Snow White
This story continues the chronicles of Willian, the librarian-warlock featured in the Scepter of Manfred series. I decided to start a separate series for this new magical artifact: The Book of Princesses, Witches and Fairies.
The package I had been waiting for finally arrived. At the building’s front desk, I spoke to the doorman and signed the protocol book. I was excited—just as much as the day I retrieved the Scepter of Manfred from that old antiquarian shop.
With the package in hand, I rushed back into my apartment. I tore open the envelope and there it was: The Book of Princesses, Fairies and Witches by Victor Manfred. At first glance, it looks like a children’s fairy tale picture book—but using this magical artifact just for that would be an enormous waste.
As I flipped through the pages, I saw illustrations evoking classic fairy tales—the princesses, the fairies who accompany them, and the witches who usually play the villains. Victor Manfred created this book using the same kind of magic behind his scepter. It’s a unique book—one he personally used. And yet, for some reason, this volume didn’t stay in his home. Someone must have genuinely thought it was a children’s book and gifted it to a niece or nephew.
It took a lot of effort to track it down. The book had passed through many hands, dusty shops and private collections. Apparently, Manfred enchanted the book with a subtle repelling charm—anyone who wasn’t meant to use it would simply lose interest. That’s why children never really cared for it, even though the illustrations are gorgeous. And adults who owned it never understood what it really was—so the book kept drifting, from shelf to shelf.
I finally found it in a distant used bookstore. The seller had so little interest in it that he only charged me shipping. But now this volume has finally found its way to me—Willian, the self-proclaimed mediocre warlock following the footsteps of my late master, Manfred.
There were instructions on the first page:
1 – Always return the princess, fairy or witch to the book before closing it.
2 – Treat them with kindness and respect—even the witches.
3 – Be careful with the witches. They are delightful, but very cunning.
Anyone else reading these warnings wouldn’t quite understand them. But I knew exactly what they meant.
Fairy tales are supposed to be a girl thing—but even young Willian had his favorite enchanted princess. The one whose beauty was confirmed by a magic mirror, who fled her wicked stepmother and cared for seven dwarfs in the enchanted forest. Who was poisoned by an apple and awakened by… ugh… a prince. Snow White would be the first one I’d meet.
“Ex libro somniorum, surge, Regina Nivea, pulchra sicut nix.“
The lights flickered in my apartment—just like they usually do when I use the Scepter of Manfred to animate chess pieces. But this time, the illustration slipped right off the page. And there she was, standing before me: Snow White. Pale skin and blue eyes glowing like beacons. A beauty worthy of being named the fairest in all the land. I got hard almost instantly.
“Hello,” said Snow White. “Are you the prince who came to rescue me?”
“I’m definitely anything but a prince.”
Snow White looked around at the objects in my apartment, trying to grasp the reality she had just entered. Her eyes landed on the fruit basket in the kitchen, recognizing something very familiar.
“Apples! I love apples!”
I walked over and handed her one.
“This one you can eat,” I said.
And just like that, I saw the scene that had marked my childhood: Snow White biting into an apple. But in this story, she wouldn’t fall poisoned.
She kept wandering through the apartment and smiled, perhaps noting the stacked books, the chess boards, the impulsively bought crystals I’d never used. She gently lifted her skirt and gave a slight curtsy, as if the laws of fairy tales still applied.
“So maybe… you’re the wizard in this story?” she asked, with a tone more flirtatious than innocent.
“Something like that. A mediocre warlock, by some accounts.”
She laughed. A sweet sound, but with something else—maybe a touch of irony, as if she already knew there was nothing truly mediocre about someone who could summon her from a page with a single Latin phrase.
“A mediocre warlock wouldn’t have awakened me,” she said, stepping closer, the apple still in her hand. “And certainly wouldn’t have caused… that.”
She looked openly at the bulge in my pants. Her bluntness startled me, but didn’t scare me. There was something different about her. Maybe her time trapped in the book had granted her more agency than one would expect from a fairy tale character.
“And you’re not exactly the innocent, sleeping damsel I was expecting,” I replied.
She smiled, biting her lower lip—and for a moment, I swear even the apple seemed jealous.
“Waking from a magic sleep gives you plenty of time to think… and to want. Years of heat simmering inside me, locked between pages, waiting for someone daring enough to free me.”
“So tell me,” she whispered, “what’s my first lesson in the real world?”
Snow White bit into the apple like she was reenacting an ancient ritual. She chewed slowly, savoring it as if it were the first time—or perhaps the last. The juice slid down the corner of her mouth, and she licked it with the tip of her tongue in a gesture that was almost unconscious. Almost.
“This one’s delicious…” she said, her blue eyes locked on mine. “It doesn’t taste poisoned… but it’s not ordinary either.”
“Nothing that comes from me is ordinary,” I replied.
She perched on the arm of the couch, still taking in the apartment. She ran her fingers through her black hair, adjusting it as if preparing for something.
I moved closer and offered my hand. She didn’t hesitate. When our fingers touched, a small spark of magic crackled in the air. The book on the table vibrated, as if it approved.
She smiled—a smile that began sweet and ended charged with something darker.
“Come on. Show me what a mediocre warlock does with the fairest of them all.”
Her kiss was a spell—not from Manfred’s scepter, but from something older, more primal. Her lips were soft, tasting faintly of apple, and her tongue danced with mine like it already knew the steps. My hands found her waist; the fabric of her dress seemed almost alive, pulsing with the book’s magic. She pressed her body against mine, and I felt the heat she spoke of—that fire that had burned inside her for years, trapped between pages.
My hands slid downward, exploring the curves beneath the dress. She let out a soft moan that made the apartment itself vibrate. The book, still open, emitted a soft golden glow—watching, approving, or perhaps just recording every movement. I lifted her dress, revealing thighs white as the snow that gave her name. She laughed—a sound half innocence, half provocation.
“A mediocre warlock, huh?” she teased, unbuttoning my shirt with nimble fingers. “Let’s see how common you really are.”
I pulled her onto the couch. She landed on me, her black hair spilling over like a curtain. The dress finally gave way, sliding down her shoulders and revealing skin that shimmered faintly with magic. Her breasts were perfect—full and inviting. When my mouth met one, she arched her back, moaning so loudly the crystals on my shelf chimed. The air was thick with magic, almost tangible, as if the apartment itself had surrendered to the rules of the book.
She climbed onto my lap with a sweet smile.
“You know what’s funny?” she whispered. “They say a kiss saved me. But I never felt like it truly woke me up.”
Then she kissed me—and the taste of apple mixed with the heat of her mouth made my spine shudder. My cock had already been hard. Now it pulsed like it was about to burst through the boundaries of reality.
“Now tell me…” she continued, licking the juice from her own wrist, “are you going to wake me up?”
That’s when I discovered she knew exactly what to do with her mouth.
“Yes…” she whispered, her hands now in my hair, guiding, demanding. “Make me feel alive.”
I flipped her over, laying her down on the couch. She stared at me with those bright blue eyes that seemed to glow—burning with desire and something more. A cleverness, a challenge. As if she was testing how far I’d go. My pants were long gone. As I positioned myself between her legs, I felt her heat, her wetness—the confirmation of years of waiting. I entered her slowly, and the moan that escaped her lips was so intense, the lights flickered again, as if the apartment’s electricity couldn’t compete with the magic we were creating.
“More…” she demanded, her nails digging into my back, marking my skin like she wanted to leave proof that I had been with the fairest of them all. Our rhythm quickened, our bodies moving in sync, the couch creaking beneath us. Each thrust pulsed with magic, and I could feel Manfred’s scepter—sitting quietly on the shelf—begin to vibrate, as if jealous.
Snow White wasn’t passive. She moved with me, her hips matching my rhythm, her moans blending into mine. The apartment felt too small to hold so much pleasure, so much power. When she came, it was like the world froze. A warm wind swept through the room, scattering papers from the table. I followed soon after, the climax tearing through me like lightning. And for a moment, I couldn’t tell if I had freed her from the book—or if she had freed me from something.
We lay there, catching our breath, her skin still warm against mine. She laughed—a sweet sound, but with that hint of irony that made me suspect she knew more than she let on.
“Not so mediocre, after all,” she murmured, tracing her finger across my chest.
I smiled, exhausted, but already feeling the weight of responsibility. Manfred’s instructions echoed in my mind: “Return before closing.” I stood, helping her sit up. She straightened her dress like nothing had happened—but her eyes told another story.
“Time to go back?” she asked, with a teasing tone.
Snow White approached the book and flipped through its pages. She found Cinderella and smiled. Tinker Bell. Red Riding Hood… Maleficent… and Grimhilde. Then she looked at me with those enigmatic, gleaming eyes.
“Rules are rules,” I said, picking up the book. The page with her illustration pulsed, waiting. “But don’t worry. We’ll see each other again.”
She smiled, biting her lower lip, and for a moment, I swear I saw a mischievous sparkle in her gaze—as if she knew it wouldn’t be that simple. I reached out. She took my hand, another magical spark flaring between our fingers.
“In libro somniorum, regresa, Regina Nivea,” I said, my voice steady, though part of me hesitated.
A golden glow enveloped her, and she began to dissolve—as if made of stardust. Just before vanishing completely, she whispered:
“Be careful with the witches. They’re not nearly as… obedient.”
And then, she was gone. Her illustration had returned to the page—but now, something was different. A subtle smile graced her drawn face, one that hadn’t been there before. I closed the book gently, feeling the magic’s weight lift from the apartment. The Scepter of Manfred stopped vibrating. The lights returned to normal.
I sat on the couch, her scent still lingering in the air, her moans echoing in my memory. A mediocre warlock, maybe. But if this is what mediocre feels like… then bring on the next lesson from Victor Manfred’s book.
I just hope I’m ready for the witches.
