Magic Mirror

Cinderella

The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels,
Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan
Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels
Begin on tilted violins to span

The whole revolving tall glass palace hall
Where guests slide gliding into light like wine;
Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall
Reflecting in a million flagons' shine,

And glided couples all in whirling trance
Follow holiday revel begun long since,
Until near twelve the strange girl all at once
Guilt-stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince

As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk
She hears the caustic ticking of the clock

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Everything's dancing....

Who's there?

My, what pretty dancing shoes you have!

The voices floated in her mind, lulling, soft, and gentle. Everything is a blur.

Where am I?

Eyes open, that room, the candles and cushions and decadence. They litter the floor, forgotten articles. The party has vanished.

“There is no one here.”

She is standing on the stairwell, but feels as if little has changed. This is the same, but not. That song – the gentle voices. Voice. The blur fades, the room suddenly begins to fill – where she thought she saw only ruin, there is suddenly a masked woman, and then a partner for her. The room fills, and now she is lost. She is looking for someone.

...just like a pale jewel...

It is the same, and it is not. She finds the crowd now parts for her, they do not mock her, and dance slowly. A couple bows, as she passes. The dress is as light as air – she feels clean. Veiled, she feels different in this familiar scene. Her gait is confident, the dress sways naturally about her, even the very air seems new, different, a part of her. She feels things are not really alive, but that the illusion is still real, and reality is the illusion – things that do not make sense comfort her. Such is the way of things, at The Crystal Ball.

Dear me! What pretty dancing shoes!

Hands find hers, and he kneels before her, an old, courtly gesture. She nods, and he places a gentle kiss on the back of her hand, delicate but lingering – too sensual to be appropriate. She doesn't mind, and he pulls himself up, languidly, his adorned body lithe and cruel. They are whisked into the dance, with more energy than in her distant memory. The others resume their dancing, and the crowd sways in elegant fancy, the room growing darker, then lighter. The furniture is mended, and the hangings pull themselves together. More couples flood the ever-growing Ball but she has eyes for only one. They dance.

His head nestles against the shoulder, his breath tickling the back of her neck. “Such pretty dancing shoes you have, my precious thing.”

They whirl again, now faster, in a frenzy. The room starts to spin. He holds her closely, almost roughly, his hand and fingers digging into her side.

“Dance you shall,” said he, “dance in your red shoes till you are pale and cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a skeleton! Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and wicked children live you shall knock, so that they may hear you and fear you!”

And in on her feet, a pair of red dancing shoes. “No! Please!”

“Dance you shall, dance—!”

Suddenly it stopped, there was darkness and she was shoved off-balance, landing on her back against a surface, sinful and soft, now kicking and struggling in her pretty dancing shoes, until they are ripped off, and cast aside. There is only him, now, and he is above her, bearing down.

“Mercy!” She feels tears blotting her eyes, exhaustion already setting in.

“But you must Sarah... you must continue. The clock is ticking, my precious thing.”

“No – no!” Sarah clung to him then, fearful and began to weep. The clock was louder with each passing second.

Without you we shall die.

A welling, emptiness, painful guilt overcame her, as she fought with herself. Such a small price to pay; but one would always be indebted. He placed her down again, his naked chest against hers, and they kissed, passionately, his teeth against her lips, that strange, sweet, light-headed aroma, like a glass of wine brought to her lips for just a taste. She responded, holding him against her with equal fervor, grasping her nails digging into his back. And she felt him grow hard against her exposed body – it was just two of them now, amidst the fog of desires and creation. He pushed her away from him, pinning her arms to her sides as he smiled above her, grasping her breasts, pinching her nipples, already sensitive in her condition. She moaned trying to press closer to him, and his fingers dug deeper, bruising just below the skin. Her body twitched, her eyes begging him, as he trailed along her stomach, nails digging into her sides, softly then hard, until the skin reddened angrily, as he marveled at this beautiful destruction He was nude before her, his body gleaming, and her eyes could see his manhood, frightening and so enticing. Her face reddened in shame, at her desires for him.

As she struggled against him, for his touch, his satisfaction grew. He teased her, trailing the tip of his cock against her exposed self, rubbing it against her clit as it swelled, until he could feel her desires, wet on his skin, and hers – the scent lingering delicately in the air, so sweet he must taste it. She rose her hips to him, an grotesque offering, a remnant of days before etiquette and refined mannerisms, when there was only lust and pure, primal instinct.

He brought her to his lips, like the chalice bearing the blood of Christ, tasted her with such passion, and delicacy, and crudeness as his tongue delved between her nether-lips lapping with precision. She cried, and he pulled away, despite her protests.

“Do I still not have power over you, Sarah?” He growled, taunting her, as her body reached for him, a silent entreaty. She whimpered, her senses flooded, overwhelmed as her glazed eyes met his. “What do you think Sarah?”

“No!” She cried, and as he thrust into her, her mind shattered, just as the crystal in that forsaken cave, and the Crystal Ball in her efforts to save her baby brother, so many years ago. But now, suspended in the cradle of magic as then, she could save entire worlds, and she could not save herself. Her body rocked, wantonly, and she found her pleas grow softer, catching herself, and still falling as he rocked against her, touched her. In the distance, as if she heard thunder, rain, everything at once. His mouth ravaged hers, his tongue plunging into her mouth with the same ferocity as he did below, so she could taste her own desire, still clinging to his lips.

All in one moment, to her shock, she found herself responding, eagerly, unable to stop herself from lifting her hips, matching his rhythm with one of her own, offset enough to make her shudder with pleasure, as they consumed each other, frantically. When she pushed him away, he now had to pry her loose, as her legs wrapped around him, clinging with abandon. Every inch that touched felt alive, a burning fervor that perpetuated as she screamed her orgasm against him, whimpering softly into his shoulder, as he bit her neck, hard enough to draw blood. She felt her body, wracked in intolerable pleasure, again and again, grasping with every muscle each time, until finally, nearly spent, he released himself and flowed into her. A creation, the hot, burning seed of life, filled her.

He kissed her gently, and the world, reality, shifted again.