My dress ceases its silken whisper as I stop in front of the door leading to the tower room. Carved and dark, the wooden door is old, as old as the castle itself, and like the castle, it knew happier times. The hunting scene carved out as decoration changed under the strange shadowing of the blood symbols my step-mother, the Queen, had drawn unevenly across the grainy surface. Wooden huntsmen once rode happily through a stylized forest, but now stare out with evil eyes, keeping a tortured grip on their skeletal horses. Hooves crushed down on skulls and bony reaching hands.
I wrap my sleeve cuff around my knuckles and slowly reach out to knock on the door. The wood feels too yielding under my hand, warm with some putrid heat, and the sound is muffled, as if I rapped on flesh. As fast as reflex, I withdraw my hand and wait for long moments, rubbing my hand against my dress. A quiet click comes from the direction of the lock, and then the stealthy sound of the bar sliding back. The door cracks open, enough for me to slip inside, my skin shrinking away from the wood.
I never know if she's inside waiting for me. Sometimes, the door opens on its own.
The circular room stretches away into dimness. I know only thirty steps straight across the stone floor is the window, covered now by a thick velvet curtain. Even knowing the distance -- for this had been my bedroom for many years before my step-mother, and ever after -- it looks farther, stranger, more intimidating. There is very little furniture remaining here now. A simple chest, where I keep my clothes -- I have nothing else -- and a rough bed. The mattress is old straw and the bedding is rough sack. I think she took it from one of the maids. To her, the most important detail about the bed is that it has sturdy posts.
"The bitch is coming, and we both will have work to do." A deep male voice prompts me to action, and I scurry to the bed, my legs full of panicked energy. She's not here yet, but she will be soon. I rush past, but I spare the hand mirror lying on the dresser a look. The white blur of his face is visible; no time for details. I scramble to assume my position by the bed before I hear her at the door. Fear steals my breath as I make adjustments to my body, knowing perfection is the only defense against punishment. My fingers tremble and everything clenches. All the blood rushes to my cunt, and quim slides down my thighs. "Faster," the voice from the mirror urges.
I stand facing the low bed and bend over as far as I can, pressing my face into the coarse fabric. Quick and urgent hands hike my dress up above my bare ass. She does not permit obstacles or barriers, so there are no undergarments to pool around my ankles. My fingers spread open my pussy, holding it open for the coming inspection. I have one moment to struggle against the temptation to brush my clit before there's a noise at the door.
