The final volume of the fairy tale bundle is Like a Queen, lesbian stories based on traditional fairy tales. Today’s excerpt is from “The Stepmother’s Girl” by Quatre Grey:
For weeks I have cooked, cleaned, repaired, tended, mended, answered to the every whim of my stepsisters and of you. I had long since recovered from the aches and soreness of the hard labor but my patience with my step-sisters haughty attitudes and your cold harsh tone is growing thin. I have not received the pleasures of your satisfaction and gratitude at my apt obedience that I had anticipated. I have been given no reward, and am losing the simple joy I once had in servitude.
Tonight my step-sisters are at a party and my father sleeps soundly in the upstairs library. You call me to your personal chamber–you never share a bed with my father–for instructions on another menial task about the estate. Your chamber decorated like your gowns; draped in blacks and reds, midnight shades of purple and blue, like the lair of an ancient vampire. My clothes worn and dirty but as neat as I can make them, I step into your room and shut the door behind me, coming to stand at an easy attention while my eyes adjust to the dim illumination of the oil lamps. I hear you in an adjoining room, one I have never been allowed into and have heard referred to as your painting room. From the door left ajar, your voice beckons me in. I hesitate a moment before stepping to the door and entering.
The light is even dimmer here and yellow flame flickers off polished black leather, metal, wood. Shadows sneak and obscure the structures in the room. You stand by a wall which props up several large paintings and cradles an easel in its corner. These painting supplies and oil-covered canvases are the only objects I can clearly discern here. You glance up from your musings and paralyze me with another of your gazes I am unable to resist. Stepping towards me, slow with the soft rustle of fabric, you continue to hold me in place with nothing but those eyes.
You stop but an arms length away and free me by looking back to your paintings. “I am in need of new brushes and several frames. You will get these things for me tomorrow.”
The bitterness rises again in my chest, my patience at its end. “No.”
You turn to me slowly, a brow raised and intensity in your eyes that could stop a storm. I am unable to keep the contact and look away, a rush of heat coloring my cheeks and bringing sweat to my palms.
I wet my lips and try again. “No, Ma’am. I haven’t had a moment to myself in weeks. It’s all about you and I get nothing.”
“You are nothing without me, girl.” Your voice remains level and cold as it has always.
This brings my head up, anger surpassing bitterness and caution as I glare back. “Fuck you.”
The hand that shoves me against the wall by my throat takes me by surprise. The power that I always heard in your voice and saw in your eyes I now feel in your hand, choking about my neck, keeping me pinned with a strength I could never have fathomed you possessed. The point of your nails threaten to break skin, pressing into me in warning as I try to bring my hands up in defense. I lower them immediately but the pressure does not lessen and the fear at my mistake washes over me. You hold me with your eyes, now hot and deadly, as strongly as you do with your hand. I whimper.
With the same suddenness, you let go and I drop to my knees, one hand going to my neck. My panic lessens but the fear increases. I underestimated you.
I dare not look up as I hear you speak. “For all your hard work, what do you want?” The question is almost teasing, tone daring me to reply.
The resentment I held not long ago is gone and my original desire, the want that had carried me on these many weeks, rises within me again. Doubts threaten to keep me silent. But I have nothing to lose, if I am nothing without you. I bow my head in surrender and confess.
“I want you.”
I think myself gone deaf with the silence that follows and grow tense with the anticipation of a reply or another reprimand.
Your voice, still cold, breaks that silence. “You haven’t earned me yet.”
Something within me forces my head to rise, eyes lifting to meet yours. I hear myself speak as if I have no control over the words, “What must I do, Ma’am?”
The serpentine smile of a Siren enchants your face, consuming my world, causing my clit to ache with a need I had managed to ignore before but can no longer. You lean down ever so slightly, enough to trace a fingernail across my forehead and temple, the most you have ever touched me. And I could die for want of more.
“What would you do, girl?”
Blindfolded, hands bound to the roof of the tall cage, I am locked within. I can smell the thick scent of paint and candle wax, feel your private chamber about me, but you have left me here. I must wait until you are satisfied that I have learned some humbleness and respect and have earned what I want.
My body aches and curses unable to find their way past my lips show themselves in my wrists, twisting in the leather cuffs, my boots shifting on the cage floor, my breathing still hot. The lesson of disobedience, however small, must be learned quickly. Even these few minutes left abandoned and restrained calls up my weaker side; my attitude falters and my need to push away is overpowered by the need for your forgiveness, acceptance and touch. I can be broken as easily with the absence of a blow as with one. And I now know the secrets of your hidden room.
More minutes click by and I lean against the bars to feel some form of contact. My ears strain to find you in the heavy silence of the room. My knees are ready to meet the floor before you, my lips any part of you. I want to hear you breathe “Good girl” in my ear and know that my sweat soaked aching body is proof that I am worthy of such praise.
I reach the point of wanting to call out to you, to scream. But I was told to remain silent and so I will. And so I wait.
My breath holds when finally I hear someone close and smell your scent. I lean more into the bars, ears burning to hear you speak. My skin is aflame with pain that no flogger could match, waiting, wanting, pleading for your touch again. Soon it is given and I feel your fingers brush the tips of my hair.
“Mmm hmm. Now that’s better. Do you want out?”
My mouth is almost too dry to speak. “I want you.”
You chuckle and smooth your thumb against my lower lip. “Open.” I obey without hesitation, no longer gutter words lingering in my throat, just an urge to please.
Cool, wet citrus touches my lips and tongue. I taste the tips of your fingers as you feed me the fruit. I swallow and smell the sweet tang of another slice waiting. Through the bars, you feed me bits of orange. I drink each piece, feeling the drips of juice trickle down my chin and throat.
I could come at hearing those words.
I stand facing the rack, bare skinned save my scuffed work boots. My hands are free but stay clasped to the boards of the rack, as per your orders. The continual hard smack of your flogger has my back red and sore, my breathing uneven as I cling to the edge, afraid to let go, fighting to regain composure, stability. Taking orders has always been easy, but giving in is another story.
My breath catches at the sudden thunderclap thud against my back, as if it were a club you wielded instead of a flogger. I flinch a second before the next one hits and nearly lose my grip on the rack, something not unlike a moan escaping my lips. I have no thoughts of a third strike; the second was already too much. I flinch and gasp again as my back feels sensation. But this time it is not the brutal flogger, but your strong smooth hand. You stroke the red welts where I’ve just been hit and even that touch is almost too much. But I lean into it, breathing again, shuddering. The caressing continues and I hear the flogger being dropped aside. For a split moment, I relax under the delusion that we’re done, that the intense sensations are giving way to gentle touches. But nothing could be further from the truth and you prove it.
With a hard hand, you shove me firmly against the rack and press your body close behind mine. I can feel that you’re not ready to quit and a shudder runs through me again, nipples hardening even as my breasts are forced against the polished wood. Your hands push up my ribcage, my arms, and rest upon my hands, holding them down. Sweat glistens on my skin and I feel your lips so very close to my upper back. You find a trickle and take a long slow lick up, following its path between my shoulder blades and up the back of my neck. My breath catches, ragged, and as I feel your teeth hard and sharp against my skin, you have my full attention. You don’t bite just yet; that would be too easy, too giving.
You draw another lick up the back of my neck to my ear. I hear your voice, rich, dark. “Do you want it, girl? My teeth in you?”
“Yes, yes, Ma’am,” I manage. And I do. My back is still tender and hot from the flogging and now with you so close, I want more of what you have for me, I want more of what you can take from me.
The command twists my gut, swells my cunt, and I find myself unable to hold still as I plea my reply. “Please. Please, Ma’am. Please Ma’am, I want it.” My voice strains, everything quivering with anticipation and need. “Please, bite me, please.” I whimper, “Oh please…”
Your laugh is felt between us more than heard. You pull my arms together above my head and hold them there by my wrists, against the rack. With the hand you have freed, you drag your nails down my arm, my back, drawing red welts to just above my ass. A cry emerges from me and I twist, trying desperately to stay against the rack. I managed enough to cause no need for reprimand and my pleas are answered.
I gasp, my skin pricked by a thousand ice hot needles as your teeth sink into the curve of my neck. You bite hard enough to bruise the skin before releasing and licking to softer skin to bite again. I can’t help but squirm, wanting this so badly and needing more. Wood creaks as you press me firmly to the rack. Leather groans as I twist in my boots, rising up on my toes. I whimper and feel your fingers lace with mine. You claw again, up my hip and around to dig nails into my abdomen just above the hairline. I drip wet aching cunt down my inner thighs and my pelvis arches into you. Your teeth find a red mark on my shoulder left by the flogger and draw along its tender surface.
Again your lips return close to my ear and I hear your voice thick and consuming in my head. “Do not let go of the rack.”
“Yes Ma’am,” I breathe.
Your hand leaves my wrists and comes to grip tightly in my short blonde hair. I grip the rack beam hard, feeling my eyes water as you jerk back my head. Your tongue intrudes my ear, follows the line of my jaw, licks up the side of my throat. I breathe and relax, enabling me to lean back more, opening up to you more.
I give my throat to you.
Here endeth the teaser series. Grab your copy of the Fairy Tale Bundle to read the rest of this and dozens of other sexy stories!