this gal really could fix me back up again to being at least half way functional ... I just didn't want to screw that chance up.

We agreed to meet again the next Monday evening, once again I would be her final appointment of the day.


It was a rotten night at work. One of the worst yet. The former teen idol and air-headed twat that I worked for this month was something like a size 1 in a dress, but liked to party on weekends throwing down drinks as if she were an old 1st Cavalry Division veteran. Those Army tards never could hold their drink. Invariably drunk off her tiny ass by midnight any night of the week, the barely twenty-something celeb-slut would want to dance her ass off and manage at least three good nip slips for the ever present paparazzi, and probably a good crotch shot or two that demonstrated that she never wore any underwear. Usually the only suspense to an evening out was what sort of other Hollywood trash she would pick to spend the rest of the night with. Most weeks lately she was turning to other girls for her bedtime fun, but an occasional cock couldn't be ruled out. Tonight she passed out at the club before deciding so we wrestled her home in the back of her car, all alone. Man, would she be pissed in the morning!

I did get to beat up an overly aggressive hack photographer that was trying to get a good bare snatch shot of her in the car, so the night wasn't a total loss. Heck, it wasn't like anyone hadn't already seen her bare cunt a half a dozen times ... Google images is full of them, and so are all the binary celebrity photo groups on the Internet. She didn't care; any publicity was good publicity in her book. She was even joking about accidentally releasing one of her homemade sex tapes, but couldn't quite decide which previous boy or girl ex-partner she wanted to piss off the most.

My shift ended at six on Saturday morning and I staggered home an exhausted wreck. I wanted to chain-smoke a pack of cigarettes and then beat the holy living crap out of someone who desperately deserved it. I settled for three beers, no cigarettes, and one of Linda Love's new horse pills and I tried to get some sleep, but I gave it up as a lost cause a few hours later. I was too angry, pissed off and wired to sleep.

A casual acquaintance of mine had given me a promotional pass to a motorcycle race in Las Vegas. It was Full Access, allowing me to visit restricted areas like the Pits where the riders and mechanics hung out, the VIP seating section (air conditioned), and even the party suite at the hotel. In theory, the pass would also get me comp'd a hotel room and maybe some house play money at the tables downstairs. I certainly spent worse weekends lately. The big race would be Sunday afternoon, but they were doing qualifications all this afternoon and there were to be some minor races this evening. I figured I'd leave La-La Land about Noon and get there in the late afternoon and enjoy myself a bit in the cooler air, rather than baking in the sun for two straight days in a row.

Having had no decent sleep for as far back as I could remember, I decided to just screw it and get out of bed and make the drive to Vegas early. Get into my comp'd hotel room and take a long nap there before hitting the evening party or quietly doing some gaming instead.

I took another one of Lovey's pills while I got dressed ... and then another one for good measure when I grabbed a beer for the road after I'd caught myself trying to light up an empty beer bottle as if it were a cigarette. Thus fortified, I hit the road and launched my old slow but reliable truck, the Little Red Roller Skate, towards Sin City, and the wildest adventure of my life.

For the rest of this story, you need to Log In or Register