When her stepmother entered through the cottage door bearing the news, Cinderella was sitting exactly where she always did. And that was in front of the blazing log fire, the ash and cinders dappling her deathly pale skin; naked as always, as clothes were a vanity wasted on one who never ventured beyond the kitchen hearth, the stack of logs and the coal scuttle. Cinderella's stepsisters, for whom no luxury was too great and no expense too excessive, were slumped in their armchairs: a red leather one for Ursula and a green one for Ermintrude. There was also a rocking chair for their mother, but Cinderella had only bare stone on which to rest her naked buttocks.
"You'll never believe what I've heard!" Cinderella's stepmother announced. A broad smile spread over her podgy face, as she set a pannier of provisions on the kitchen table, the contents of which it was expected that Cinderella would assemble into a meal for the three other women. Only the uneaten scraps would be left to her. "It's the King. His Royal Majesty. He is hunting through the whole of his kingdom for a girl, a single girl, with whom he has fallen in love and whom he wishes to take as his concubine."
"So?" sniffed Ursula, who was tall and thin, with a nose long and aquiline, and a permanent sneer on her thin upper lip.
"Why should we care about the King?" echoed Ermintrude, an altogether plumper girl than her sister, resembling much more her mother.
"My daughters! My daughters!" exclaimed Cinderella's stepmother. "Have I not cared for you from the time of your birth? Lavished you with every groat bestowed me by your late father? Ensured that you have never been in want of a dainty shoe or an ermine cloak? Now, it is time for you to repay your mother who loves you so dearly. Would it not be a deserving reward for your mother for one of my beautiful daughters to be a doxy for His Majesty?"
"Concubine? The King's whore!" Ursula sniffed.
"You cannot be serious, mother!" agreed Ermintrude.
"Are you not beautiful women, my daughters?"
The two girls nodded, while Cinderella gazed at them, her hand holding a turnip and the other the knife with which she was peeling the turnip. Indeed, they were two very attractive women, made the more so by the bounty of daily bathing, exotic perfume and luxurious dress. Ursula had a cruel face, but her neck was arched and curved like a swan. Her slender body, with its slight bosom, was elegant and handsome, and attracted many admirers. Those admirers, that is, not more taken by Ermintrude's more voluptuous beauty: a buxom woman with a luxury of curves and a wealth of overflowing white flesh. Cinderella's own beauty, which she had in great abundance, was hidden by the smudges and smut of her daily kitchen chores. Her thinness, unlike that of Ursula's, was one determined more by an impoverished rather than a fastidious diet.
"How can we become the King's courtesans, mother?" Ursula asked.
"Not both of you. Just the one. The King has proclaimed that he is seeking one girl, a special girl, with whom he has fallen in love. But he knows not who this girl may be. All he knows is that when he fucked her, he discovered a special bond with her. That in his amorous thrusts, he experienced more pleasure from a woman's cunt than he had ever done before."
"More even than that from his wife, the Queen?" wondered Ermintrude.
"Much more. More even than his late queen, brought down by plague. But kings never marry queens for the sexual pleasure they bring them, my dear daughters, but for reasons of state and the need to bear children of noble blood. And for this reason, the king has many whores, many courtesans, many mistresses and a Royal Concubine, who is almost like the Queen in wealth and luxury, but excused the obligations of regal duty or the necessity of constant childbirth. The King knows not who is this girl whose fucking was so memorable, but so besotted is he that he hunts her down, across the entire kingdom, in the home of every person of property and estate. Each girl he finds who says that she is the one, he fucks to know for sure whether it is indeed she who had given him so much pleasure."
"All he knows of her is how she fucks? Not of her looks? Not her name, her lineage or her reputation?" Ursula asked, aghast. "How can the King be so ignorant? How can he fuck someone so unforgettably and know so little?"
"It was at one of the King's Royal Orgies, my dearest," Cinderella's stepmother continued. "The flickering candle-light is not bright enough to distinguish one wench from another. All the girls wear a mask over the face, although the rest of the body be bare. And it was at this Royal Orgy, just one month ago, on the very day that we all went to darling Goneril's debutante ball, that the King fucked this mysterious girl."
"So, if she was such a good fuck, why didn't the King learn her identity there and then, mother?" Ermintrude asked.
"Apparently, just after the King had given his all, bestowing more sperm on this wench than he had ever before been capable, she vanished as suddenly as she arrived, leaving the King with only a memory of the best fuck of his life. A fuck so spectacular and wonderful that he pines like a young boy, hoping only that he may fuck like that once again. And now, although his mistresses and odalisques and the royal retinue of whores assail him constantly, massaging the royal penis, applying lips of both the mouth and vulva to its majesty, and however well and often he fucks, all pales to him in comparison to the fuck he has known. And..."
Cinderella's stepmother stopped, picked up a wooden spoon that lay on the table and flung it angrily at her stepdaughter, glancing off her forehead. Cinderella yelped and lowered her head.
"I saw you smirk, you whore!" the woman exclaimed. "Why did you smirk, you fucker of pigs and scum?"
Cinderella kept her head low, too accustomed to her stepmother's anger to contradict her. "I'm sorry, mistress. I didn't mean to..."
"You liar! You filthy sow! Your expression intimated you knew only too well what it is to fuck a man. And what man would fuck you, a filthy slut? You are fit only for the savage thrusts of swine and asses. I am tired now, but when I have recovered my energy, I shall apply my switch to your buttocks with vigour."
The stepmother waddled over to Cinderella, spat full in her face and waddled back to her rocking chair. She sat down in it, and rocked back and forth.
"And so, my darling daughters, Ursula and Ermintrude, fruit of my womb and the reward of my own virtuous efforts, you shall inform the King's servants that you were both at the King's orgies and that you had sex with him on that night. And that you are, indeed, the one he seeks with such passion."
"But how will he be convinced of this, mother?" wondered Ursula.
"Both you and darling Ermintrude shall practice in the art of fucking, under my expert tutelage, so that when the King comes and fucks you, he will be so won over by your amorous skills that he will assert that you are the one. And if not you, Ursula, then you, Ermintrude."
"But, mother..." exclaimed Ermintrude. "As you desired, we have kept our maidenhead intact these many years in pursuit of the perfect husband."
"Your maidenheads may be intact, but your mouths and your arses have savoured many a youth's throbbing member, my daughters. I am not a fool, you know. But now, a more rich and bounteous prize may be ours, and so virtue must be superseded by energetic training."
"And when does this new regime begin?" queried a clearly excited Ermintrude, a hot red flush across her pale, plump cheeks.
"Why! This very evening. After we have dined. But first, my daughters," she continued, standing up and taking a long cane from where it was supported by nails to the cottage wall, just beneath a portrait of her deceased husband, "I must administer punishment on my smirking stepdaughter. Will you care to assist me?"
Cinderella knew that in addition to the pains of preparing food and being admonished for all manner of shortcomings in its preparation and quality, she would also have to bear the stinging pain of red marks across her buttocks, bruises over her face and, perhaps again, a raw blue swelling above her eyes. And in all the suffering she was to endure, she would needs be heedful not to weep or cry in pain, so as not to further antagonise the three women who, besides being her wards, were also her torturers and tormentors.
This was not how the women were considered by the yeomen and apprentices of Cinderella's village. Rather, her two stepsisters were known as amiable wenches, who though desirous of maintaining their virtue, did not stint at welcoming men in their embraces. And her stepmother had a reputation as a woman who despite her advancing years was well-practiced and skilled at the art of lovemaking, and was a worthy fuck for any man, whatever his age. And now, when it was announced that the two stepsisters had abandoned the imperative to secure their virtue and would welcome any man's member between their open thighs, the better endowed the more welcome, their good repute within the village soared and the men of the diocese were queuing at the cottage door for a taste of the two stepsisters' fleshly bounty. The women of the village, the affianced and espoused, did not care to express an opinion. And if they did, it would be ignored by their menfolk.
.... There is more of this story ...