Twisted Fairy Tales Story 1: Diamond Screams

Adapted From: The Blue Fairy Book, by Andrew Lang

Synopsis: What would you do with a wife who produced gold with every word, and diamonds from every scream?

Codes: M/f, torture, humiliation, extreme, nc, serious

The 16 ^th day of the Fourth Month

Dear Diary:

You are my only outlet for relieving my pain, Diary, and I am lucky my princely husband allows me this small release. He has denied me everything else, even the power of speech. The only sounds I can make are in his presence, in the torture—I mean the treasure—chamber.

Let me backtrack a moment here.

My name is Tracia, which literally means 'treasure' in some obscure language or another. When I was born, my mother and father wanted a good, obedient child, so I was placed under a spell of perfect obedience. Whatever I am told to do, I must do, whether I will or no. At first it was not so bad; I was never given an order I could not see myself following.

Then my mother died, and my father took another wife. I was only three at the time. My new stepmother brought a child from her former marriage; a whining, whey-faced girl a year older than myself. Soon after this, my father died, leaving me to her cruel mercies. She doted on her daughter, and took advantage of my enchantment by ordering me to take up all the menial chores of the household so that she and her daughter would not have to work. So there I was, sweeping, cooking, fetching water from the village well, and always wishing I had free will, so that I might throw down the broom and declare myself done with them both.

You know the rest of the story, Diary: everyone does. I went to the village well one day to fetch water, and there was an old woman there, who asked me to draw her up a bucket of water. I did it willingly, needing no compulsion to do so; but how often, when I look back upon that day, have I wished I had never seen her! For after I gave of her to drink, she turned into a beautiful fairy, and placed an enchantment on me as thanks: Whenever I spoke, gold pieces would rain from my mouth. When I laughed or sang, precious stones and diamonds would fall. When I went back home, I thought my newfound enchantment would raise my status before my stepmother. It wasn't so. First she tried to send her own daughter to the well in hopes of meeting the old woman, and thus meeting with her own fortune. It didn't turn out that way; she came back cursed with toads and serpents falling from her lips. So for a long time, we were tripping over the gold piecesand pearls and stones when I spoke. Finally my stepmother commanded me to not say a word unless she willed it. So of course, I shut up.

Then a prince came along who had heard of my (to him) good fortune. He offered to marry me then and there, and make me his Queen, and my mother happily assented when he proposed to move her to a much larger house in town and included her in royal functions. And I, who didn't really like him, was compelled to marry him anyway due to the cursed spell of obedience.

After the wedding, I found that being Queen did not entitle me to any special treatment. My new husband was a greedy, grasping man. He was afraid that I might talk to my serving girls and give them gold coins as gifts (they were certainly in sufficient abundance) so he deprived me of the girls. Not content with this, and not quite believing in my obedience, instead of simply commanding me to be silent he had me fitted with a gag that locked around my head and prevented all sound from escaping my lips. It was a heavy, thick, stiff piece of leather that was curved to fit the lower half of my face, and was only taken off so that I might eat, still unspeaking, with my husband. Oh, I hate this gag.

He began experimenting after our week's honeymoon was over, and he saw which sounds I made produced which jewels. There is a large black book in the treasure room, which the servants say contains an accounting of each piece of treasure in that room. They are only half-right. It does contain a list of every piece of treasure in there; but it also contains a description of what he did to me to produce those gems. For the treasure chamber is also fitted out as a torture chamber.

My husband found out that sounds of pain produced the purest, most beautiful jewels. And the more pain I was in, the louder I scream, the more precious the gem. He wished a diamond big enough to set as the crowning stone in his scepter: to produce that diamond I was stripped down and tied between two posts in the torture chamber/treasure room, and flogged until I could no longer stand upright between them. The gag was left on until the very end. Just before the last stroke fell, he unlocked my gag, and I threw back my head and screamed in agony. A diamond the size of an egg tumbled from my lips. Now, whenever I see that scepter, I think of the burning agony of that flogging, the weeks of anguish that followed as I tried to recover, the barrel of small, sharp diamonds that were the testimony to my pain, for every time the physician came to tend to my bleeding stripes, the pain from his touch caused me to cry out, and another diamond fell from my lips.

There are barrels of gems in the torture chamber produced by my pain. The worst of all are the diamonds. Those are products of the many whippings and floggings that have been inflicted on me. Then there are the rubies, which come from a caning across my bottom that will leave bleeding lines across my backside. Emeralds are produced when he clamps my nipples and forces me to endure their pinch for a long time. Small emeralds are produced from the sounds I make while my nipples are clamped; the large ones are produced when the clamps are removed and blood returns to their tortured tips. The very large twin emeralds that adorn my husband's crown are the product of clamps being removed after three hours of wearing them; I remember screaming in pain and fainting. When I awoke, my husband was rubbing an ointment into the purple-black nubs of flesh and telling me I had produced two of the most perfect emeralds anyone had ever seen. My pain, he said, was small price for the jewels.

I wish I could believe him.

He affords me every luxury, everything I could need or want, as compensation for having to cause me such pain. Silken sheets, fine clothing, the rarest, most choicest delicacies for my table…but I would trade it all for surcease from my pain. Which I have told him, numerous times. It is for the good of the kingdom, he tells me each time he takes me to the torture chamber and straps me down naked to the hideous pieces of equipment. Being a monarch means one must make sacrifices for the good of the kingdom.

I am not fooled. It is not for the kingdom that he tortures me; we have poor still, in the streets, hungry, begging for food, while I sit here, a prisoner of my own husband, surrounded by luxuries I cannot truly enjoy. No, it is not for them that I suffer; I suffer for him, for his vanity and selfishness and greed, and because he enjoys seeing (I have seen the light in his eyes when I am in the greatest pain) and hearing me in pain as much as he enjoys counting his gold. My pleas for mercy produce gold ingots, which he melts down to make coins. It is said in other countries that our coins have a greater percentage of gold than others, almost pure…well, you know why now. Wait. My door is opening. It is

Later, still the 16 ^th

It was my husband. He wants a pair of matched blue diamonds to make into earrings as a present for the Duchess of Rhyann's upcoming jubilee. Ah, Diary, how I wish I could run away, hide, something! For colored diamonds, blue and yellow and green and red, are the costliest and most precious gems that exist. And they are not only expensive to buy, but costly for me since this will mean pain unimaginable. By the time he is done (for he will have what he wants, no matter what it takes, he will find a way to wring blue diamonds from my lips in the excess of my pain) I will wish that I am dead. But he will not be so kind, no. For me, the greatest sacrifice for the kingdom and my husband is not my pain (I got enough of that from the beatings my stepmother gave me) it is from continuing to live.

He allows me no sharp knives, for fear I will try to take my own life. My rooms are searched daily for anything I might try to harm myself with; I wear chains between my ankles, long enough to allow me to walk, but not to step up on a piece of furniture to hang myself. And the windows in my suite have bars on them, to prevent my taking a swan dive from my casement. Truly, I am the most wretched person in the kingdom. Even though the beggars in the street starve, they are better off than I. They might be able to fight as they are dragged to the torture chamber…I must walk to it, cursed by this spell of obedience, unable to fight the compulsion set on me!

The 3 ^rd Day of the Sixth Month

Dear Diary:

The Duchess of Rhyann's jubilee is today, and I cannot bear to go. I cannot look on those cursed blue diamonds without thinking of the incredible pain I have suffered the last few weeks, in the aftermath of what my husband has done to me to procure them. Even now my hands still shake, blood spots the bandages wrapped around my wrists and ankles, and I can hardly bear the touch of my own clothing against my skin. I shall tell him I am still not well enough to attend the celebration, and he must go without me.

Did I not tell you, Diary, that he would do anything to get what he wanted?

When I met him in the torture chamber he removed the gag and ordered me to strip. No matter how many times I do this, it is still humiliating, but I do it, because if I do not he will call the guards to strip me, and that I cannot bear. No. It is better that I undress myself.

He beckoned me to the rack, indicating I should lie upon it. I know this well; I have been on here once before. The feel of one's limbs being stretched to their breaking point, to the point of dislocation, is a terrible one, and one that I pray each time I am pulled from it that I never feel it again.

I began crying, pleading, begging him to find some other way. I will stand there and scream for him as loud and as long as he wishes, to produce the jewels; but he insists that only true pain will work, and he orders me to lie upon the table. I have been cursed with obedience; I had to climb upon the rack's table, lie face-down, and stretch my hands upward to the iron shackles.

He has never believed in the enchantment of obedience, even though he has ample evidence of my own behavior to prove it. He believes that, in some way, somewhere in my soul, I enjoy the pain, the helplessness; and this is borne out by the moisture that builds between my legs when he takes me in a parody of the tender intercourse normally exchanged between a husband and wife. He does not understand that I become wet out of a sense of self-preservation; that my body becomes moist to save itself from being hideously abraded. Maybe it helps assuage his conscience to think that I enjoy it. Needless to say, I don't.

He gagged me again and began to turn the winch of the rack. Quickly at first, then slower and slower, until my body's stretching slowed to a crawl. The gag suppressed my cries but the tears and the expression in my eyes and face were a fair indicator of how I was suffering. He continued to stretch and stretch me until I was taut and straining, then he locked the wheels in place and left me stretched upon that hideous table, unable to scream, or cry, or plead for release. Then he walked away, leaving me alone in darkness.

I do not know how long I remained there. It seemed an eternity to me, but then, for anyone who has ever suffered excruciating torment, a minute can seem like forever. I was damp with sweat, heedless of anything but the pain. There was no respite from it; rather, the longer I stayed there the more I hurt.

An eon later my husband came back to the chamber. He felt the muscles of my shoulders and hips, tested the tension of the iron chains and shackles around my wrists and ankles, then gave the winch another quarter turn. I begged him with my eyes to free me, and for a moment I thought he might, then he went and got a bucket, placing it under my head before unlocking my gag. Then he picked up a heavy, thick, rubber hose, such as our law enforcers carry for the beating of miscreants, and began to strike me about my shoulders, back, buttocks, and hips. Blows fell on stretched, aching muscle, and I began to scream helplessly as my muscles were bruised and battered.

With each scream a diamond dropped from my lips, starting out a pale, icy blue, and gradually deepening as my pain increased until I was screaming madly with agony, and the diamonds falling from my lips were a clear, pure blue, the color of a cloudless summer sky at noon. He then clamped his hand over my mouth, stifling me while he ordered a member of the Palace guard to deliver two of the hardest blows yet to my shoulders. At the second one I wrenched my head away from his hand, and the movement caused my shoulder to pop out of its socket. I remember screaming; and then screaming again as my tortured writhing dislocated my other shoulder. From my lips fell two blue diamonds, each one the size of a small apple. He seized on these gems greedily and carelessly ordered his guards to free me of the table and have the physicians attend to me. Every inch of the skin on my back was swollen and tender from the repeated blows, and I was in unimaginable pain. Two yellow diamonds fell from my lips as the physician snapped my dislocated arms back into their sockets, and I lay in bed for weeks suffering. I have only just gotten up, and my wrists, chafed by the metal shackles my husband used to bind me, still bleed occasionally as the bandages rub the scabs loose.

From my window I can see the celebration in the courtyard. She is wearing them, showing them off, garnering the admiration of all the other ladies of the court. I cannot bear to see it. I will die if this continues, I cannot bear pain like this again. But it is almost certain I will, as I can see one of the vainer ladies, the Countess's rival, speaking to my husband. She will, no doubt, ask him for a pair similar to the Countess's, and he, being the gentleman he is, will oblige. And I will have to have my arms pulled out of their sockets again by the horrible rack.

No! It cannot happen, it cannot, he cannot be so cruel!

The 12 ^th day of the Seventh Month

Dear Diary,

It is to happen. My husband has informed me that two other women have asked him to provide him the same baubles. He could have given them some of the smaller blue diamonds, but no, he wishes to repeat the size of the first stones, and so the rack is being oiled and prepared for use again.

I have cried, wept, pleaded, begged, promised anything, but to no avail. He is adamant. I will suffer for a court lady's vanity, and for his desire. Life is cruel! Ah, if I could only see that fairy again, if I could ask her to take this curse of jeweled words from me, surely she would see how miserable her gift has made me, and she would free me from her spell. I wish…I wish…I could be freed from all spells, the obedience one and the curse of jewels, and be ordinary!

Later

The most unbelievable thing has happened, Diary! My prayer, my wish, was answered!

The fairy appeared, as lovely as she appeared when I first saw her that day by the well all those years ago. She is extremely upset on my behalf, and she has told me she will take me away, somewhere where no one will find me, and she will lift the curse.

However, as with all fairy spells, this one carries a price. She says she has longed for a mortal who will serve her, obey her every wish and whim. So in return for lifting the curse of jeweled words from me, I shall spend the rest of my life serving her. It is as well for me; I will obey her, serve her, gladly even, if she would only lift this curse from me! Which she has promised to do. She tells me now to take only the barest necessities, for the fairies will provide anything I need. I shall take only the clothes on my back; I need nothing else. Let my husband wallow in the riches from my curse; I don't need them! Diary, I shall leave you here, to bear testimony to whoever may find you what I have suffered, and why. You will show everyone the darker side of the fairy tale.

Twisted Fairy Tales: Sensitive Skin

Adapted from the story 'The Princess And The Pea' by Hans Christian Anderson

Synopsis: Ever wonder why the prince wanted a true princess with skin so delicate she could bruise from sleeping on a dried pea?

Codes: M/f, humiliation, rape, torture, nc, extreme, violent, scat

19 ^th May

Dear Diary:

Oh, it was dreadful!

I hope I shall never spend another night like it!

I was exiled from my own lands after a usurper took over my castle, executed my father and mother, and banished me. I stopped at a castle, this castle, because it was raining so hard, and I was so tired. They were talking of their King looking for a true princess with skin as delicate as an overripe fruit. So far the prince had met with no success. Apparently he was subjecting the girls who answered his summons to a test; they had to sleep on a stack of mattresses with a pea in the bottom of it. In the morning, the girls were examined to see if any mark had been left.

Me being the soft-brained idiot that I was, I told them that I was a princess, and agreed to be tucked into the bed as the next girl to try it. That was last night. I have just gotten up after a horrible night spent tossing and turning, and my lily-white skin is black and blue from turning about on top of that hard little pea. I can scarcely believe that it is a pea, even after the housekeeper pulled it out from under the bottom mattress; it felt like a hard stone!

They will not allow me to dress; I am still in my shift, and I am to be presented to the King just as I am now, so that he might see the bruises. It will be humiliating, paraded into the throne room like a trophy from a war, dressed in only my nightclothes…but I am desperate to find a place to call home, and if the King chooses me to be his Queen, I shall be able to live in the luxury I was accustomed to.

31 ^st May

Dear Diary:

Well, it is over, and I am Queen. The King is quite handsome, strong, young, lithe, with a well-developed upper body. I must admit, I am quite dreading this night, the night I am to become a woman in truth; with my skin so delicate, my nerves so acute, it will probably hurt a great deal. Nevertheless, it is the price I must pay for the crown I married for, but at least I am back to my rightful station.

14 ^th June

Dear Diary:

How could it have been so wrong!?

Our wedding night should have been my first clue that something was wrong. He did not take me gently; he reached for me as hungrily as a dehydrated man would reach for a jug of water. He hurt me with his heavy-handed grasp on my wrist; a grasp that bruised. When I protested, he slapped my breast hard enough to leave a mark, and then he lowered his head and bit my nipple. It would have seemed but a love bite to anyone else, but it was enough to make me scream in the most horrible agony. My nipple bore the mark of his teeth for days afterward. And the taking of my virginity was the most awful pain I had ever experienced.

He tied my wrists to the top of the bed, saying that with my nerves as sensitive as they are, the taking of my virginity would cause me pain, and I might resist. And I must not. He then roped my ankles to the foot of the bed, one to each post, spreading me wide; then he proceeded to harshly spank the flesh between my legs, my light pubic fleece not giving me any protecting from his hands at all. When I was screaming from the pain he stuffed my own undergarments in my mouth, lowered his mouth to my sex, and proceeded to savage me there with his teeth until I was almost senseless from shock and pain. He slapped me hard several times to awaken me, then he placed his huge member against my tight, virginal opening, and pushed. I literally saw stars of pain explode in my vision, and not even my underclothing kept my screams within my mouth.

Since then it has only gotten worse. I am in terror of him now. Every time he sees me he contrives to hurt me in some way; a simple kiss on the cheek will be followed by a bite on my neck that will leave me bleeding; or a playful-seeming smack on the buttocks, so titillating to the servant girls, can leave me unable to sit comfortably for the rest of the day. Then he told me that life in the palace, with such good food and drink, is not agreeing with my figure. So I was measured for a corset. According to his wishes, I was laced into it today; and it is so tight I can barely breathe, and I am sure it is leaving bruises up and down my ribs. The corset came with a very large cup, too large for my own modest bust, and he ordered them stuffed with some horrible, stiff, scratchy substance that chafes my delicate nipples and makes them bleed. He seems to like it, though; unlacing my corset when we are in bed at light, he scrapes the crust of scabs that protect the flesh underneath and chew on them until I am crying with the pain. He then sucks the blood from them, as if he were a child suckling from its mother's breasts, except that this is my husband, and it is not milk, it is blood. What kind of sadist have I married?

1 ^st August

Dear Diary:

He had been obsessing over some sort of construction project downstairs in the cellars for weeks now, promising to have it done by my birthday. I was in dread the last few weeks; his presents to me are never pleasant. The last present he gave me was a pair of jeweled nipple clamps, made of heavy gold and with real jewels on golden hooks hanging from them as weights. I was not impressed; I was afraid of them. But he insisted on my wearing them, and in fact clipped them onto me himself, ignoring my shriek of agony as he clamped one nipple bud in each set of toothed jaws, and hung the jewel weights onto the clamps. I screamed with the pain, begged him to take it off, tried to remove them myself. He had my hands shackled behind my back with golden shackles, chafing my slim wrists cruelly, and removed all my clothing except a corset without breast cups and the horrible clamps. Then he had me walk through the entire castle thus displayed, my poor breasts aching with each step as the weights jiggled. He encouraged the dinner servants and guests to play with the weights, which they did, tugging on the chain as I wept and begged him to take them off my burning, clamped, cruelly abused nipples. I wore them a total of eight hours before he finally took them off, and the pain was so great when they finally came free (he simply grabbed the chain and yanked them off, scraping a layer of skin from my nipples and making them bleed) that I passed out.

Another present he has given me are a pair of ballet boots. They keep my feet arched and pointed all the time, like a ballet dancer's, and my entire weight rests on my toes and on a slim, stiletto heel. The pain is incredible, especially when he ordered sand sprinkled into them to cause me further pain. I was forced again to wear them all day, with the corset and the clamps, with the same result. Just before he released me from my torment yesterday he told me my surprise would be ready to day. I wait in dread anticipation for the revelation of his surprise; I am sure I won't like it.

Later

I do not.

I saw it. He took me downstairs to see it. It is a torture chamber!

There are such curious pieces of equipment in it, I cannot imagine what they could be used for. But I am sure I will discover their use in time.

For my King's true nature has been revealed to me. He is a sadist of the worst sort, taking pleasure in hurting others; namely me. There is no sweeter sound to his ears than my agony; no sight he would rather see than me writhing in incredible agony as he wields the whip that is tearing into my skin. He wants me to hurt, to bleed, to scream, to cry, to beg; and I will do all those things, because I cannot escape. The palace staff enjoys my pain almost as much as he does; I can hear them listening outside the door when he takes my body every night. I know they can hear my strangled screams as he plunges his rock-hard cock deep inside my body; they relish it. And I am helpless; I can do nothing but endure the pain he metes out with a liberal hand.

I will no longer write in my diary; just thinking about the pain I suffer daily makes me sick; I do not wish to see it written down, to agonize over long after the pain has passed.

1 ^st September

I am not to have that luxury.

The King has asked that I keep a torture diary; a record of what he has done to me during a particular session. He wants to be able to read it while in bed every night. I no longer sleep in the queen's suite; a pallet has been set up down here in the torture chamber, and I am chained to it every night.

I will have to begin with the session today.

I was awakened at dawn (there is a small slit in the wall above my pallet that lets in light) and from it I could tell dawn had come. The King (he is so repugnant to me now that I do not think of him as my husband) stood over me with a smile of pleasure. "Up, my Queen," he told me.

He began by strapping me to a large wooden X-shaped frame, binding my wrists and ankles to the ends of the X. Then he started to whip me.

For anyone else, the light slapping with the suede flogger would have been mild. For me, with my sensitive skin, each stroke was excruciating. I screamed, writhed, my body yanking desperately against the wood and the straps…but to no avail. The flogging continued relentlessly.

I do not know how many lashes were administered when he put that whip aside for another. This one was made of thick, tough leather, oiled into suppleness. It whined vengefully through the air and slapped against my body, and I exploded in screams again as it left bleeding red lines across my back. I passed out finally, mercifully.

But I was not to enjoy the darkness for long. He brought me to agonizing wakefulness again by dashing a pail of water over me, and I begged him to cease. He soothed me, saying I had but one more ordeal yet to go, and brought forth a long wooden cane, flexible and whippy. He pulled me down from the frame, turned my bleeding, wounded back to it, and proceeded to lay into my thighs and belly with the cane. The first stroke left a deep purple-red welt across the front of my thighs, but didn't break the skin. He experimented with his next strokes, varying the force so that at times, the strokes were light enough to merely bruise, and at other times, they were leaving purple welts that would take weeks to vanish. Finally he brought one stroke across my belly that made me convulse in pain, the fiery agony so sharp I couldn't even scream, and it drew blood.

Having ascertained the amount of force necessary to make me bleed with the cane, he drew back his arm and lashed me again. I had hardly time to realize this blow was aimed higher before it smashed into the top of my breasts, leaving a bleeding red welt across the tops of my small, round, pale globes. I screamed…hoarsely, I think; I had been screaming so long and so loudly I had little voice left.

He laid another bloody welt across my breasts, a hair's breadth below the other one. And another right under that one. Almost in a trance from the pain, unable to scream any longer, I hung there, endured the pain, and counted the blows silently in my head. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. The entire top of my breasts were bleeding now, and my tears dripped down onto my mutilated chest, causing me more pain as the salty drops stung the bleeding flesh.

Then he changed the direction of his stroke. No longer did he bring it down over me in an overhand stroke; he brought it upward now, from the floor to the tender underside of my mammaries, and again I lost my breath. The undersides of my breasts were the most sensitive parts of my body, except for my woman's slit between my thighs, and he was punishing them as cruelly as he could, laying bleeding red lines from my ribcage up to my areolas.

He took up a stance before me, and I knew by the glitter in his eyes he was planning something even worse. "Please," I begged him, all pride and dignity gone. I only wanted him to stop. "Please."

He said nothing, just pulled his arm back. And then pain exploded over my nipples as the cane caught them straight on, driving them back into the flesh of my breasts with the force of the impact. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five.

At the fifth one I passed out, and apparently nothing could revive me, for when I woke next it was to the feel of the magician's hands on my body, using magic to heal my wounds. Then he compounded insult with injury by forcing his cock into my body, fucking me as I lay there, exhausted from the torture and too weak from pain to fight him. The pain of my rape (I had not consented, and he was not my husband) seemed small in comparison to what I had endured already, but it was enough to send me back into darkness. When I awoke, I was lying on my pallet, my body healed, the shackle about my ankle in place and attached to the end of the cot, and my diary sat beside me on the pillow with a quill pen next to it. He wanted me to detail my experiences, which I have done.

15 ^th of September

He has not come to visit me for some time, and I dared to hope he may have forgotten, for though I sit here, chained to my cot, using a bucket to relieve myself in, with no clothing to cover my nakedness and scanty food, I would rather be here alone than have him anywhere near me. After my last entry, I closed up the diary and slipped back into unconsciousness, and when my body's needs finally compelled me to wake, the book was gone. I have not seen it in two weeks. Then this morning when my jailer (it is a different member of the palace guard every time) woke me with a slap and a tray of food, my breakfast, I saw beside it my diary. The guard waited until I had finished eating before he took me with a brutal indifference that I have found in common with all the guards (every time one comes into my cell, they use my body; even if they are simply here to empty my waste bucket down the hole in the floor in the corner which I cannot reach.) Then he left. My diary has been much read, to judge by the worn edges, and the last entry has some peculiar yellowish stains on it.

But the fact that my diary is here means he is coming to me again. And so I wait, shaking in dread, so terrified that I vomit up my scanty breakfast into the waste bucket.

Later

I am in horrible pain now, but he insists that I write the details of the session today, despite the agony in my body. So:

He strapped me into a different frame this time, one that bends me sharply over at the waist and presents all my most intimate parts for his delectation. He produced a large wooden paddle, this time, and rubs it on my buttocks for a moment before beginning my paddling. The paddle is large, and he lets it land with surprising force, so that my entire seat is bruised with each blow. And even worse, this time he commanded me to count aloud how many blows he is giving me.

I have no choice. I count. One, two, three. Four, five, six, seven, eight. Nine, ten. By the tenth I was crying, barely able to concentrate on the numbers; but I kept myself under control until the fifteenth. Then something snapped, and I began screaming, losing count of the numbers. I couldn't resume counting even though he shouted at me, demanding that I continue. I simply couldn't. My mind couldn't handle the incredible pain and still remain focused.

He threw the paddle aside and reached for something else. I couldn't see it, but I felt it; something long and hard, with a rounded tip, pressing against my nether opening. I screamed, begged, cried, pleaded, but it made no difference to him. He spat on my asshole (a degrading, humiliating thing) and then with no further preparation, he forcibly rammed the object deep into my rear opening.

The pain was horrendous. I cannot describe it. My bowels churned, and I heard myself grunting desperately, trying to force out the instrument invading my anus, but all my efforts were for naught. My anus was clenched so tightly against the intruder that it was no doubt hurting me more than it had to; but I was already in such pain I did not care.

I was a virgin back there, as any good girl would be: the intruder would not go all the way in. The King seemed enraged. Never mind that I was already incoherent with the incredible pain; he wanted it all the way in. He picked up the paddle again, and commenced hitting my buttocks with it. With each stroke the paddle acted as a hammer, pounding the phallus deeper and deeper into my anus. I squealed with the fresh pain of each impact; I felt the trickle of fluid down the back of my leg, and I knew my overstretched anus had torn. This so terrified me that I lost control of my bladder and pissed myself helplessly; a sight that amused the King greatly and humiliated me further. But the loss of control had not only relaxed my bladder muscles, it had relaxed my anal ones, and the next blow from the paddle drove the phallus up to the hilt in my bowels. And it stayed there.

The king laughed, pointing, and then seized the base of the thing and pulled it out. The phallus came out, accompanied by a great amount of soft brown waste from my anus. He brought it around to me, held it up. "Lick it," he commanded.

I started at it, and him, in horror. I could not do it, would not. He could not make me…

He could.

He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back until my mouth opened, then jammed it into my mouth. The smell and taste filled my mouth and nose, and I gagged on it. He refused to remove it; in fact, did not remove it from my mouth until the saliva generated by my gagging had cleaned the wooden phallus of my own waste. Then he went around behind me again, noticing that my anal ring had tightened, and cruelly jammed the phallus inside me again. This time, when it was all the way in, he did not remove it, but left it in. He then fastened a harness of straps around my waist that ran between my legs and up behind me in back, ensuring that I did not push out the intruding object. Then he had the guards drag me over to a wooden chair, and push me down on it. My bruised buttocks alone would have kept me from sitting comfortably, but with the added pressure of my body's weight coming to rest on the invader, it was agonizing. He had me strapped down into the chair so I could not rise, had a table pushed before me with my diary on it, and a quill pen with an ink bottle. A glass ink bottle.

He has left me alone with it. The jailers have gone to eat. I am alone. I pick up the glass bottle as I write these last words. I will break the bottle on the table, and use the shards to cut my wrists, I cannot live with this constant pain, captivity, and degradation. Good-bye, Diary.

Twisted Fairy Tales: Stepmother

Adapted from the story Cinderella

Synopsis: We all know the story of Cinderella. But how bad was her treatment at the hands of her stepmother and sisters?

Codes: MF/f, humiliation, torture, heavy, nc, violent

Dear Diary:

The funeral is over, everyone's gone home, and Stepmother has told me everything will change. The first thing to change is that tonight will be my last night in my room. I am no longer to sleep here after tonight.

After everyone left, the manservant my stepmother hired to take care of the grounds and repairs that might be needed went to work. In the corner of the kitchen, beside the hearth where the ashes are swept, he was bolting a rivet. Stepmother says that that is where I will sleep from now on; the collar she put on me this evening will be attached to the rivet with a chain, and I will be known as Cinderella now. Not Elle, my given name.

I cry now as I sit here writing. Why, oh, why did Papa have to die? While he lived stepmother couldn't really hurt me, because I was his favorite, and she didn't dare hurt me except in small ways. But now she will unleash the full force of her spite on me, and I am afraid.

Dear Diary:

It has been several weeks since I could last write in you. Stepmother has dressed me in the worst clothes, either too tight or too large, and she has watched me like a hawk. Not that I have much leisure time. I am only writing tonight because she and Dru and Ana and the manservant Jon have gone out, and I finished my chores early. I sneaked upstairs to take you from your hiding place, under the loose floorboard in what used to be my room, but now is Jon's room. I have found a loose floorboard in the corner of the kitchen; I will hide you there.

My back and bottom are still so sore from the beating she ordered for me this morning that I dare not sit. Stepmother has collected a number of implements that are used to punish me, and in the last few weeks I have experienced all of them in turn. She finds fault with everything I do, from the milk not being warm enough to the way I make the beds, and punishes me severely. Or has me punished. This morning I had not boiled sufficient water to give her an unexpected third cup of tea. She usually only drinks two cups in the morning; for some reason this morning she asked for a third cup, and there was only enough to give her a cup three quarters full. She was outraged, and ordered everyone in the house to assemble in the dining room to witness my punishment. Once all were assembled she ordered me to disrobe, with the warning that if I tarried she would order my punishment extended. I could not get out of the tight, ragged dress quickly enough, and it tore in my haste.

Stepmother told me, before everyone, that I had been a bad girl and torn my dress, that I had taken too long to obey her order to unclothe myself, and that I had not heated enough water for her tea. And for those offenses, I was to be struck twenty times for each transgression. For the tea, she ordered Jon to deliver twenty strokes of the crop upon my shoulders; for tearing my dress, twenty strokes of the heavy wooden paddle upon my buttocks; and for disobeying her, the greatest transgression of all (she said) I would take twenty strokes of the cane across my breasts!

I cried, I pleaded, I begged Stepmother to lessen my punishment. The cane is a most terrible instrument; she used it upon the backs of my thighs not three days hence and it smarted terribly, and even bled a little. My poor breasts were much more tender. How could I take twenty!

She smiled cruelly at my begging and told me that as punishment for begging I would receive an extra ten lashes from the cane while bent over a chair. Then she told me that if I wished to avoid any further punishment, I should stand with my feet shoulder width apart and lace my hands behind my head. I did so, hesitantly moving my hands from where they were covering my womanly parts to place them behind my head as she ordered. Just before Jon raised the crop for the first blow to my shoulders, she commanded me to count each stroke.

The first stroke of the crop lay like fire across my bare back. I screamed, my hands flying from behind my neck to reach the smarting flesh to rub it. Stepmother put up with my crying for a minute, then warned me to get back into position before further extra strokes were administered. I did so reluctantly, and was then told that the stroke would be repeated because I had not counted. Terrified that so many lashes would permanently scar and ruin my body, I somehow managed to bear the twenty strokes to my shoulders without breaking my position, and without missing the count again. My eyes were blinded with tears when he was done with the crop, but I could still see my stepsisters fondling their sex with their own fingers as I cried from the beating. I was horrified and disgusted.

I was told to hold that position, and to count, again, for the paddle. This was worse. The paddle was very large, more like a boat oar with a short handle, than a paddle. And it had holes drilled into it along its surface, to cut down on air resistance before it struck my unprotected, clenched bottom cheeks. It was large enough to cover my entire bottom with each swat, and every time it landed I screamed with the pain. Still, terrified of incurring my stepmother's wrath further, I counted aloud, sobbing and crying. When it was over, I fell to my knees, my legs shaking too much to stand, and gingerly touched my burning bottom cheeks. To my astonishment, the skin was neither broken nor bleeding, though I certainly felt as though it had. How could something hurt so much and not leave an outward mark, save a bruise?

Stepmother told me to turn to face Jon so that he could cane my breasts. I looked at him pleadingly, trying to beg him with my eyes to go easy, and then I saw the huge bulge in the front of his pants. He was aroused by my punishment, by my screams of agony, and had no intention of sparing me any pain. Rather, the look in his eyes told me I would suffer the hardest blows he could deliver. And I did.

I passed out after four bleeding lines decorated my breasts. Stepmother brought me around with smelling salts applied to my nose, and the caning continued. My counts, I am sorry to say, suffered; I could not concentrate on the numbers while that horrible whippy cane left bleeding stripes on my breasts with each stroke. Twenty-six bleeding lines decorated my front before he was done, and I was ready to pass out again.

Stepmother brought me around with a sharp order. This time, for the last stage of my punishment, I was to bend over a chair. Not the front end, but the high back. I did so, spreading my legs farther and farther apart per her orders, until I was on lewd display. Stepmother stood behind me, with the cane so recently used to torture my breasts, and it was then that I realized what she was going to do. The fragile, tender, nerve-rich lips of my sex poked out behind me on obscene display, and I knew Stepmother was going to aim for that delicate flesh.

Pain such as I had never felt before seared my body. I screamed with all the air in my lungs and fell from the back of the chair, onto my side on the floor, my fists clenched between my thighs in agony. Stepmother again watched my display for a few minutes, then ordered me back into position.

I could not. The pain between my legs seemed to paralyze me, and I could not pull myself up. Disgusted, she ordered Jon to pull me up and hold me down, remarking as he did that he really must come up with some sort of frame to which I could be restrained while receiving punishment. I endured the rest of those ten cane strokes to my swollen, throbbing, bleeding sex, and lay on the floor for a long time afterward, dazed with the pain. Stepmother ordered me to go out into the hall and stand there in the foyer, where all the servants who passed might see my marked body, as an added humiliation. I stood there for an hour before she came to me and told me to get myself dressed and return to my chores.

As I write tonight, my entire lower body is in such pain I cannot sit. I have put the cloths I use to care for my woman's time on inside my underclothing; they have soaked up the blood from my cuts all day. I must wash them and replace them before Stepmother comes home. Good night, Diary.

Dear Diary:

Stepmother gets crueler and crueler every day.

I am lying here nude among the ashes because I hurt too much to put on clothes. Even the coldness of my skin cannot induce me to put on my ragged, torn dress.

Stepmother ordered me to go to the market to purchase a fresh side of beef for tomorrow night's dinner. Alas, when I got there the market was closed for the evening, so I had to return empty handed. Stepmother told me that instead of the meat hanging in the cold room, it would be me now, because I had failed. In vain did I protest that I was not at fault; she ordered me to strip and shoved me into the meat room. It is underground, so it is colder than the rest of the house.

There were hooks in the ceiling beams of the meat room, ready for the hanging of meat. She brought down two of the smaller hooks, used for hanging chickens, and let the cruel barbs pierce the undersides of my breast flesh, pushing it through, ignoring my hysterical screams of agony, until the barbs protruded from the tops of my breasts and the blood ran down my belly from the cruel punctures.

Then she pulled two larger hooks, dull, unsharpened ones, and proceeded to sink the first one into my vagina. The metal was so cold my flesh was sticking to it, like fingers touching metal outside in winter and getting stuck. She wrenched it free of my labia, making me scream as the cold metal ripped a layer of skin from my sensitive clit, and then pushed it in again, this time seating it deep in my womanhood. Then she reached for the last hook, the one behind me, and sank it into my anus. I squealed once, then screamed in agony, tears streaming from my eyes and freezing on my cheeks. The agony was unbelievable, and I begged Stepmother to release me.

Instead, she wrapped cold metal shackles around my wrists and hooked them on chains as well, then she turned the winch on all of them until I hung from the coldroom ceiling by my wrists, breasts, vagina, and anus. And she coolly informed me I was to stay there until bedtime. In vain did I beg; she left the room, closing and bolting the door behind her.

I tried to move as little as possible, to avoid moving the metal hooks in my flesh and my nether parts. It soon became impossible, as the cold began to make me shiver, at first only a little, then stronger and stronger until I could feel the hooks tearing larger and larger holes in my flesh. Eventually the cold numbed me, and I fell into a semi-conscious doze until Stepmother came to release me. Now I sit in my kitchen corner, shivering in pain as warmth returns to my frozen extremities and blood begins to course through the wounds. I must find something to stop the bleeding.

Dear Diary:

The prince is looking for a wife, and is going to give a ball.

My stepsisters and mother are all in a flutter, rushing back and forth. I am not to be trusted with sewing a dress, of course; they do not trust me not to make them hideously ugly. (As if I would; should one of them catch the eye of the prince, she will marry him, and they will go to live in the palace. With servants and palace drudges to serve them, they will not need me, and I will be free!) It is something I have dreamed about for a long time.

I go about my chores as usual, only now, with Stepmother busy overseeing the dresses, I do not suffer as many punishments as I would formerly. Not a day has gone by since my father's death that I have not felt some form of pain each day; whether from a caning, whipping, paddling, or something more insidious like the meat hooks. I am not completely free from pain, however, as Jon has taken it upon himself to oversee me during the day.

Under his tutelage the punishments are milder but no less painful. There are clothespins on my nipples and labia right now; the ones on my nipples causing a throbbing pain that is intensifying each minute…and the ones on my labia are attached by strings to my thighs, so that my sex (Jon calls it my cunt) is spread obscenely wide, and the lips are tugged with each step I take. He is sitting there right now, watching me as I cook and clean. I hate him so much, I wish he would die. He has made my life miserable, and I dare not tell my Stepmother how much; she would likely make it worse. For he has decided to make me his 'fuck slave'; he pushes me down on all fours and takes me as brutally as he can in my nether hole. It hurt so badly the first time he did so that I cried and screamed the whole time. Now, after weeks of it, my body has become accustomed to the invasion, though the pain of the initial entry still makes me cry out. He does not dare use me vaginally, even though my virginity has been a thing of the past, lost when the meat hook pierced my body. Most likely because he does not want me to become fat with his child.

Dear Diary:

The ball was so wonderful. I dreamed of going there, of wearing beautiful gowns such as I had worn before my father died, to eat food unsullied by the flavor of ashes and pain, and a fairy granted my wish. She said she was my fairy godmother, and she conjured up such magic as would allow me to attend. I saw the prince; in fact, because of the fairy enchantment, he would not leave my side, but danced with me all the night. Unfortunately, because of the spell's limitations, I was compelled to hurry away, and in my haste left behind one of the glass slippers my fairy godmother conjured for me. By the time I got home, all I had left was the mate to that slipper. They didn't vanish with the magic because she had given them to me, not conjured them. Now I go about my chores thinking about the slipper stored in the secret place under the floorboard.

The Prince has sent out a decree that he will only marry the girl who has the mate to the slipper. Apparently he found it on the step where it had slipped off. Everyone in the kingdom is nervously awaiting his tap on the door, but I know it will not fit any of the eligible maidens but me. I have very small, narrow, pale-skinned, delicate feet, more like those of a young child than a marriageable maiden. So I will wait until he comes.

Dear Diary:

It has happened! I write this in full view of my stepmother and sisters, who dare not harm me now that the Prince is outside waiting for me to collect what few things I may have to go with him to the palace. He has decided to marry me, and no one else, since I hold the mate to the glass slipper, and am indeed right now wearing both. So I will live as a queen, and I need never wait on my stepmother or stepsisters, or feel such unimaginable pain as she has inflicted on me formerly. I am free, with every prospect of being happy! My wishes have been answered; I am leaving this miserable house, and its horrible people!

Twisted Fairy Tales: After The Wedding

Adapted from the fairy tale 'Cinderella'

Synopsis: Here's what happened after Cinderella's wedding. Why was the Prince so interested in her feet?

Codes: M/f, bondage, torture, feet, reluctant, serious

Dear Diary:

The wedding was held with all the pomp and splendor suitable for a royal wedding, and the day was perfect. Everything was perfect, save for one thing; the shoes given me by the Prince to wear were twenty years out of fashion, being his mother, the old queen's wedding slippers, and if it is to be believed, her feet were as small as, or possibly smaller than, mine. The slippers pinched my feet unmercifully, and I found myself shifting from one foot to another uncomfortably. I could barely wait until the ceremony and the day were over to remove them, and when I finally lay down on the bed I was to share with my new husband the Prince and removed the slippers, it took some minutes of rubbing for circulation to return to my cramped toes.

The Prince offered to rub them himself, while praising them as the finest, smallest, prettiest feet he has ever seen. Now I know the rumors about him are true: he has a fetish for feet.

Dear Diary:

There is no mistaking it now. The prince loves feet.

He likes seeing my feet in tiny slippers. My closet has a pair in every color I could imagine, and he chooses my slippers for me when we wake in the morning. He unlocks the glass cabinet in which all of my slippers are kept, and chooses a pair for me to wear before locking the cabinet back up and pocketing the key. The pair he likes the most are his mother's slippers, though; I have told him that they hurt me, that they are too small, but he pays no heed to my words, and indeed sometimes I wonder if he does not take delight in my hobbling gait as I go through the day.

I am beginning to suspect that he likes seeing my feet in discomfort. If I do not limp, he takes the pair of slippers I wear away from me, and a day later places before me an identical pair in a smaller size. I am getting to the point where I do not wish to walk, or stand, anymore. I try to move about as little as possible, to cause as little pain to my throbbing feet as I can.

Dear Diary:

He presented me with a pair of slippers I could not put on yesterday, they were so small. I lost my temper. Sobbing and demanding to know why he tormented my feet so when he supposedly loved them, I threw the slippers back at him.

He left the room without response, and came back moments later with another man. He explained that he slippers were not too small, but rather that my feet were too big, and this man would get my feet into the slippers for me. Whereupon the man brought forward two curious contraptions, like boots made of wood, with steel bands and locks around them. He opened one, and fit my feet inside, then closed the halves around my foot and ankle and began to tighten the bands around my feet. He tightened them until I cried from the pressure on the bones of my foot, then he stopped there and locked the horribly tight things about my foot. I struggled, pleaded with him to take it off and not subject me to the second 'boot', but the man, and my Prince, were inexorable. They crushed my foot within the second boot and locked it too.

As soon as they were gone I tried to remove them, but found I could not. And so I sat there the rest of the day, miserable, in pain, a my feet throbbed inside their prisons. My Prince did not take them off that night, thought I begged him to; and when I refused to leave him alone and let him sleep, in a fit of pique he called for the Palace guard and had them bring up a brank, a hideous head cage made of metal with a bit in the mouthpiece that would stop all sound. Despite my protestations I was locked into it, and then, when I would not leave off tugging at the bedclothes to get his attention, he had the guards tie me to a chair with silken ropes. And so I spent a miserable night in the chair, aching in both mouth and feet, crying silently.

This morning he released me, and tried to explain. He wants his wife, me, to have perfect feet; and his idea of perfect feet is a feet that would fit into a pair of slippers he found once while traveling in a far-off land. The women there all had exceedingly small feet, and he learned the secret of making such small feet from them. He would not tell me the whole process, but showed me instead the slippers he was speaking of; they were small red silk slippers, with gold embroidery all over them, and they were exceedingly beautiful. But they were so small I swore that they must have been made to fit a child! He laughed at me, and said he had seen them on a grown woman, and he would like to see them on me someday. I protested that my feet, as small as they were, could never get so small as to fit within those slippers, and he merely laughed and said that I would wear them someday.

He has left me alone, now, and my feet are throbbing so badly I cannot bear it. I saw the silken waistcoat he wore yesterday in the closet; the key was in the pocket the last time I saw it. Surely…if I can bear the pain of walking…I could get the key and release myself. It will take some doing, but I will have these dreaded things off!

Dear Diary:

It has been a week since I last wrote. That is because for half that week I was in the dungeon suffering the most terrible punishment I have ever faced in the castle; the bastinado.

When the Prince came back he was furious that I had gotten the heavy, hurtful things off. He called for the guard, who dragged me down to the dungeons and flung me face-down onto a table nude. My Prince ordered my ankles be tied to two upright posts at the end of the table, and my wrists shackled to the other end.

The soles of my feet were turned upward, helpless and waiting. He started with a thick strap of black leather, the pain of which I knew well from a similar instrument Stepmother used to use, and beat the soles of my feet, my delicate, small, narrow feet. When I was sobbing with the pain, he switched to a thinner, harder strap of leather, going from broad strokes that covered nearly the whole sole to thin ones that left vivid red welts. When I was almost unconscious and incoherent from that, he picked up a cane, which made me scream in fear and beg him to put the tormenting boots back on, anything to prevent my feet from being cut to ribbons by that cane. My cries were ignored, and he went about caning the soles of my feet with heartless abandon. I do not know how many strokes he gave me: I passed out after twenty strokes.

When I awoke, I was back in my suite, my wrists tied to the headboard of my bed and the horrible boots were back on my feet. I did not know whether it was the pain of the torture they had absorbed or if the boots actually were smaller, but they hurt even more. And he left me lying on the bed, being fed by servants, emptying my body's wastes into a shallow basin held under my hips, for six days. He let me out today, both out of bed and out of the boots, and gave me a pair of my formerly too-tight slippers to wear. This time, they didn't feel as tight. He seemed pleased. I hope he will be happy with this, and give up this impossible notion that I could ever fit into the child-slippers he showed me.

Dear Diary:

I am in hell, surely, I have died and gone to hell!

My feet are wrapped in bandages that grow redder and redder with blood every moment. Soon the servants will come in to clean and replace the wrappings. I cannot believe so cruel a thing can be done to feet; I can scarcely believe I survived such an ordeal.

A funny man came yesterday, a wizened, wrinkled little man with black hair, yellowish skin, slitted eyes and dressed richly in silks. He was from no country I recognized about our kingdom; my Prince told me he came from farther away, from the land where the small slippers had come from. He held one of the child-slippers up, measuring it with his fingers, then measured my feet with his fingers and drew with ink upon my soles, which would have made me laugh with the tickling if I were not already terrified. I was tied to my bed by ankles and wrists, my bare feet exposed to whatever barbarism my price wished to inflict on them.

I could not see the lines he had drawn on my soles; and even if I had I would not have been able to imagine that he would do what he did. My Prince thrust a wad of cloth into my mouth, between my lips, to stifle my cries as I saw the tiny, razor-sharp knife the small man produced next. The edge was so keen I did not realize he had cut my soles until they began to bleed; but I certainly felt the agony as he began to mutilate my foot, my arch, my toes. He cut off all of my toes, leaving the severed, bloody lumps of toes on the cover I lay on, and then held hot coals to the stumps to cauterize them. I screamed as loudly as I could, in the extremity of my pain…ah, God, how it hurt! Nothing that had ever been done to me equaled the pain I felt at that moment as he cauterized the severed toes. Then he made one deep cut across the sole of my foot, and I swear I felt the tendons and muscles in my feet snap as they were severed. Several of the bones broke, too.

Then he seized the top of my foot and doubled it, pressing the cauterized stumps toward my heel as I screamed in mindless agony and my bladder and bowels relaxed in my agony. I felt the warmth of my own liquid waste soak the blanket around me, and smelled the sharp, acrid, sickly odor of my bowels' products. The man remained unperturbed, telling my Prince that it was normal for girls to void themselves while undergoing the operation. Then he wrapped bandages about my foot, from my heel across to the front of my foot, keeping my foot doubled over on its severed muscles and crushed bones.

They did the same to my other foot.

Now I see why the slippers he showed me are so wide, and so short. My feet have been cut in half and doubled over on their shattered bones so that their shape will fit the shape of the slippers. I passed out as they were doing the second foot; but when I woke, I saw that the same thing had been done.

Dear Diary:

It has been three months since the operation was performed. Today my Prince unwrapped the snow-white bandages from my feet and presented me with the slippers, which he slipped over the cruelly abused, mutilated flesh that I used to call my feet. The slippers fit perfectly.

He says it will take me months to learn to walk again on my mutilated feet. And I will have to take very small, regal, gliding steps if I do not want to fall over. But he seemed beside himself with love for me, praising me to the heavens as the perfect wife, willing to undergo so much pain to make sure he was happy!

As if I had a choice.

Twisted Fairy Tales: A Child Sold

Adapted from the story 'The Little Match Girl' from the Broth ers Grimm

Synopsis: What kind of treatment could a little match seller fear that would keep her from going home when night falls in winter?

Codes: M+/f, rape, incest, humiliation, torture, violent, nc

Dear Diary:

Winter is coming. There's a sharp bite to the air that's only present when the winter is on its way, and soon it'll be time for me to stop selling flowers in the marketplace and start selling matches. Father has gone to buy the matches today, and he'll be gone most of the day. I can lie here in the pile of tattered rags I have gleaned from the rubbish heaps about the town for my bed, and try to recover from last night.

Father needed some extra money last night; I don't know what for, he didn't tell me. But he brought six men home with him, and I was to entertain them, as usual. He sent me upstairs to change into my best dress (what for? It will only come off as soon as the men are ready to play) which was a sorry thing of red velvet, and far too tight. It makes me look like a four year old, instead of the ten year old I am. But the daddies like it.

I came down from my garret and greeted the men as my Father has taught me; a deep curtsey and a respectful 'Sir'. They were well into their first cups of the evening, two looked like they were on the second or third, and I knew the night would be bad. Still, I walked around the table with the decanter of wine, filling each cup and paused so they could slip a hand under my skirt to feel my legs and play with the thin cotton covering what Father calls my 'ass' and my 'cunt'. Several of them also took my hand from the flagon of wine and guided it to their laps, making me feel the size of the lollipop that will hurt me so cruelly later. And I had to submit, for if I don't Father would hurt me worse when they go. As awful as they are, sometimes one of them will take pity on me and touch me gently enough for me to feel a tiny bit of pleasure. Not all of them are cruel. And some of the kind ones come back again.

But none of the kind daddies were there last night; I only recognized two or three of the crueler ones, the ones who like to hit me and hurt me. Tears filled my eyes as one of them opened his breeches and pulled his lollipop out for me to look at; it was large, and growing larger, and my hand shook a little as he guided my fingers to the big knot at the tip of his lollipop and made me feel it. After that, all of them wanted me to touch them, and soon all the lollipops were exposed.

Father showed them into the locked room of our house, the room that contains all of the stuff they use to hurt me with. Then he showed me in, and told me to show them what a big girl I was getting to be. That was my cue; when he said that I took off my dress and other undergarments until I stood in front of them naked. The then commenced to pull their pants down.

The first man grabbed my hair and pulled me down on my knees in front of him, his lollipop only inches from my face. I opened my mouth and obediently took him in my mouth, trying to ignore the horrible taste and smell of his body. Father trained me on how to suck the love out of a man with my mouth by getting me to practice on him. He makes me practice so often that I am quite good at it now, and I can make a man give me his love in less time than it usually took. I hate the taste, the bitter saltiness; but if I don't do it satisfactorily, I'll get beaten by them and by Father later.

I went around to all the men and sucked their love from them; even Father. But as I finished with Father and sat back on my heels, wiping my lips and wishing for a taste of water to wash out my mouth with, Father slapped me hard across my face and told me I didn't do a good job, and I had to be punished. Several of the other men said I hadn't done a good job either, and they voted to give me a punishment to teach me a lesson.

Father pushed me face-down across the big desk in the middle of the room, tying my hands and feet to the legs of the table. I begged them not to hurt me because Father said they liked hearing me beg; I already knew it was hopeless. They would do whatever they wanted, because they were adults, and I…I was only ten.

They took their belts out of their pants, some of them taking the buckle end, two of them taking the strap end and letting the buckle swing free. Father told them each to punish me according to what the man thought I deserved, and he would go first.

No matter how often it happens, the first blow always catches my body by surprise. For some reason, each time the pain begins it's as much a shock as if it were the first time. I jerked against the leather belts that held me spreadeagled atop that table, and screamed as pitifully as I could. Sometimes a really energetic scream will make the man think he's really hurt me, and he'll be gentler with the next blow. But it was wasted on Father; he knows what real pain sounds like in my voice. Eleven more times he hit me, spacing the blows out from my shoulders to the tops of my thighs, under my buttocks. By the time he was finished I was in agony. And there were still six more to go.

The second man evidently thought I hadn't done a good job on him, because he laid into me with all his strength with the strap end of his belt. Twenty times he hit me, and I was almost fainting by the time the third man took his turn. He used the buckle; I could feel the hard edges tear into my skin, and my screams were real ones of absolute, mind-numbing agony.

I passed out in the middle of the fourth man's turn, and for a few blessed seconds I could retreat into darkness. Father brought me around with a lash across my buttocks with a whip made of braided cow's hide; it was the worst whip he had, and one that was guaranteed to wake me up. Which I did. And the belting went on. None of them were gentle; they wanted to make me scream as loud as I could. Which I did.

When they were all done with the belts, Father stepped in front of me and said, "Let's see if she learned her lesson." And he offered me his lollipop to suck on again. I worked even faster this time, trying to avoid another belt beating like I had endured already; but again, when I was one with all seven men, it wasn't enough.

Father laughed. "Well, if she's no good with the mouth, maybe one of her other holes will be better?" He unfastened my wrists and ankles, turned me over, and fastened me back down on my bleeding, throbbing, raw back. Then he climbed astride me and thrust his lollipop into my cunt.

I screamed, because the dry penetration always hurts. Father plunged in dry and pulled out, then did it over and over again until he spilled his love inside my cunt. Then he got down and another man got on.

When they were all done they sat and smoked a cigar as I lay on the table, my limbs aching from being spread and my cunt raw from being fucked so hard and brutally. It was easier after Father; his love in me helped the others get in, and the pain wasn't so bad…but it was still humiliating. I sobbed quietly until they finished their cigars and came over.

They had decided that I hadn't done a good job this time either, and they wanted to punish me. This time they elected to slap my cunt with their belts, and Father said they could each hit me as many times as they wanted to. By the time they were done that, I had passed out twice, and my cunt was raw, red, and inflamed, bleeding where the buckles and belt edges had cut into the swollen flesh. I could barely stand when Father released me, and fell to my hands and knees, crying in abject misery.

The third man, the first one who had used a belt buckle on me, said after a moment, "There's one more hole she can redeem herself with." I didn't understand what he meant, but apparently Father and the others did. Father bent me over a low ottoman, tied my wrists to the front legs and my knees to the rear ones, then stuffed my underclothing in my mouth.

I felt someone touch my back entrance, the one I go to the bathroom out of, and I tensed and screamed into my panties. He ignored my reaction and spat on my ass, swirling his spit around my asshole and slowly penetrating me with one finger. I screamed in agony and yanked desperately against the straps that held me down; not even Father's warning that I would get a beating from the cowhide whip could still my struggles. Unfortunately, I was secure; I couldn't go anywhere.

He pushed his lollipop insistently at my nether hole; I screamed in agony as it finally popped past my anal ring, plunging deep into my bowels at the first thrust. I screamed and grunted and cried in animal agony; I couldn't imagine anything hurting as much as this did. Surely something so big was never meant to go in there! He seemed to enjoy my screams, my struggles, my pain; he reached around and grabbed the tiny flat buds of my nipples and squeezed, pinching cruelly. My body spasmed in pain, and my anal muscles sent a pang of pain into my brain as they squeezed the lollipop involuntarily. The man groaned and began to pump in and out, faster and faster, tearing my poor asshole until finally he spilled his love in my ass with a grunt and a groan. When he got off me I could feel the hot, wet fluid trickling down my ass, and I knew he'd torn my ass. The next man mounted me, and started pounding into me.

I could not get up when they were done. I was so drained and exhausted I couldn't move. The men leaned over me and kissed me on the lips, hard and full, their tongues probing into my mouth, as a goodbye after they paid Father the money they owed him for the use of my body; then they were gone.

I lay in the corner for a long time, crying, as Father counted the money. "Not bad," he said finally, pocketing it and looking at me. "They really liked raping your ass," he said conversationally. "We'll start adding that to the list of things you'll do for them."

The thought of doing this again for more men made me whimper and curl up. "No, Father," I told him. "I can't do it again, it hurts, it will kill me, I can't do it again!"

He rose to his feet, grabbing the cowhide whip. "Are you telling me what I can or can't do?" he shouted at me, raising it and bringing it down on my already abused body. I screamed, surprised at the fact that I still could, and curled up against the wall, trying to protect my face. "You'll do as I say, you belong to me!" he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth as he lashed savagely at me with the whip. "Until you can make as much money selling matches and flowers as your body, you'll continue to take men in whatever hole they want to use!"

I know it's impossible; I could never make as much money selling matches as he makes selling me to those men to be hurt. But still, when he comes home tonight with the matches, I'll go out. I'll go out and I will sell at least a box's worth of matches; and I won't come back until I do. Even if I have to stay out all night in the cold and die trying, I'll sell an entire box of them tonight.