Alison's Wonderland

by Alison Tyler

  To show her gratitude, she begins to dance for them. The svartalfar kneel back in their circle, eyes aglow, transfixed by her slender glittering form, and they beat time for her upon their thighs, the seats of their stools, an upturned bucket. This dance is one she never learned in her father’s ballroom. It is all pride and taunting, pleasure and lasciviousness. It is slow like the ooze of cream, then urgent as the shudder of an arrow striking home. She writhes her hips and rolls her buttocks and shakes her breasts until the dark elves look entranced, half-witless with desire. Even from my spyhole I can see the moist gleam on her inner thighs, the swelling petals of her secret rose peeking out when she bends to tease each of them in turn. They must be able to smell the perfume of her lust.

  Finally one of them—it is the cook, the one I think of as the youngest—breaks. He pitches forward, grabbing her legs, planting hot kisses on her bare thighs. He drops his breeches and pumps the swollen member that rises from it frantically in his fist. The girl signals to the leader with a flash of her eyes, and suddenly they are all on their feet again.

  There are treasures still waiting in the jewelry box, you see. They prise the youngest of their number from her, and clip more and longer chains to her nipple rings and to the piercings through her sex—and the ends of these chains they keep in their hands, taut. Then they dress her in a harness such as I have never seen before; a device that straps about her thighs and stands proud from her mound: a phallus of gleaming gold, rendered in perfect detail to every fold and vein, horrifyingly oversize and twice as obscene arising from the narrow hips of this pretty girl.

  She laughs. Then they bend their young cook on hands and knees and she crouches to impale him up the fundament. And as she rides him—and she is not gentle, she is not kindly, she buggers him like a soldier in a long war rutting his whore—the others hold the chains tight and pluck upon them, stretching her nipples and labia out and sending repeated stabs of sensation to torment them. Her breasts quiver, sweet prisoners of nipples that have turned dark and swollen. She slaps the muscular rump beneath her hands and squeals. The youngest svartalfar holds his own pintle and jerks it, groaning, the muscles standing up on his arm and shoulder—until she comes, shrieking and tearing at his arse cheeks with her nails, and he spurts the thick jets of his seed over the floor.

  That is too much for the other six. They release her from the harness, leaving their comrade to collapse with the golden phallus still buried to the hilt in his bowels. They unclip the long chains to make sure she will not become entangled and pull the cat’s tail from her anus. Then they ravish her, each desperate to take possession of their goddess.

  They are too impatient to each wait their turn, but take her two or three at a time, impaling her in the arse and the coynte and the mouth or simply humping her exquisite breasts. Their dark bodies knot around her pale one. Watching from my vantage point, I learn a number of things about the svartalfar; for example, that their virile members are by human standards very large, very thick and gnarled like tree roots. That their spend is prodigious in quantity. And that unlike men they are not exhausted by their first shot from the bow; each of them takes his pleasure of her three or four times. Even the cook recovers sufficiently to stuff her throat and ram her until she chokes on his cream.

  You might think such a slip of a girl could not take such a riving, but she does. She receives the most brutal hammer blows of their thrusting pricks eagerly and her spasms of pleasure are unmistakable though her screams are usually muffled by cock. You’d imagine she has no bones in her body, so swiftly does it accommodate those thick and glistening tools. She spreads herself wide with her hands to ease their entry, and through her tears she searches blindly with her mouth for more.

  But she is a mess by the time they are finished; flushed, tear-stained, slack-jawed, swollen, scratched and bedecked with the sticky white tracks of their seed, as well as her golden chains. No longer perfect, for the moment. Afterward they bring basins of water and clean her and the jewelry with great care and patience, returning the latter to the iron box, wrapping her in furs and laying her upon the bed of bear pelts. She falls unconscious almost at once, a smile still lingering on her lush, bruised lips.

  I turn away.

  Almost I am tempted to leave her here, to her lovers and her forest idyll. Even these old bones feel the urge to return to my palace and my husband and my own diversions. I understand her appetites—I, better than most. We share the old blood, she and I.

  But it cannot last, this truce. Right now she is still a girl, filled with green sap and an all-consuming self-adoration, but sooner or later these games will not be enough. She will grow restless. Then her mind will inevitably turn to thoughts of her future. Then it will turn to thoughts of revenge.

  There’s no room for more than one witch in a kingdom.

  So I must deal with her, quickly and cleanly, by my own hand and without the svartalfar knowing there has been foul play. Poison is best I think. But I’m not sure how to administer it. Obviously I must wait until she is on her own during the day, and then offer her… What? A golden hair comb? Yet there’s nothing I could fashion that would match the consummate artifices of the svartalfar. A bodice that tightens until it cuts off the breath, perhaps? But she has no need of fine clothes out here.

  An apple, I think. She must be fed up with a diet of game and pine nuts and herbs.

  Yes, an apple will work best.

  After the Happily Ever After

  Heidi Champa

  Sometimes, I wish the glass slipper didn’t fit. I wish I hadn’t become a modern-day princess, living in the castle on the hill. Sure, I was the envy of every girl in town; every other girl who had secretly dreamed of marrying Mr. Charles Channing III. He had gotten the name Prince Charming many years ago in the business world, for his ability to charm the money out of the men and the pants off the women.

  And, now here I was, staring out my leaded-glass window at the city below, feeling just as empty as I had in my studio apartment in that basement on the other side of the tracks. I was supposed to be over-the-moon happy, perfectly content with my new surroundings. But something just didn’t feel right. The love that had grown between us before our nuptials was now replaced by something else. Every aspect of my life felt like a job, like a duty. I always had to say the right thing, dress the right way, act like the perfect princess everywhere I went. Being Mrs. Cynthia Channing was not an easy task.

  It was a complete accident that I had even met Charles. My friend Teresa had dragged me to the charity ball at the Channing house. She knew I had always wanted to see inside the mansion, and she had an extra ticket. Of course, she had to loan me an outfit, right down to the shoes. We just had to make sure to be home by midnight, so she could relieve her babysitter.

  Pretending, for a night, to be someone I wasn’t, felt as if I was acting a part in a play. I didn’t even recognize Charles when he first approached me. I had never seen him before. When the tall, dark and handsome stranger started chatting me up at the bar, it never occurred to me I was speaking to the most powerful man in the room.

  I had forgotten myself, forgotten who I was supposed to be. I talked to him as I would have any other man. He laughed at my jokes, made me feel so at ease. After two drinks and some rather interesting conversation, we were interrupted by an older man.

  “Well, Charles, I have to commend you on this event. It is just splendid.”

  “Thank you, Judge. It is always nice to see you.”

  The old man collected his scotch and made his way back to the stuffed leather chair from which he came. I nearly swallowed the shrimp I was snacking on, toothpick and all.

  “You’re Charles Channing?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m sorry. I just assumed you knew. Does it matter?”

  “I guess not. It’s just, if I’m being honest, I never thought you’d actually be here. I thought you’d write a check and call it a day.”

  “That’s not exactly how I like to do things.
Especially when I know the room is going to be full of beautiful women. Like you. Could I interest you in a tour?”

  I couldn’t help but accept his offer. He was so easy to talk to, so down-to-earth for someone in his position. So incredibly good-looking. We walked out of the grand room, and started up the carpeted staircase. He was busy explaining things, pointing at paintings and sculptures that lined the hallways. I couldn’t pay attention. I was too busy concentrating on the fact that his fingers were laced with mine; that every time we stopped to admire some priceless work of art his hand would drop to the small of my back.

  We came to a beautiful piece of stained glass that filled a small alcove floor to ceiling. He pulled me into the relative privacy of the space, his face right in front of mine. He was shadowed in colors; blues, greens and reds marking all over his skin. My body pressed against him almost by instinct; a sudden rush of dizziness shot through me. His hands steadied me, resting on either side of my flushed cheeks. His fingertips moved slowly, sliding like pads of silk over my neck and down to my bare shoulders. His thumb ran back and forth over the length of my collarbone, sweeping lower with each pass. It came to rest right over my pounding heartbeat, his hand inches from my breast.

  “You’re not nervous, are you, Cindy?”

  “No, I’m not nervous.”

  “Good, then your heart must be pounding because you’re excited.”

  Before I could open my mouth, he was kissing me. The tender first touch of his lips quickly gave way to a ravaging, forceful taking of my mouth. I hadn’t expected passion like this from such a buttoned-up guy. Something told me this was the most action that alcove had seen in all of its years. His hands slipped down, taking the top of my dress down with them. My nipples now exposed to the cool air around us, I felt his thumbs strum over them in unison, my flesh contracting under his touch. His mouth reluctantly released mine, and a small moan escaped his lips before they latched around my stiff nipple. I could feel his hard cock pressing against my leg.

  But just as my hand started rubbing his impressive erection, the old grandfather clock that stood in the hall started to strike, startling the two of us apart. I hadn’t even realized the time. Midnight. Teresa was going to kill me.

  “I’m sorry, Charles. I have to go.”

  I started down the stairs, trying desperately to remember which way we had come from, while straightening my dress. Luckily, I only made one wrong turn, and the party noise made it easy for me to find my way. I spotted Teresa, who had clearly been looking for me. “Where did you disappear to? I told you I had to be home by now. My babysitter is going to be furious.”

  “I’m sorry. I got caught up. Charles Channing was giving me a tour.”

  “Right, and I was chatting with the queen of England. Come on, let’s get out of here. I think we’ve had enough of the blue bloods for tonight.”

  I turned to take one last look at the room, and saw Charles emerging from the hallway, his face a mixture of lust and anger. I caught his eye one last time before Teresa dragged me out into the real world again.

  Charles didn’t waste any time finding me after the night of the charity ball. He tracked me down easily, calling my work and home numbers, making his intentions very clear. I had piqued his interest and he wanted to get to know me better. At first I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved with someone so prominent and important. But I soon realized that Charles wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I relented. His dates weren’t just dates. They were elaborate events straight out of a storybook. One night we enjoyed dinner on a yacht; the next week, a limo-driven trip to the opera.

  The romance unfolded like some kind of dream. After he had hooked me with the dazzle of fabulous dates, the gifts started pouring in. The biggest thing I had ever received from a man before Charles was flowers. But Charles even managed to make flowers an extravagant purchase. Jewelry, clothing, shoes, everything a woman could ever ask for. The luxury started to feel like too much, but every protest I put up was met with a quick dismissal.

  “This is just who I am, Cindy. It’s the Channing way. Trust me, you’ll get used to it.”

  The sad part was, he was right. I did get used to it. I allowed myself to be caught up in the world of glamour that Charles offered. I stopped balking at the gifts, stopped being concerned about how much things cost. When he asked me to move in with him, I didn’t hesitate. How could I turn down the chance to live in a mansion when I had spent the last four years living underground in a crappy apartment? The old Cindy was slowly being replaced with the new-and-improved version that would make Charles Channing proud. I kept telling myself I wanted this world, that I wanted to change. I didn’t leave any room in my mind for doubt. I just said yes, and accepted the three-carat diamond ring on the spot.

  To say the wedding had been straight out of a fairy tale would have been an understatement. Every last detail, right down to the horse-drawn carriage, was selected for maximum effect. This “wedding of the year” was being held to a slightly higher standard than most. For my part, I did nearly nothing as wedding planners, coordinators and my future mother-in-law took over. All that was expected of me was to show up for dress fittings, ooh and aah at the shower, and smile a lot. The real me didn’t have to do a thing except keep quiet.

  In my heart, I had always wanted a simple wedding. Just me, my fiancé and a few close friends. I had dreamed about getting married outdoors, in nature, with no shoes on. But the Channing family would never hear of anything so common.

  “Come on, honey. Who wants to get married with a bunch of bugs flying all over the place? Saint Mark’s is amazing. You’ll love it.”

  After the wedding, we quickly fell into a routine. Charles insisted I quit my job.

  “It wouldn’t look right for me to have a wife who works. You understand, don’t you?”

  Of course I understood. I didn’t really like my job that much anyway. I was sure I could find something to pass the time. But the truth was, there wasn’t much for me to do. There were maids, drivers, gardeners, cooks. Every whim I had could easily be taken care of by someone else. At first, having people do things for me was a joy. I had never in my life had someone do my laundry. I had never had someone make me exactly what I wanted for dinner, right down to the number of ice cubes in my drink.

  But ultimately everything that had been so amazing in the beginning started to lose its luster. Being a pampered woman didn’t come easily to me. I started sneaking my own laundry to the basement, and I planted a small garden of my own on the side of the house. I was so bored doing nothing, so bored of being just another society woman who had turned useless. And it had only been six months.

  To make matters worse, Charles was always working, even when he was at home. He spent hours in his study and some nights he barely came to bed. I missed him, even when he and I were in the same place. Our sex life that had started out so promising soon dwindled to barely twice a month. One night, I scrolled through the memories of recent days and realized nearly three weeks had passed since Charles and I’d made love. I decided to be bold, something I hadn’t done since we had been together.

  I walked into the study, listening to his voice echo off the walls. It was still so hard to believe he was my husband. Sometimes, I felt like I was watching a movie of someone else’s life. I approached him slowly, quietly, and put my hands on his shoulders. He held up the customary finger, the “hold on a second” sign he had perfected. I ignored his hand, and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. His lips pulled into a smile, despite the serious tone of his voice. I turned the chair around, twisting the phone cord around him, and straddled his lap. His attempts to push me off quickly stopped as I kissed his neck, just below the ear. His voice never changed, but his hand went to my back, and his hips rose up slightly under me. I waited for him to stop me, but he didn’t.

  Soon, Charles was hanging up the phone, and put a hand on either side of my face. Just like he had that first night we met. His kiss was so familiar, so comf
orting. He slid his hands down to my breasts and his fingers had my nipples at attention in no time. He could still flood me with desire, even when I felt so distant from him. I was surprised by his insistence, but happy. My shirt soon landed on the floor, as did his. The couch across the room seemed the most logical choice, and our pants joined the pile as we made our way over to the brown leather.

  I moved to lie down, but Charles pulled me onto his lap. The look on his face took me back to the beginning, to the man who couldn’t wait to get into my pants. I eased myself down onto him, his hard length fitting into me like we were made for each other. His mouth, the mouth I fell in love with, covered my nipple and sucked hard until I gasped. I rocked on top of him, feeling his body press against my clit.

  God, he felt so good.

  His hands held on to my hips, trying to make me slow down. But I didn’t want him to slow down. I rolled my hips harder against him, my mouth crushing his. I was so close, and I could tell he was, too. Just then, his phone rang from across the room. I tried to ignore the sound, but I could tell Charles had no intention of doing so.

  “I have to get that.”

  “Charles, no. You can call them back.”

  I kissed him again, pleading with him not to go. He picked me up, pulling me off his cock, and set me down on the couch. Walking quickly across our clothes, he answered the phone, his voice normal again. I whispered his name, and he put up one finger, wanting me to wait. Thirty seconds turned into five minutes and I watched with disbelief as he pulled on his boxer shorts and sat down at this desk. He opened a file, and I could tell that I was gone again from his mind.

  Silently, I picked up my own clothes, and walked out of the room. The fury in me didn’t stop the heat pulsing between my legs. I went to our bedroom and pulled the covers back on the bed. I lay down, pulling my vibrator from the bedside table. The all-too-familiar hum was the sum total of the love I got that night.