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The message from the palace is short and simple: you or your daughters. Her or her daughters, her daughters who are so young and frightened, her daughters still recovering from their devastating injuries. It is not a choice.
She puts herself together, fine and polite and composed as she would when coming to call, and climbs into the carriage without letting her fear show. She follows a silent servant through winding halls, up the stairs to a tucked-away little room she's never seen before.
The girl, that wretched girl, sits in a chair like it's one of her newfound thrones, dressed simply, but cleanly in a soft gray gown. She thanks the servant and bids him leave with a pleasant smile, her eyes never leaving her stepmother's. The door clicks shut and footsteps fade away, leaving the two of them to gaze at each other in silence.
"Lock the door, will you, please?" her stepdaughter asks. She chuckles to herself, soft and low. "I always hated it when you said please."
The stepmother realizes she might hate it, too, but her princess has given her a direct command. She reaches behind her, not daring to turn away, fumbling slightly before she finds the clock and clicks it home.
"What do you want?" she asks, using every portion of self-control she possesses to keep her voice from shaking.
"Do you know, I'm not sure," the girl says, sounding rather thoughtful. "I want that fairy to have come and saved me sooner." (What fairy? the stepmother doesn't dare ask). "I want to not be so fucked in the head anymore. I want to not wake up screaming with your voice in my ears. I want my mother back, and my childhood, and that inheritance money you frittered away on useless shit all those years."
She's never heard her stepdaughter curse before, not ever. Of course, she's never had her stepdaughter look at her like that either, with such cold, bright eyes.
The girl settles back in her chair with a sight, lifting the hem of her skirt slightly. On one foot, the stepmother can see the faint gleam of her shoe--that wretched, wretched shoe. Her other foot is bare.
"But right now," the girl says, "I want you to come here."
The stepmother swallows back every instinct to tell her stepdaughter to go to hell, all too aware of locks and daughters and the hallways between her and freedom. She takes a slow, hesitant step forward.
"No, not quite." The girl points at the ground, precise as an arrow.
The stepmother's blood goes cold. "You can't--"
"I can and I will, and you will obey the commands of your future queen." The princess folds her hands in her lap; they're still callused, but her nails have grown sharper, like talons. "I will not order you again."
The stepmother grits her teeth and sinks down, wincing as her knees scrape along the floor. It looks freshly swept, but it feels so dirty, being down here like this.
"I remember the first time you brought me to my knees," her daughter says. "Then you twisted my arm and shoved my elbow into the fire." She shakes her sleeve down her arm, revealing the old, dull red mark on one elbow. "Do you remember why you were so mad? I don't."
The stepmother doesn't, either. Her memories of that day are blurry and distant, accompanied only by the faint smell of burning flesh. She swallows hard and tries not to think of stakes.
"I told you I wouldn't order you again," her stepdaughter sing-songs. The woman lets out a breath and forces herself onto all fours like an animal, crawling across the floor. Every muscle in her border screams at her to resist, to run, and the girl doesn't need fire to hurt her now.
She crawls and crawls until, finally, she has to come to a stop at the foot of the chair, sliding back onto her knees with a grunt. This close she can see a bit more of her stepdaughter's legs and the faint scars that climb them like coils of silver wire.
Anger and daring twist together in the stepmother's stomach and bubble up into words. "What does your wife think of those marks you try to hide under your dress, your highness?" she taunts, acid-sharp.
The girl's foot jerks upward, coming in to kick her teeth, and the stepmother lets outs a frightened yelp. She jerks backward, trying to avoid a blow that never comes.
Her stepdaughter laughs--she can't remember the last time she heard that girl laugh. It's sharp and wild, more breaking windows than silvery bells.
"She doesn't mind them." The princess settles back in her chair, merrily tapping her glass slipper against the ground. "She doesn't mind what I'm going to do about it, either."
And what are you going to do about it? the stepmother doesn't dare ask. She folds her shaking hands in her lap, trying to control her breathing.
The princess's foot comes to a halt and she shifts her position, lifting it gently into the air. Light flickers off the smooth glass surface and the stepmother can't look away.
"Kiss it," her stepdaughter says.
She blinks, looks from shoe to girl several times, certain she must have misheard. "What?"
"Kiss. It." The girl leans forward, glaring down at her. "It's what you always wanted, is it? I saw the way you looked at it. You were trying to jam your daughters' feet into one of these shoes--fuck knows why, they're enchanted, you stupid hag, your girls wouldn't have been able to fit no matter what they cut off--but you wanted that power, that beauty, all for yourself. And now you have it. So kiss it."
It's the reminder of her daughters that forces the woman to pucker her lips and lean forward, trying as hard as she can to not think about what she's doing, how she must look. The glass is cool against her mouth, humming ever so gently with what can only be magic.
"More," the princess whispers, voice tight. "More. Show me how much you care. Get it really fucking messy."
The stepmother steels herself and licks her lips, trying to get them as wet as possible. She gives the shoe a big sloppy kiss, and another, willing herself not to gag.
"That's it." Her stepdaughter's voice has grown deeper, rougher. The shoe turns--the stepmother flinches as the heel scrapes her chin--and the bottom grinds up against her mouth. She winces at the sting of dirt along her tongue.
Her stepdaughter hums, low in her throat. "There you go." The shoe is grinding down, dragging salvia out of the stepmother’s mouth. Her nostrils flare as she tries to remember how to breathe, tongue scrabbling frantically across unforgiving glass.
Then the shoe is gone and she slumps forward, gasping for air. There’s spit dribbling down her mouth and dirt on her face, shame burning like hot coals on her tongue. She slumps forward on hands and knees, unable to meet those terrible eyes.
“A passable job, I suppose,” the princess says, idly inspecting the glimmer of drool along her shoe. She tucks it back, with ladylike delicacy, and lifts her other foot into the air. “Now, this one.”
The stepmother freezes, gaping at the foot. The bare, callused foot, marked with little scars and burns, hangs primly in the air.
“What.” She can’t even gather enough air to make it sound like a question.
“Well, I’d give you the other shoe, but you broke it, didn’t you?” the girl says crisply. “Go on, then. Give it a kiss. It’s not hard, isn’t that what you always used to tell me? It’s simply labor, simple effort. Put your back into it.”
The stepmother braces trembling palms against the ground. Every muscle in her body is screaming at her to run.
“Your girls could do it just as well,” her stepdaughter says. “I could bring them here, push them to their knees, make them beg.” Her foot drags along the curve of the stepmother’s cheek. “It would be easy. Everything’s easy now.”
The stepmother forces out a puff of air, feeling it scrape along her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut, opens them, and wills herself not to scream.
Her stepdaughter’s skin is rough against her tongue, toughened by years of hard work and injury. It tastes faintly of soap and sweat, tingling on her lips.
“Go on,” the girl says, rubbing back and forth across her face. “Put your back into it.” The stepmother bows her head and complies, licking and sucking blindly, eyes squeezed shut to hide the tears.
As a result, she’s only got the faintest warning before the sudden change in position, the rough shove of toes jamming between her lips. She gags, eyes water as nails scrape the delicate underside of her mouth.
“Suck,” the princess says, and her stepmother does automatically, muscles flexing painfully as they drag into action. The princess groans, low in her throat, and it makes the stepmother flinch, but she forces herself to keep going, keep sucking. If she lets herself think about what she’s doing too long she will break.
“You know,” her stepdaughter says, voice thoughtful–albeit with the faintest hint of strain. “You daughters used me, sometimes. Not quite like this, but they enjoyed me on my knees. Did they ever tell you about that?”
The stepmother freezes for a second. She remembers muffled voices and cries echoing down the hall, one smaller voice drowned out by two others. She remembers all the times she walked away, telling herself it was just girls at play.
“They were foolish, curious children. Never really knew what they were doing, but they liked it when I hurt. You saw that, didn’t you?”
She’d opened the door just once. Glimpsed bodies on a bed, one almost buried beneath the others. She’d snapped at them to stop playing around and then walked away.
“They didn’t bother to make me feel good.” The stepmother feels cool glass brush against her thighs, nudging between her skirts. She wouldn’t have the strength to run away even if she dared to try.
“I’m different,” the girl says. She drags her toe back and forth across her stepmother’s tongue. The stepmother feels the glass slipper nudge past her petticoats, against her flesh. She feels the spit-warmed surface grind into place and push. “I want to make you feel good.”
The noise she makes is half surprised, half–something else. She shudders around the toes in her mouth and the girl groans again, shoving her toes in even deeper. The stepmother squeezes her eyes shut, praying she won’t vomit.
“Keep sucking,” the girl whispers, rocking her foot back and forth. The stepmother does, cheeks puffing, frantically lapping at the toes as her heart pounds and her blood roars in her ears.
Her stomach feels like it’s blazing with the worst kind of fire, even as she’s sickeningly aware of dampness starting to form. It’s not fair, it’s not right that the smooth, precise grind of glass against skin–the demanding pressure of flesh in her mouth–could turn her body against her like this.
“Little slut,” the girl whispers. “How many times did you call me that?” Her toes shift out of the stepmother’s mouth, some curling up as the foot shifts, making room for others. “You know what they say about protesting too much.”
Her shoe gives a little wiggle, punching a sharp gasp out of the stepmother’s mouth. The girl laughs, throwing back her head, carefree as a child in a meadow.
“Why don’t you hump my foot?” she asks. “You know you want to.” Her shoe shifts back and forth. “Go on. Make yourself feel good.”
The stepmother doesn’t want to. The stepmother wants to. The stepmother has no choice. Her hips drag back and forth, faster and faster, pushing her down on an unforgiving surface.
Her stepdaughter reaches down and brushes hair out of her eyes, soft and gentle. “Look at you,” she whispers. “Enjoying yourself, so close to all the things you’ve always wanted. Isn’t it nice?”
The hand in the stepmother’s hair tightens, feet shoving forward. She cags, clawing helpless for air, lights flickering in front of her eyes. She thinks her stepdaughter’s toenails might be tearing something inside her mouth, that her shoe is gouging permanent marks into her cunt.
“Isn’t this enough to make you happy?” Her stepdaughter’s voice is rough, shaking, cracking with the weight of something that might be pleasure or tears. The stepmother looks up in time to see those eyes shining. “Aren’t I good enough for you? Aren’t I ever good enough for you?”
When the woman finally, finally comes, someone sobs, but it’s impossible to tell who. All she knows is heat and pleasure-pain and great, heaving lungfuls of air as the toes finally drag all the way out of her mouth. She slumps over on her hands and knees, gasping, trembling.
There’s silence, for what could be a few seconds or a few hours. Slowly, she comes back to herself, to the soft sting of her simulation and the last trails of pleasure humming wickedly in her bones.
The stepmother dabs frantically at her messy face with her sleeve, willing herself not to throw up. She wouldn’t put it past the princess to make her eat it off the floor.
She hears a sigh and lifts her head to see the princess slump back in her chair, brushing a hand between her legs. The stepmother makes a move forward and then freezes, not daring to consider what might be asked of her next.
Her stepdaughter sees her aborted motion and snickers. “Oh, you think you’re going to get that filthy little mouth of yours around this?” She presses a thumb down with a grin, any sign of weakness neatly wiped away. “It’s not for you. You don’t get to savor me that way. This is for my wife, and her alone.”
The words are relieving and stinging, all at once. The stepmother slumps back down, keenly aware of much damper she feels under her skirt. She lifts her chin with what semblance of dignity she can muster, fiercely blinking back the last of your tears.
“What do you want now, your highness?” she forces out, voice shaking more than she’d like.
“Now? Nothing.” The princess idly drums her fingers on the armrest of her chair. “You can go.”
“...Go?” It occurs to the stepmother that a part of her hadn’t really expected to leave the palace alive. She’d expected–well. Something more brutal, and yet maybe kinder, than what she’d gotten today.
“Yes.” The girl stands up and astonishes the stepmother by tugging her to her feet, letting her lean on one arm. “I can call a servant to help you to the carriage, if you wish.” She plants a tender little kiss on the stepmother’s forehead, like a girl showing affection to a well-loved aunt.
“I want you to know,” she says, “that your daughters’ recovery will be fully paid for. You will have access to the support and comfort due relatives of the royal family, as long as you all shall live.”
The stepmother goggles. “I…”
“All I ask,” the princess whispers, “is that you visit me whenever I please. Is that too great a request, from the stepdaughter who loves you so much?”
The stepmother lets out a long, slow breath. She can still feel dirt in her mouth, feel wet ruin under her skirt.
“Your mother would be ashamed of you,” she breathes before she can stop herself. She freezes, struck cold with terror, but the girl just shrugs.
“Maybe, but she’s dead.” She reaches up, wrapping soft fingers around her stepmother’s chin. “And unless you want to be, you’ll do what you’re fucking told, won’t you?” Her voice is warm and gentle, merry as a spring breeze.
The stepmother straightens her back. “Yes,” she says, the word like a stone on her tongue.
“Good!” her stepdaughter says, giving her stepmother a big smile. “I’m so happy to hear it!”
She guides her stepmother to the door and flicks the lock open, calling for a servant and handing the woman over with another kiss on the cheek. The princess watches them go with a merry wave, still smiling.
Her smile follows the stepmother, dances before her eyes all the way back out of the palace, down the road, back to the driveway of her own household. It follows her as she hugs her daughters, as she washes and washes the inside of her mouth, as she lies in bed and fails to sleep.
That smile. That warm, beautiful smile. That smile, shining as if a beam of sunshine had just been invited into the room with them to play, as if all the bad things are over now and everything is going to be alright.