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Copyright ©2007 by Eternal Press
First published in 2007, 2007
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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
Twisted Fayrie Tales Anthology © 2007 Various Authors
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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
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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
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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 encircled 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
