Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs​

(Looking initially for one (or more) FEMALE WRITERS for the roles of Snow White, the Queen, and a Chamber Maid or two; and once we have some female writers, I will be looking for MALE WRITERS to take some of the other roles as well.)


If you have seen or read "Snow White" at one time or another you have made at least one off-color remark about a young woman living in the deep-woods with seven older men. It's time to play out all of those bad jokes ... and have some fun.

FYI for anyone looking at this for the second time. I have reworked the PC list and plot to allow for more flexibility and Writer choice, per a very helpful suggestion from another writer. If you see a PC that you have a different idea for, PLEASE suggest it. There are only a few plot points and PC characteristics that are necessary to stay with the Snow White theme; the rest is open for suggestion.


So, take a look at the List of Characters or CREATE YOUR OWN, then PM me (WriteAwayHoney).

Just to be clear, I envision this being a long-term story line, but if you only wish to participate short term, those possibilities exist as well. This is meant to be an erotic story, not a porn screenplay; if you simply want to write nasty sex from start to finish with no story or plot, you may be happy elsewhere.

Concerning pics, none from you-know-who, that big production company whose 1937 major motion picture ... oh, do I really have to say their name?

To get involved, please PM me (please do not post your interest in this thread).

The Herald lightly taps the gong beside him, and as the metallic sound reverberates about the Great Hall, he calls out, "Presenting ... the Good Prince Reginald of Arcott."

Good Prince. It turns his stomach to hear himself described in that way. In Arcott, he is in every was King, ruler of his lands and his peoples, at the age of 28 the youngest Monarch in the Kingdom's history. But, because his now-departed and then-widowed Father favored the young, vivacious daughter of the Emperor Malthos far more than he favored his people's freedom, much of the control of Arcott went to the Empire, and when Good Prince Reginald came to power, he was prevented from assuming the title he deserved, and expected.

The irony of the marriage, of course, was that while the Empire, now controlled by the Evil Queen Grimhilde, took control of anything and everything concerning Arcott's international dealings in perpetuity, his lustful father's marriage to the new young queen lasted only long enough for her to give him a daughter, his second, a birth during which she expired.

And as far as the Good part went, back home in Arcott he was indeed a good man, a Monarch who cared for his people and, since taking the throne just three years earlier, had used nearly half of the Kingdom's treasury to bring a better life to the people he ruled. But here, in the Palace of Queen Grimhilde, "Reggie" was a horny, lecherous, self-centered man with no one to impress but the women he was or wanted to be sleeping with, and no one to satisfy but himself.

Which came to explain why here, at Grimhilde's Palace, which he was now calling home per her directions, he was preparing to enter the Winter Ball not with his betrothed -- whose identity he was as of yet not privy to -- nor with one of the local Royal Princesses nor with one of the Noble Ladies, but instead with a common Chambermaid who was, to his eyes, the most beautiful girl in the land, and to his groin, just another "girl" ready to pulled away from the hell that was her virtue.

Reginald extends his elbow, and Cherry -- who goes without introduction to the other guests due to her lowly peasant status -- slips her hand into the crook of his arm. He says softly,"You're trembling, my dear."

"Yes, my lord," she squeaks out.

He begins to step, realizes her planted feet aren't moving, gives her a little nudge to unbalance her, then leads her forward. The pair walk together, in step -- she's been practicing for this for nearly a month -- to the end of the mezzanine and begin down the long marble staircase.

"Why are you trembling?"

She leans just a bit closer, whispering, "Because I don"t belong here."

No, he thinks, but does not dare to say, you belong in my bed. And, some day, you will be in it. Some day soon.

Instead he responds, "Of course you belong here."

"I don't belong here, my Lord. I belong in the kitchen with my sister and the other servants."

"You are too lovely a girl to be conscripted to dirty dishes and oily pans, my dear Cherry." He takes one of gloved hands into his own, squeezes it gently. "All that hot water and soap is bad for these lovely things." And we don't want them as rough as oak bark when you're handling my penis quite soon. "You should accept my offer to join the Chambermaid staff ... in the Sleeping Quarters ... upstairs." By upstairs, of course, he means closer to his bed chamber, more accessible; but again he watches his words carefully.

They arrive at the bottom of the long staircase and are greeted by the other guests in pairs or small groups. The other Royals simply nod to Reginald politely, as is customary; the Nobles give bows -- the depth of which are commensurate with their station -- and greet him with Your Highness; no one would dare call him Prince because of the political ramifications of his father's poor treaty of some two dozen years earlier.

Cherry is all but ignored by all, except for the hungry smiles of some of the other equally-lecherous nobles whose only thought is that once this little girl is finally a woman, perhaps on their next visit to the Palace they, too, will have a chance at her as Prince Reginald has had, or soon will have, his chance at.

And all the while, as Reginald walks young Cherry about, pointing out whose who and whose not, or engaging her in the one simple waltz step that she's been practicing every minute she's not slaving away in the kitchen, her four-years-senior sister, Blondie, peers down from the shadows of the Palace's third level at the innocent Cherry, and at the man she knows will do anything to get her, the man who she will do anything for to keep him from ever taking innocent Cherry's virtue, as he had Blondie's the first night she came to serve at the Palace four years ago tonight.

Deleted. Accidentally posted twice. Will use this as OOC stuff later on. Sorry

Cherry (named for her flaming red hair, not the virginity she still claims) does her best to smile and look pretty, which is her entire purpose in being on Prince Reginald's arm as far as she's aware. She does understand that her red hair is a rarity, and thus desired, but the dress she wears costs more than she would make in a year working as the scullery maid. Her mind is on her dance steps, and that princess giving her the evil eye, anything but what the prince happens to be thinking about.

Not so for her older sister. Blondie had helped her sister get ready, styling her hair as she did for the fine ladies who called a chambermaid, and had said nothing to her sister about the Prince's behavior after hours, nor why Cherry had been asked (of which Blondie was more than aware). Sure, it was because she was gorgeous. Definitely.

Blondie knew better. Blondie, whose thighs had quickly opened to the Prince in order to bar his passage to her sister, spent every night until she was sore with the lecherous noble, and she knew his mind was on the expanse of her sister's bosom she'd covered with an extra lace ruffle at the neck of the gown some visiting princess had thrown out before returning home. No one needed to know how much alteration it had undergone before Blondie was satisfied her sister's integrity would be intact. No one, including her sister. As far as Cherry knew, the excess of undergarments and the ruffled neckline of the gown were "expected". Hopefully it went unnoticed that no other lady in the ballroom wore a similar style. If she were lucky, her sister only thought that this was the style of the gown her sister had appropriated.

Blondie moved along the third floor, hiding behind one curtain after the next, following the couple up and down the length of the ballroom as they paced about.

"She's a beautiful girl."

Prince Reginald cringes at the sound of the voice behind him. Time for the game. He turns to face Queen Grimhilde, his hostess and, effectively, the Empress of the Western Empire. He steps back with one foot, and bows deeply. "My Queen." He rises, but only partially; he must wait for her permission to rise to full height. The game.

They've played this game for as long as history recalls. The Royals play it within their own ranks and with the Nobles below them; the Nobles play it within their ranks and with the Peasantry below them; and even the Peasantry has a version of it within their own ranks

The game is simple: the Royal or Noble -- and particularly the Peasant -- of the lesser rank bows, then looks for permission to return to height and face his or her superior, knowing then that his or hers status as appreciated or not has been judged.

He is not surprised in the least when the all powerful evil Queen of the Western Empire does not signal his immediate rise. Even without her magical powers, it was only a matter of time before she'd learned he was fucking his way through the better looking end of the Palace's female staff.

Eventually, she holds her hand out to him, palm down, and he steps forward and kissed the Ring of Rule that was passed to her upon the untimely death of her husband, the true Emperor. "A wonderful Ball you have thrown, My Queen. You honor us--"

Her dismissive wave tells him shut up or lose your head, and he goes silent with a slight nod. She steps closer to him and, looking to Cherry -- who is standing before the orchestra, wavering to the music as the alcohol he's been serving her takes quick effect in her tiny body -- and in a low, soft voice, informs him quite coldly, "You will have her without drink, without duress, and without violence ..." and moving closer, looking deep into his eyes, and speaking as if from the bowels of hell itself, finishes, "... or I will have you."

A chill runs up his spine and out his arms; goose flesh rises across every inch of him. Or I will have you. Every one know what that means. And while it may seem a stimulating experience to some, it is not Prince Reginald's idea of a good time.

He nod his head again, and says, "Of course, my Queen. Always your subject."

The Queen scrutinizes him for a long moment, then turns in a flourish of her long cape and is gone into crowd, which opens like the sea before Moses, then closes again right behind her.

The Prince draws and releases a deep breath. Still alive, he thinks. It is that same thought he has every time he deals with the Queen.

He turns and catches a movement out of the corner of his eye, high above in the shadow of the third level. It only takes a moment to recognize -- as well as to understand what it is she is doing sneaking around in the shadows as no Servant of the Palace is permitted to do during the Ball. He looks back to his date, Cherry, Blondie's little sister, and smiles; without drink, without duress, and without violence ... but the Evil Bitch never said anything about without big sister's permission.

Cherry happens to glance back at him while listening to the music, immediately sinking into the deepest wobbly curtsey she can manage. The Queen would never acknowledge a servant-girl, even one dressed like a princess, so she remains with eyes glued to floor until the Queen has long since passed her by. Her eyes go to the Prince and she bobs him a little curtsey when she finds his eyes, as if apologizing for the deep obeisance before her ruler.

Prince Reginald

Above him, Blondie fades back into the shadows. He didn't see me ... did he?

He turns his eyes back to Cherry in time to see her practically fall over attempting to curtsy to the passing Queen. Ah ... so much fun this shall be.

Then he remembers the Queen's warning: without drink! She couldn't have told me that before I got her all liquored up?

As he watches, Cherry glances to him and repeats her curtsy, a little less low, a little more stable. She is embarrassed, obviously. That would be a good thing, he thinks as he begins across the room to gather her once more, Embarrassed peasant "girls" are always anxious to make up for their foibles before Royalty, and I always have a suggestion for how they can make up. But as he nears her, he sees her begin to tilt just a bit, and he finishes up the last four steps in the time of three, in time to keep her from potentially ending up in the lap of the Duke of Dayne.

"Okay, Cherry," he says softly, pulling her close to his side and steadying her, but in such a way as to hide her intoxicated state. Damn! When are you gonna get it through your head! Little "girls" only take a little booze. It's no fun if they don't remember being taken! "Time to take a walk." he tells her, beginning to lead her through the crowd. And, as he spots the Queen climbing the long, marble stairway and glancing back at him over the tall collar of her stately robes, he finishes softly, "... away from prying eyes."

He heads her off for the balcony, for the cool of the late Winter night air ... for some sobering ... and if he's lucky, some sunrise nooky.

And behind them, in the shadows, Cherry's protector slinks along through the shadows and servant-only back passageways, dreading that to protect the younger one's virtue, yet another thigh-parting is likely in her future.

Blondie and Cherry

And up the stairs from the garden to the balcony comes Blondie, in full view of the Prince coming out for the view of the lovely gardens. She steps up and curtsies, then takes Cherry's arm. "I'll help you back to your room," she tells her sister, with enough of an offer there that someone else coming out onto the balcony wouldn't think a servant girl was ordering around a princess, but her expression leaves Cherry no other option... especially when the teenager hiccups upon opening her mouth. In fact, the elderly gentleman a few steps beyond, surrounded by thick smoke issuing from his intricately carved wooden pipe, nods to the chambermaid, approving of her for 'helping her mistress'.

When it is so abundantly clear she'd been drinking, Cherry seems to know better than to say anything. She just blushes and looks at the toes of her princess shoes (white satin pumps with a tiny strap, also purloined from the cast offs of some-princess-or-other by big sister).

Which left Blondie opposite Prince Charming, who had claimed Cherry's other arm when he lad her out here. "Good evening, my Prince," she begins, not as a farewell-I'm-taking-her, but rather as the appropriate way to greet the Prince who did not technically rule her... but might as well. She was subject to the Queen, but knew there would be no help there if she appealed to the bitchy ruler. Maybe the Queen would make him stay away from Cherry while she was drunk--letting visitors get the help drunk and go for a tumble was asking for trouble--but that didn't save Cherry's... well, Cherry's cherry. Which the eighteen-year-old retained. If it took every ounce of older sister's cunning (including blackmail of any number of local or foreign empire guests who had accidentally let the maid learn of their plans for whatever), her little sister was going to marry well, with her virtue intact for her husband.

Cherry's control is improving; she's sobering. At least, that's what the Prince tells himself as he quickens their pace along the veranda and toward the secret passage -- known only to every one who had ever lived in the castle or spent a night in the Prince's bed -- and straight to his bed chamber.

And then ... Aww, crap.

Blondie ascends the stairs from the gardens below to meet the pair on the last balcony before heaven.

"I'll help you back to your room," she tells Cherry. She says it with the tone of a loyal servant aiding her mistress, but the Prince knows it means keep your hands off her you pig.

As Blondie helps turn Cherry -- apparently not as sober as the Prince had hoped -- back toward the servants' quarters, he wonders what the hell did you think was going to happen tonight?

The Prince had invited the young Cherry to the ball under the guise that all your girls should experience the grandeur of court at least once. But guise aside, the Prince had had every intention of deflowering the little peasant. And he had had no doubt what-so-ever that Blondie had been fully aware of that fact ... as she was so dutifully styling her little sister's hair ... and altering last year's fashionable dress, tossed out by some spoiled Nobleman's daughter ... or applying the reds and pinks to her face to bring out even more of the girl's natural beauty.

And now, she has the gall to cut him off when he is so close?

As Blondie steadies the hiccuping Cherry, she turns to Reginald, dips her head -- a bit, but certainly not enough -- and says, "Good evening, my Prince."

And as she turns her sister away from him, the Prince catches Blondie by the elbow with a tight, strong grip. She looks up, surprised. He moves closer, smiles politely, then leans in and whispers slowly, "You will be in my bed chamber in ten minutes ... to report your sisters safe conduct home. If you do not show and do your duty I will feel the need to come to Cherry's bed ... quarters, I mean ... and check on her myself. Do I make myself clear?"


Ten minutes later, after knocking and being told to enter, Blondie finds the prince sitting on the edge of his huge canopied bed in a heavy wool robe. He stares at her for a long moment, pulls a frilly pillow from the bed and drops it onto the floor before him, parts his robe to reveal his otherwise nude body, and commands, "Do your duty."