Twisted Fairy Tales

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.