Under the Tail and Other Stories
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 56: The Apple
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 56: The Apple - Hello, everybody! This is Dragonpig. I'm going to be writing a collection of stories within the anthropomorphic, or furry, genre. Some will be short stories, some will be novel-length, and others will fall somewhere in between. Yes, some of these stories will be quite explicit, while others won't be. I'm going to keep this series going until I either get bored or find that people just aren't interested in it. I'd really enjoy hearing your opinions and thoughts on my writing. Have a good one!
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Ma Consensual Romantic Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Fairy Tale Humor Vignettes War Zoophilia Science Fiction Aliens Alternate History Space Furry Sharing Incest Mother Son Brother Sister DomSub FemaleDom Light Bond Harem Polygamy/Polyamory White Male White Female Anal Sex Analingus Bestiality Exhibitionism Fisting Flatulence Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Safe Sex Squirting Water Sports Big Breasts Public Sex Teacher/Student Nudism
The apple is perfect in my hand - skin tight and red, unblemished. The kind of fruit that makes you want to bite into it without thinking.
I pluck it from the branch, feel its weight. Around me, the orchard stretches in neat rows, heavy with harvest. My orchard now. My trees. My kingdom.
I turn the apple slowly, examining it in the afternoon light. Such an innocent thing. Sugar and flesh and seeds. And yet this fruit - this simple, perfect fruit - played its part in making me the woman I am today.
The Queen I am today.
I lift it to my lips and bite.
The flesh is crisp, sweet, utterly harmless. Juice runs down my chin and I catch it with my finger, smiling softly.
No poison. Not anymore.
I wasn’t always this woman, you understand. Wasn’t always the one who controlled what was poisoned and what was safe. Wasn’t always the one who made alliances and moved pieces across the board like a master player.
Once, I was just a girl who didn’t understand what her beauty meant.
Let me tell you how I learned.
I was eight years old when I first spoke to the mirror.
The castle was my playground then—every corridor a new adventure, every room a secret to discover. The guards would ruffle my hair when I ran past. Cook would slip me honey cakes still warm from the oven. The maids would let me help fold linens and tell me I was such a good girl, so helpful, so sweet.
I liked them. Liked how they smiled at me. Liked the treats and the attention and the way they’d say, “What a pretty little thing you are, Princess.”
Pretty. I heard that word a lot.
That afternoon, I’d been playing hide-and-seek with the kitchen cat—a one-sided game since the cat didn’t know we were playing. I’d chased him up the main staircase, down the portrait gallery, and lost him somewhere near the royal chambers.
My mother’s chambers.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to go in there. Mother had made that very clear. “My rooms are private, Snow White. You have your own rooms. Stay in them.”
But I was eight. And the door was slightly opened. And I’d never really understood why I couldn’t go in—it wasn’t like she was in there. She was at some meeting with Father and the council, something boring about trade routes or taxes or whatever adults talked about for hours.
I pushed the door open.
The room was beautiful. Everything was beautiful—silk curtains, carved furniture, a bed with posts like small trees reaching toward the ceiling. And everywhere, silver. Silver candlesticks, silver combs on her vanity, silver frames around the paintings.
And the mirror.
It dominated one wall, taller than any mirror I’d ever seen, framed in ornate silver that twisted into patterns like vines and thorns. The glass was perfect, flawless, reflecting the room back at itself with crystalline clarity.
I walked toward it slowly, drawn like the kitchen cat to a sunbeam.
There was a velvet stool in front of it—Mother’s stool, where she sat to check her hair and face. I climbed up on it, my feet dangling, and looked at myself.
I’d seen my reflection before, of course. In water, in polished metal, in the small glass in my own room. But never like this. Never so clear, so detailed. I could see every curl of my black hair, pale white skin, the exact color of my eyes.
I tilted my head, studying myself the way I’d seen Mother study herself.
“Mirror, mirror,” I said softly, playing, pretending to be her. “Am I pretty?”
I didn’t expect an answer.
The mirror shimmered.
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