by Sacchi Green
I can see the oversexed headline in the underground newspaper now: Bad News Bares All. My body sizzles like a stake. Er, steak. Naturally, I much prefer the former to the latter. One man’s meat is this woman’s poison. Hence, no man has ever seen me down at heel.
Alas, no woman has ever brought me to my knees either. “Shall I start at the bottom and work my way down?” I suggest, aiming for that indelicate balance of obscene and obsequious.
“I hear your suggestion and I’ll raise you an eyebrow,” Godmother replies, and makes good on her word. “I think we ought to keep things G-rated.”
I groan, hot under the lavender collar of my dress. “I’d prefer to keep things Bea-rated.”
“I think you’ve been berated enough for one lifetime,” Godmother declares, rubbing my back in a spine-tingling show of sympathy. “It’s G-rated or nothing. What’s it going to be?”
I weigh my options, which are two. Then I weigh my words, which are few: “Is G short for G-spot?”
Bea regards me as though I am one key short of a grand piano. “Well, my evil genius,” she replies, her tone transcending condescending and going straight to snooty, “that is spot-on.”
My face flushes, and I discover that being red feels far better than seeing red. “I don’t mind being put on the spot.”
“Then let’s get right on it,” she enthuses, and uses her hands to hoist me to my feet.
Godmother has more curves than the staircase toward which I’m tugging her, but I must stay ahead of said curves lest she get lost on her first visit to the palace. When we reach the top of the stairs, I make a Bealine for the master bedroom. Master as in mastermind, mind you. I would hate for my boudoir to be mistaken for a male room.
(As you’ll note, I am wicked witty when awfully aroused.)
In the privacy of my bedroom, mere seconds after I latch the door, we latch on to each other and share true love’s first kiss.
It neither breaks the spell she has over me, nor slakes the dry spell I’ve been under for the whole of my existence.
Instead, the kiss makes my bliss go from bad to worse, awakening me like the fanfare of a thousand trumpets.
I shoot the messenger a flirty look.
Bea’s hand wanders to her wand. She culls it from her cleavage and, with a flourish of the wrist and an infuriatingly infantile incantation, her clothes vanish from her body.
Standing before me, naked as a stripped bed, Bea smirks at my princess-size eyes. “Surely if I can gussy up a girl, I ought to be able to hussy up one too,” she reasons, lifting her broad shoulders in a shrug.
“But of course,” I murmur, taking in the voluminous view. I marvel at the fluidity of her body. Each curve dips into the next, creating lush, luxurious layers, not unlike the waterfall valance canopy draped to perfection above my bed.
I could just swoon! That is, if I had the faintest idea how.
“Look at you,” she coos, “looking longingly at me. So helpless, so harmless, so speechless. My little pine tree, stripped of its bark.” Bea tickles the underside of my chin as if I’m a kitten. “Cat got your tongue?”
“Not yet,” I purr, as I kneel at the feet of my queen Bea. My lips flex against her sex. “Now it has.”
Even this part of her is sickly sweet, but fortunately, this is as good as it wets.
That is to say, gets.
I seize her waist, the supple flesh succumbing to my touch as I plunge my fingers into the smooth grooves of her folds.
My tongue performs matching manipulations, probing every crinkle, provoking every nerve.
I squeeze my way inside and find her cunt rather cozy, like the filling nestled in an éclair.
I can’t help but esteem the cream, with its abundant warmth and boundless bounty.
As much as I’d love to linger, however, I think I’d best hit the spot before I put her in a bad one. I’m accustomed to such predicaments, but I sense both desperation and consternation as she raps my head with that hocusy-pocusy rod of hers. Therefore, for once, I would like to do more good than harm.
And so, I thump the bump with my tongue, and remain rooted to the spot, licking with gusto and sucking with spirit.
For her part, Bea jitters and titters, until her composure fritters like a glass slipper.
Bea coming is most becoming.
I rise to my feet and face her.
She looks at me, looks at me licking my lips as I relish the zest of my zaftig.
“Ah, the lady doth ingest too much.”
My cheeks burn. Bea holds the royal flush in her hands.
“Let’s trade places, shall we?” she suggests, and wields the wand in such a way that I wonder whether she’s planning to use it for vanishing purposes or vanquishing ones.
She moves impossibly queer.
That is to say, near.
I want her so bad—the only way I can want her, of course.
“Whoever thought,” Bea muses, as she grips then rips my dress, “that I’d be known as an evildoer?”
THE MARK AND THE CAUL
Annabeth Leong
A desperately poor woman gave birth to a baby girl and rejoiced because the child came into the world with her face hidden by a caul. The woman knew that sailors would pay good coin for the bit of flesh, since legend told that it would protect its bearer from drowning.
As soon as she recovered from her time abed, the woman walked with the baby and the caul to the riverside docks to find a sailor. In a loud and dirty inn, she negotiated a transaction that would keep her family fed for several weeks and even allow them to buy a little meat. She turned toward the door with a smile, but before she could escape, an ancient soothsayer grabbed her by the elbow.
“Let me tell the child’s future,” creaked the crone.
The woman would have dodged away, but the sailor raised his glass and demanded a prophecy, and she did not wish for him to change his mind about the coin he’d given her.
The soothsayer brushed her thumb through the soft, black hair atop the baby girl’s head, and peered into her still unfocused eyes. “I see a life of good fortune,” she intoned. The onlookers at the bar drank to that and cheered, and the poor woman tried again to tug free. The soothsayer’s grip remained strong. “At nineteen,” she continued, “the babe will marry the king’s daughter.”
The bar’s patrons burst into guffaws, for they knew the child was a girl. The soothsayer frowned, and the poor woman hugged her daughter closer. One never wished to anger those with strange powers—a prediction of good fortune could become a curse at any moment. She bowed deeply. “Thank you, Mother. I will hold your words close to my heart.” The moment she could, she broke away and returned home, praising God for her windfall.
The poor woman thought no more of the soothsayer’s prophesy, but the sailor carried the story far and wide, laughingly repeating it to any who would listen. Before long, it reached the ear of King Harold himself. Rather than waving the prophecy away with a chuckle, as his advisors did, the king, who was a deeply superstitious man, spent several sleepless nights pondering its meaning.
He intended for his daughter, Lucinda, to marry a neighboring king as soon as she was of age. Over barley wine, he and his friend had hammered out the details of the marriage before Lucinda was born, and the king was looking forward to the strategic trade routes he would control as a result of the union. What’s more, King Harold was disturbed by the thought of his daughter bound in an unnatural union with another woman.
He made his decision and set out to find the baby girl who had been born with a caul. Thanks to the king’s money and power, the task was not difficult, and before long, he disguised himself as a wealthy foreign merchant and knocked at the poor woman’s door.
“Good woman,” the king said, “will you give your daughter to me to raise as my own? While conducting business in the capital, I met a sailor who told me that your babe was born to a prophecy of good fortune, and I have always wished for a child.”
The woman
was skeptical, but the king displayed a great sum of money and suggested that being adopted by a sought-after businessman was a perfect example of the sort of luck that would feature in the girl’s life.
At last, he convinced the baby’s mother. He paid her handsomely and rode with the child a long distance down the river, where he placed the baby in a box and threw her into deep water. Satisfied that he had disposed of this most unwanted “suitor,” he returned to his palace.
The king, however, had forgotten that a babe born in a caul cannot drown. Instead of sinking, the box sailed down the river all the way to the capital, where it came to rest on the bank beside a mill.
The miller’s wife, now past childbearing age, had long lamented her infertility. Walking by the river that evening, she heard a cry and was overjoyed to discover the baby girl. She took the child to her husband, and they agreed to raise her and teach her all they knew. They named her Sam, and she grew up strong and lovely, kind and clever with a needle but also bold and handy with the mill’s machines. In thanksgiving for this unexpected blessing, they left a meal for the river’s spirit in the sand at the water’s edge on each new moon, and they carried this out faithfully for nineteen years.
One day, King Harold set out on a journey and got caught in a thunderstorm at the outskirts of the capital. His party had recently passed near the mill, and he returned to that place and asked for shelter. Noticing the strapping youth who took his men’s horses, the king asked the miller if his son would grumble about having to work in the driving rain.
“No,” the good man replied. “Wet doesn’t bother that one— never did. Sam—strong as a boy but our daughter nonetheless—came to us nineteen years ago, sailing along the river in a box without a care in the world.”
The king understood what must have happened, and he turned away and ground his teeth. Composing himself, he pasted on a pleasant expression and asked the miller for a favor. “I wish to send a letter to the queen. Since your Sam won’t mind the rain, could she carry it to my wife? I’ll give two gold pieces for the trouble.”
The miller readily agreed, and the king penned a note to his Queen Matilda: “I expect to find the bearer of this letter dead and buried when I come back.”
Sam tucked the letter inside her cloak and set out into the storm, whistling. She ordinarily possessed an excellent sense of direction, but on this occasion she missed a signpost and became lost in the large forest that separated the palace from the capital city. After wandering well into the night, Sam noticed a glimmering light in the distance and walked toward it.
The light led to a small house hidden behind a stand of nine hazel trees. The rain crackled into a round pool beside the house, where bright fish swam to and fro. Sam approached without fear and knocked at the door to the house. There were rustling sounds from within, and after several long minutes, the door was flung open. Sam stood before a plump figure covered from head to toe in black cloth. “What business have you here?”
The query took Sam aback, for it had been spoken not in the crone’s voice she anticipated but in the soft, sweet tones of a maid. She did not let her surprise show, however. “I have come from the mill,” Sam replied. “I am carrying a letter to the queen, but I’ve lost my way. Would it disturb you very much to allow me to stay here for the remainder of the night?”
The hidden woman peered at Sam. Her head cloth slipped to one side, and Sam glimpsed peculiar pale markings on the dark cheeks beneath it. “There is only one bed,” she stammered.
“That does not trouble me,” said Sam.
“Robbers sleep here sometimes.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Do they?”
“They could.”
“If the favor is a bother to you, madam, I’ll find another place to lay my head.” She quirked up a corner of her mouth. “It’s a little damp out, is all.”
Sam turned away, but before she could disappear from the circle of light, the woman in the house called her back. “Wait!”
“Yes?”
“A favor for a favor?”
“Of course.”
Now, the figure who greeted Sam was actually Lucinda. She had discovered the small house in the woods as a young girl, when it had belonged to an old wise woman. Charmed by the hedge witch’s bubbling pots and fragrant herbs, she had seized any chance to retreat there. The old woman had extracted an odd promise from the princess—if she ever disappeared, Lucinda was to catch and eat a fish from the pool beside the house. Lucinda, however, had been approaching the cottage one day unnoticed by her mentor, and had seen the old woman jump into the pool. When she failed to come up for air, Lucinda had run to the pool but found only fish swimming there. The old woman never returned, but Lucinda had ever after feared the nature of the fish, and had not been able to bring herself to fulfill her promise. Instead, she snuck to the small house whenever she could, and did her best to keep it tidy and ready for the wise woman’s return.
The arrival of the stranger from the mill presented a unique opportunity to discover what had become of the hedge witch. “I need you to dive into the pool beside the house,” Lucinda said, “and bring me whatever you find at the bottom.”
“Now?” Sam asked incredulously. “In the dark? In the storm?”
Lucinda had rarely been denied anything, and she ducked her head in shame. She wondered how often her commands would have been met with this response had she not been born to luxury. “I suppose the request is foolish. I apologize.”
Sam’s jaw worked as she stared back at Lucinda. After a moment, she shrugged. She swam well and trusted the water. “No more foolish than anything else.” She walked to the pool, shedding her clothes as she went.
Lucinda could not take her eyes off this strange woman. Sam wore the clothes of a man, but the body that emerged beneath them, all compact muscle and firm curves, was undeniably feminine. Sam took down her hair from its leather thong, then twisted it into a tighter knot and retied it. She tossed a look over her shoulder at Lucinda and plunged into the pool.
Lucinda’s mouth went dry. She had heard her handmaids tittering about the charms of noble youths, but no young man had ever incited the stirrings in her body that Sam did. While Lucinda appreciated the aesthetics of Sam’s powerful body, she truly could not resist the knowing twinkle that had been in her eye, as if she saw straight through Lucinda’s black garments, and even through her persona as princess. It was the first look that had made Lucinda feel like a woman.
Her hands shook, but there was another reason to have sent Sam to the bottom of the pool, and she knew she could not squander the opportunity. Searching quickly through Sam’s clothing, Lucinda found the letter addressed to her mother. She unfolded it and saw her father’s seal and the command inside, and her guts twisted so painfully that she nearly forgot to conceal what she had done before Sam returned to the surface.
Dripping water, Sam drew in deep breaths. She showed her upturned palm to Lucinda. “I found precious little down there,” she said. “Only some hazelnuts.”
Lucinda frowned. “That is puzzling.” It would not have pleased her if Sam had found the wise woman’s body, but it would have settled the mystery of her disappearance.
“Are you searching for something in particular? You need only ask, and I will dive to the bottom of the pool again.”
“I have only the one favor to offer in return.”
“I hardly believe that,” Sam replied. “But I require no payment. I would do the deed simply for the asking.”
Lucinda stiffened. Sam made her feel naked even while clothed. Her body heated under the wise woman’s black garments and she knew that, given the chance, she would offer all her most tender favors to Sam. She wished she could fling herself at the other woman and take her in her arms, but she lacked the courage to lay herself bare as Sam had done.
She collected her thoughts. “You are kind, but there is no need for you to dive again. I trust that you searched well the first time. Come. Let us eat the hazelnuts togeth
er.”
Sam nodded and gathered up her clothes. Lucinda swallowed her disappointment as the other woman covered herself again. Returning to the house, she put the hazelnuts over the fire to roast and mixed a few of the wise woman’s dried herbs to make tea.
As she worked, she questioned Sam about what she knew of the king, but could discover no reason for his animosity. She could not bear to see glorious Sam cut down in her prime, and so she devised a plan.
Lucinda dropped a pinch of a powerful sleeping herb into Sam’s tea, then sat beside the fire and ate hazelnuts with her until the other woman began to nod off. Before she succumbed completely, Lucinda helped her to the bed. Sam fell fast asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. For a while, Lucinda stood still and stared, trying to define what about this woman’s face affected her so. She found no answer, only a continued desire to look.
Removing her father’s letter from the sleeping Sam’s cloak, Lucinda took it to the wise woman’s writing desk. She carefully imitated her father’s handwriting and transferred his seal to create a new message. “The moment the bearer of this letter arrives, she is to be married to our daughter. Waste no time ordering the feast and arranging the great event.”
Lucinda tore up the original and burned the pieces. She tucked the forgery into Sam’s cloak, took one more longing glance, put out the fire, and returned to the palace to make herself ready.
Sam awoke to find the ashes of the fire cold and scattered, and her mind groggy. No sign remained of the woman she had met the night before, but the memory of her dark eyes made Sam’s heart quiver in her chest. In the light of day, she could see many strange and magical objects decorating the inside of the house, and she feared that the woman had ensorcelled her. She shut up the house with care, and continued carrying out the king’s errand. Sam was quite relieved to discover a road she recognized, and she did her best to forget the strange encounter.
She arrived at the palace and, after displaying the king’s seal on the letter she carried, was brought before Queen Matilda. The queen read the letter, and then stared at Sam for several long moments. “What do you know of my daughter?” she asked finally.
