Lustfully Ever After by Kristina Wright Page A

me feel beautiful. She made me beautiful.”
    I want to slap her silly face, I want to rake my nails over her skin until she bleeds, I want to uncover the mirror and make it speak the only truth it knows. But the queen’s not ready for that.
    Instead, I keep my hand tight in her hair, lean over her upturned face, kiss the red lips of her mouth. She tastes of
potions and despair, her tongue a sleeping thing that must be coaxed into waking.
    I will make her beautiful too.
    I pinch her nipples, one after the other, pull them into points and then release them, loving every time she moans into my throat, every time she shudders. Still holding her hair, keeping her still, I push my hand between her thighs, play in the wetness that already fills her, a stream of want. I tease her until she’s bucking against my light touch.
    “Please,” she says.
    I pull her back, take the comb from its spot on her dressing table. The silver makes a pretty smack against the curves of her breasts, the insides of her thighs. It brings her skin to flush, petaled and pink.
    “Beautiful,” I say in her ear as the comb does its work against the point of her clit, as it hits home again and again. “Beautiful,” I say.
    But I know she doesn’t believe me.
    From her bed, the raven caws and caws.
     
    Snow has been gone seven months. The huntsman hasn’t been found. Even the raven has been spending more and more time elsewhere. It’s time.
    While my queen bathes—she’s almost fully herself now, no potions needed—I open the closet and pull the white dress from the very back of it. My queen gasps when she sees it.
    “No,” she says. “Not that one.”
    “Do you trust me?” I ask. I’m already bringing the dress to her.
    “Yes,” she whispers.
    “Do you love me?”
    I can’t hear her answer over the rustle of fabric, as I settle the alabaster strips around her skin. It barely covers any of her, only
the curve of her hips, a line up her belly, swatches below the hang of her breasts. I can’t hear the answer, but I know what it is.
    “On all fours.”
    She does so without protest, the dress moving like white feathers around her. Swan Queen. Down on her hands and knees in front of me. So beautiful. So mine. “Open your mouth,” I say.
    She does. Obedient. Wanting. Willing.
    Into her mouth goes the apple-red gag, tied in place with leather stays. She looks up at me, her eyes wide.
    “It’s a good color for you. Red,” I say.
    She shudders lightly. She knows what I mean.
    I kiss her around the gag, laughing as she tries to kiss me back. My fingers find her nipples, tighten over them until they’re as red as the gag. Until she’s moaning, her breath quick and heaving.
    I lean her forward, tease the places that the fabric doesn’t hide. I spread her open until my fingers, all of my fingers, my small fist reaches deep inside her.
    My other hand wields the leather riding crop that leaves long thin lines on her skin.
    She’s screaming inside the gag, writhing into every lash, opening herself up more and more around the push of my fist. The alabaster fabric shows every bit of sweat, every drop of blood. They glitter like pearls, like rubies.
    Her clit is an easy thing to find, even with the crop still in my hand. Tall and pointed as a glass mountain, the very tip a delight to the curve of my fingers. It doesn’t take long; I flick her clit two, three times and she’s bucking me nearly out of her, sucking breath around the gag.
    She comes quiet and hard, like a queen should, all shudder and arch and breathstop.
    Barely waiting for her to finish, I take the gag from my
queen’s mouth. Her breathing is so fast it’s barely there. Her eyes are glazed over, unfocused.
    “Do you love me?” I ask.
    “Yes,” she breathes. Like the mirror, in this moment she cannot lie.
    “Then ask,” I say, and I turn her face toward the uncovered mirror.
    She shakes her head, a tiny movement.
    “Ask,” I say again.
    “Mirror, mirror…” She