Free Lustfully Ever After by Kristina Wright Page A

animal than man.
    Master enters me from behind, tearing within me, caressing me with his thick hard cock. He tortures my pussy, teasing me in and out, sliding and thrusting, fucking me with a whisper, with slow hot breath. Rising, he rages within me, he takes his pleasure from me; I am bound helpless, sobs and moans, songs of praise and worship, I am his. He comes, his hot cock swelling inside me, bursting inside me. Little Red I am, yes Master. The wolf moon howls, ever after, happily ever after, breaking the night into stars.

MIRROR MIRROR
    Shanna Germain
     
     
     
     
     
    S he has a raven the color of coal. No, not coal. Blacker. The darkest night on the darkest day in the darkest minute of the year. An absence of light that is so full of nothing it makes everything around it shine like a jewel. Even if it isn’t.
    Which is why she keeps the raven perched always on her shoulder. She’s no jewel anymore, and the creature offsets her graying pallor, her growing wrinkles, the way the half-moons beneath her eyes are the color of maid-bucket water. She’s growing thin, too.
    What she can’t hide, she passes off to the king, and the kingdom, as mourning. “Your daughter,” she says to her husband, choking, as if that’s all she can bear to say. As if she cares so much for her stepdaughter that she is eating herself from the inside out.
    And maybe she is. She’s called for the huntsman’s head on a platter, after all. Proclaimed him murderer. Sent search parties to the woods for the body that no one has found. She is taking
it harder than the kingdom might have expected, and they love her for it. Her unexpected generosity, her grief that mirrors their own.
    The queen, she despairs, but not for what they think.
    As for me? I despair for the missing Snow, for the king without a daughter. Of course I do. I even despair for the huntsman, who had small, delicate fingers, a lovely growl, and a bit of a masochist in him to boot. Well, perhaps more than a bit of a masochist, if even Snow found him satisfying enough.
    But mostly I am happy. I have the queen to myself, for now, and there is nothing to despair of in that.
     
    Today, like every day lately, the queen is having trouble getting out of bed. There’s a celebration of some sort, a baby shower that she must attend, and the sun is already halfway through the sky. Yet she lies beneath the covers, the ends of her black hair tipped silver.
    I stand at her bedside, as I’ve stood for hours, waiting. There is no pushing the queen. Not yet. Even her raven sits still upon her headboard, quiet except for the occasional click of his jaw.
    “Girl,” she says, finally. Her voice is ragged with age and exhaustion. The hand that tugs the covers is thinned to the bone, the long nails broken to claws. “Bring me my breakfast. The purple one.”
    I do her bidding, quick and quiet, because I am a good girl, the best girl. Because even though I know my queen for all that she is and all that she is not, I love her. Because I am hers and she is mine in the way that all queens and their girls have ever been, will ever be.
    I open her secret closet—I overheard the magic word from Snow before she was gone, and the queen is not well enough to notice that I have hold of something I shouldn’t. Inside, there
are dozens of bottles, of all sizes and colors. Some are clear as water and as still. Others bubble and sparkle inside the glass. Still others, the ones I find hard to look at, hold golden rings and skeleton keys, preserved toads and coils of snakes, finger bones and stag hearts.
    The purple one is so deep and inky it’s nearly black. It is small, and I carry it to her in the palm of my hand. She takes it without opening her eyes. The color stains her lips and teeth and tongue so that when she grimaces, her mouth becomes a black, endless maw.
    She lets the bottle fall to the floor, not enough left to worry about staining the rug. The transformation is not as instant as it once was.