by Sally Odgers
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Eternal Press
www.eternalpress.com.au
Copyright ©2007 by Eternal Press
First published in 2007, 2007
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Twisted Fayrie
Tales
Anthology
Lisa Logan
Sally Odgers
Rob Rosen
Yu-Han Chao (Erotica)
Joshua Babcock
Jane Toombs
Kandy Phair
Richard E Friesen
Karina L. Fabian
D. J. Sylvis
Jane Toombs
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Twisted Fayrie Tales Anthology © 2007 Various Authors
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic of mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.
An Eternal Press Production
Eternal Press
Wangaratta,
Victoria,
Australia,
3677
To order additional copies of this book, contact:
www. eternalpress.com.au
Cover Art © 2007 by Julie D'Arcy
Edited by Julie D'Arcy
Layout and Book Production by Julie D'Arcy
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9804263-7-3
First Edition * December 2007
Production by Eternal Press
Printed in Australia and United States of America.
CONTENTS
Sindarella
Manhunt
The Christmas Present
Mirror, Mirror
Rapunzel
How Cats Lost the Power of Speech
It Can't Be Mine
Cinderella Ten Years After The Wedding
Beauty Sleeping
A Dog's Life
Pebbles in the Stream
Cinders
Angel with an Attitude
I Holler Oh Hot Dog
* * * *
Sindarella
By
Lisa Logan
'Tis a saying about certainties, like death and taxes. Another should grace this pantheon. Fairy tales are true, but count on someone to pervert the vital details.
My favorite ‘tis the mess about a fairy godmother, glass slippers, and a royal ball. Comedy of the highest order, and I should know.
I'm Lusinda Ella Fairbairn. Sinda for short. I could start with my dear father's marriage to a fraud, or his death courtesy of the dark talents of my stepsisters. Or even with the dull servitude my step-nightmares granted me soon after.
But I don't find the beginning of stories very exciting.
* * * *
"Sinda, make haste with that water."?
In profile my stepmother bore the crooked, thin nose of a squash plucked early from the vine. Straight on as I turned from the pond behind Fairbairn Manor, it all but disappeared behind gray eyes and a mannish chin.
Warmth rose to my cheeks, more from bitter reprimand than summer sun. “'Tis not my fault the well runs dry.” A pole bearing a bucket on each end dug into my shoulders. “The pond ‘tis a longer course."
Spindled arms folded beneath hanging flops of flesh that were once breasts, though Stepmother's lassoed frock made reasonable effort to slinging them into a proper female silhouette. “Tonight is everything,” she said. “The Majesties have decreed the Prince must choose his bride at the ball. One of your sisters will be the one."
The royal ball. What a jest awaited throngs of young maidens, who even now preened for the evening ahead. I had no interest, even were I invited. Oh, the Prince cast a dashing reflection, but all accounts showed him overly impressed with himself. So enamored, no doubt, that he likely preferred his own hand to the company of a woman. Attesting to his insufferable nature was an attempt on his life that very year. Probably some poor maven he'd besotted, then rejected in favor of a dalliance with the royal mirror.
In brief, I had little patience for spoiled children. I'd already had my fill.
"The bath must be proper,” she went on, “and with haste. If otherwise, you know the cost."
A prickle of impatience erupted with perspiration on my brow. “Then perhaps delaying my task to wage complaint ‘tis not the best course."
"And if your hands bore the speed of your mouth, there would be little cause."
I held her gaze fast until she stepped aside. Over her shoulder she added, “I was merely sent to inform you."
'Tis common folly in the telling that my stepmother was a wicked schemer. True, no love danced in the barren space between us. But her primary sin was bearing two daughters who turned to the blackest of arts to secure a life of wealth and ease. Allura and Melisande were dark witches, and my stepmother's intrigues were not her own. She was an accomplice to fear.
* * * *
For despite constant attentions from its sole caretaker, no amount of scrubbing could loose the stains. Walls drank deep of dark energies, looming in shadow day and night. Furnishings wore a cloak of age, and dampness came of its own accord, as though weeping for itself. Even the magnitude of my childhood home shriveled with years, though as I slogged upstairs with buckets in hand I wished it smaller still. Had my stepsisters the fortitude to bathe in the kitchen, the matter would have been eased. But they refused to sink buttocks into water outside their upstairs bath. At my current progress, this would not be ‘til the following fortnight.
"No, you simpleton,” Allura's graveled tone belied the smooth sensuality of her name through the partially open door to the bath. “The red candles. And a pinch of ginger root, not frog wart. Unless you want to make the Prince retch at the sight of me."
I paused outside, listening. What new magic was brewing?
"Of course.” Melisande's tone was even. “After all, the spell is to stop him from what he'd normally do."
"Close those pretty lips, sister, lest I find use for them in my next silencing spell."
"But why you? I want to be his true love!"
The brew's purpose became clear. And vile.
"I am eldest."
"And what of it?"
In truth, I am eldest, though they counted me fealty, not family.
"'Tis tradition."
"The royal decree said nothing of it,” Melisande's voice took on a jagged whine. “Any marriageable girl may wed the Prince."
And suffer when he has eyes for none but himself.
Still, my stomach gave a greasy spin to think of the Prince as my step-witches’ fodder.
"We both gain the spoils, whichever is the victor."
"If this love enchantment of yours works,” Melisande added.
"So it will, if you keep your hand on the red candle and your mind on the task!"
There was brief silence, then a small gasp of pain.
Not knowing what possessed me, I slid forward and peered through the crack in the door. My eyes widened at the sight of my sisters, every inch bare save for where long curls spilled down their backs. A score of candles enci
rcled them upon the floor, where they stood facing each other. Allura's arms and legs were spread wide, like a star, her head dropping back to brush raven hair against the swell of ripe buttocks while Melisande held out a single red candle. The flame danced, possessed by her breath as she leaned near Allura's breast. Tiny pearls of scarlet wax dripped onto the flesh of a nipple. I flinched instinctively at the thought of searing such a tender bud, yet hers hardened with haste. Indeed, Allura's smiling gasp was more pleasure than complaint.
My cheeks flooded with warmth. Though I knew a man's destiny would pervert should this sexual rite succeed, I could not interfere. Neither, it seemed, could I bear to turn away. Though my arms trembled from the buckets I remained, a fresh tingle of perspiration beading my brow.
"Now,” Allura whispered, “the rose oil. Speak the incant clear and true."
Holding hair away from the danger of flame, Melisande bent to rest her candle upon a brass holder. Faced away, her pose displayed gentle brackets of hips, and buttocks parted enough to glimpse the mysteries of damp, pink flesh.
Rising, she held a small vial near the slight upturn of her breasts. Turning it over a fingertip, she reached out to anoint Allura's full lower lip.
Her voice was velvet, rich in command. “For his spirit.” Leaning forward, Melisande kissed her with a lover's lips.
Her finger consorted with the vial once again, then brushed oil gently over the right nipple. “For his heart."
She bent her head to Allura's breast, and in the instant before the space between them closed I saw the tip of her tongue lash out. My heart skipped, and Allura's breath caught in a moan of approval.
Melisande moved to the left. “For his body."
Her mouth lingered; both nipples long and erect when she drew away. Then she knelt, and Allura's gaze fell to her with molten fire.
The soft hollow of navel was next. “For his will.” Her tongue flicked in and out, then her lips pressed against the spot. My fingers cramped and arms shrieked in warning, but I could not avert my eyes as Melisande consulted the vial one last time. I felt a faint buzzing sensation low in my stomach.
"For his soul."
She drove between the cleft of her sister's thighs, anointing deep to prompt a guttural cry unlike any I had ever heard. The finger she pulled back glistened as if it, too, had been anointed with lust itself. Then her head dropped, tongue replacing the digit. My breath fled. That such a thing could happen was not yet within my mind's grasp.
Melisande rose, a fierce burning in blue eyes.
"Now,” Allura's said, “the cala goeg."
I'd not seen what lay on the towel which straddled the tub. Melisande withdrew the object I knew from art, though not from life. The lacquered wood was long and smooth, with a delicate curve. Gods forgive my forbearance, but my maidenhead throbbed for release of its bonds at the sight this phallus stroking lightly across Allura's breasts.
"Now you are my love in proxy,” Allura said. “An extension of the desire in his loins."
She raised her leg, and I thought she meant to step upon the candles burning nearby. Instead, her knee crooked so her foot could rest on the iron tub. As Melisande took up her extension of man to wield it upon fate I could see they no were longer sister and sister, but Allura and Prince Verrill.
Allura closed her eyes, and with a mighty thrust Melisande entered her, driving deep as an animal scream escaped them both. Hands went wild, groping and kneading flesh that was no longer her sister, but the man Allura determined to possess that night.
The sexual violence unleashed shot cold panic through me, and both buckets fell from hands I swore would never uncurl again. They clattered loudly, sloshing contents over skirts and floorboard. The ritual ceased immediately, Heads snapping to bear. Their lustful gaze turned to frozen animosity.
Allura stepped over candles and through the doorway in a single motion. “Oaf!” she shrieked. “Clumsy fool. What are you doing?"
"I'm ... sorry.” I labored to keep a simmering stew of fear and resentment at bay.
"Eavesdropping, Sinda?” Melisande slithered forward, still bearing the ritual phallus. Her eyes threw sparks of glee. Clearly, the thought of my watching hadn't displeased her. “Enjoying the tingle in your loins?"
Allura was less amused. “You know your presence during our rituals is neither a proper nor wise endeavor. You're very fortunate my spell was complete with the first thrust of the cala goeg."
Her hands wandered to the swell of her breasts, pinching the pinkest flesh as her eyes locked to mine. A smile turned corners of her ruby mouth. “Although, I should rather have finished to my own contentment."
I tried to hold her gaze, buy my eyes betrayed me and dipped to the sight of her gratification. Melisande cackled, stroking the wood in her hand. I stood dumb and frozen, wondering why ‘twas they who were naked and deviant, yet I who was shamed into silence.
"Well, why do you just stand there?” A dull smile matched the muddy shade of Melisande's curls. “Practicing to be a pathetic piece of statuary?"
Allura caught my eye. “We could turn her into a bird bath. She does so love being outdoors."
I swallowed dry saliva, praying I'd not stirred the bottomless kettle of my sisters’ anger such. “I didn't mean anything. I was just ... your bath."
"'Tis wasted on the floorboards, thanks to your witless hands,” Allura said. “Clean it up."
Turning from me, the pair retreated.
I breathed relief as I went about my chores, glad to have escaped my own foolishness. Still, flashes of the unkind fate awaiting the Prince refused to pass from concern. My stepsisters, rulers of this land? Such could not be.
* * * *
Though I had a fortnight's work to attend in the few hours before the mockery of the royal ball, I sat on the wrought iron bench in the main garden, stretching against midday sun as the baker's cart approached. ‘Twas midweek, when he delivered rounds of tender sourdough, a half dozen croissants, and two friendly ears in close join to a mouth for encouragement and gossip.
Today, however, I was in need of neither. I had a plan.
"Cherie.” A mustache feathered my cheek in greeting. He was perfumed with flour and yeast, a welcome thing indeed.
Fouchier's weathered smile lifted spirits until my own in return was genuine. He thrust a Baguette in my hand, his voice a conspiring whisper. “For you, Lusinda Ella, and no other."
I nodded thanks. “A masterpiece, as always. Thank you.” As the sun shone approval, I rose to face him eye to chin. ‘Twas I who was taller.
Custom dictated that we dispense idle gossip. Mine was to be less idle than usual. I cast a furtive glance around, though I knew the others had little time for a stroll.... “You will be at the royal ball this eve?"
He raised his chin. “But of course.” His attempt at indignity drew a smile. “The finest baker in the land will provide the finest baked goods for the finest event of the year."
"Take me with you."
His jaw dropped. “What, no invitation for my Sinda? Longing for a dance with the Prince?"
"No, and certainly not. I've no interest in frilly dancing with spoiled men."
His eyes bore skepticism. “Hmm. Still, I cannot take you."
"Please."
"Impossible, cherie. I cannot bring extra hands without proper permissions."
I shrugged. “I'll hide among your goods as you enter."
His laugh was more accommodating than his reply. “Smuggle you in? Would be my livelihood and the stocks were you discovered, and with the recent attempt on Prince Verrill you surely would be. The Royal Guard will have four sets of eyes apiece."
"Please, Fouchier. ‘Tis important."
He smiled. “Love is always life and death, milady."
I folded my arms. “'Tis not the glow of prospect I seek!” I pondered how much to reveal. “What if I said my stepsisters have foul games afoot?"
"Then I'd say you're jealous because we were invited, and you were not."
<
br /> My eyes swiveled as the voice struck ice through my heart. “Allura!"
Her smile was honeyed, for the benefit of our visitor. “You're needed inside, Sister.” She stammered over the last, as if beginning her usual habit of incanting my name with emphasis on the negative syllable. “Mother has taken to the chaise."
Stepmother hadn't been in prime health for years, but I knew ‘twas a ploy to part me from company. And from my chance to see the evening righted.
Fouchier's farewell promised nothing, leaving me to the vengeful spirit called Allura. Melisande arrived in time for the pair to flank me. “You foul little demon. What's she done?"
"Seems foiling full enjoyment of my spell wasn't enough.” A strand of black escaped from her caul. I wished I could escape as easily. “Our little Sinda was plotting its ruin as well."
Her eyes darkened to molten bronze as she addressed Melisande. “Get the raven's claw and the sea salt. All of it."
* * * *
Darkness fell on the Manor in truth and fact as I sat on the grass, fearful of what my sisters had done. To ensure my utter disablement, they were summoning evil magic indeed.
Sea salt surrounded our property in a giant circle; a small animal had been sacrificed in all four quarters. Blood and soil caked on the sisters’ hands, and my forehead had been anointed with it.
"There,” Melisande dropped an apothecary in the grass beside me. “That should stop future meddling."
My heart pounded, suggesting perhaps that if I dared not ask, my ignorance would protect me. My marrow knew otherwise.
"W-what do you mean?"
"Come, Sinda,” Allura pulled me up, dragging me to the barrier's edge as she pulled an angry, gnarled dagger from the waist of her skirts. I tried to pull back, but her grip tightened. I cried out as she traced my lifeline, cutting it short as a thin red trail erupted in its place. Drops scattered on the salt, sending up curls of yellow smoke.
She turned, holding my throbbing hand. “'Tis finished."
"What?"
"A simple binding spell. You cannot leave the grounds."
My eyes widened. “Not at all? For how long?"
Her lips congealed into a smile that sank my heart. “Only as long as you live."