Twisted Fairy Tales

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!