Lezdom Snow White

Lezdom Snow White

A cruel, dark fairytale

Author's note: This story is inspired by the events of Snow White as told in Germanic folklore. The character has been reinterpreted by many, the most famous of whom were the Brothers Grimm in the 19th century, but she also appears in many European tales. The following is a reinterpretation of those stories from an erotic perspective.

This story includes scenes potentially distasteful to some readers. It tells of submission, intimate relationships among women, scenes of torture, painful imagery and gothic eroticism.

If these elements do not suit you, you had better move on. In that case, thank you anyway for lingering. Otherwise, you are welcome to stay.

The names of the dukes and political figures do not coincide with those of the same period in the real world (end of 17th - early 18th century), but they are inspired by them and their descendants. Correspondences of names and people are to be considered random.

In the first chapters there is no sexual imagery, if you want that you have to start from Chapter 6. Towards the last chapters the story is more focused on some sort of "fantasy BDSM". I hope you will enjoy!

Tags: lesbian, domination, gothic, submission, cheating, anal, vanilla sex, whipping.

Parties involved: f, F/f, F/m, and other combinations.

Soundtracks recommended to complement the reading

Listening to music while reading is one of the best ways to get immersed in the world of this story. Here are three ideas of appropriate songs, that the author listened to during the writing. If you don't like them, feel free to ignore them, and listen to the music that you find more appropriate. Or none.

Nox Arcana - Winter's Majesty

A classical take on gothic. Easy listening due to its cinematographic vibes.

Harold Budd/Brian Eno - Ambient 2: The Plateaux of Mirror

Ambient music in its pure form, sophisticated and minimalistic.

The Machine in the Garden - Out of the Mists

Hermetic sounds with synthetic soundscapes and moody atmosphere.

Many thanks to @Kenji Sato for the editing and proofreading of the story. The polishness and the fluency has been granted by him, he has a great attention to detail.

This story is the property of the author. It can be downloaded for personal pleasure or sent to a friend, but if you wish to re-post them on your own site, please contact the author for permission.

Introduction

The grand staircase of the castle loomed before her--long, imposing, draped in a crimson carpet that ran from the base to the summit like a river of blood. Snow White ascended slowly, the hem of her gown brushing against the cold stone. Her blouse was fastened high at the throat, a futile shield against the creeping chill of autumn. Beyond the stained-glass windows, the light was pale and weary, casting spectral hues across her skin, making her appear even more ghostly in the dim glow. She moved one foot after the other, unhurried, her gaze vacant, her thoughts tangled in the echoes of the morning.

What the queen had done to her.

The memory clung to her body like a second skin--Griselda's presence, imperious and unshakable, bending her to her will. Snow White had stood before her, exposed, stripped of all dignity, commanded to serve desires she barely understood. The lower part of the queen's body was naked, while she was incessantly committed to pleasure her with the tongue. But the queen had betrayed no satisfaction, her face carved in its usual mask of cold control. And yet, Snow White knew. She knew that beneath that regal detachment, Griselda had reveled in her power.

Remembering it made her tremble. Shame and something darker coiled within her, a twisting, suffocating heat. The discomfort of it unsettled her. And yet, deep in the marrow of her being, there was a pulse of something else--perverse and insidious--a pleasure drawn from her own submission.

Halfway up the staircase, her thoughts shifted, unbidden, to her father. His death had been slow, drawn out, inevitable. Yet, even then, something about it gnawed at her. His last words to her, whispered in the hush of his final days, still clung to the corners of her mind like cobwebs, fragile yet impossible to brush away. Or, perhaps, it was the prince who had planted the seed of doubt in her head.

The prince.

Her heart clenched at the thought of him. He was the one who made her breath hitch, who stirred something within her that was neither duty nor fear. The one who had, once upon a time, felt like salvation. Who had taken her first grace in that clearing in the forest. But it had been too long since she had last seen him. Too long since she had felt that warmth.

She was near the top of the staircase, when a door above groaned open. From below, she saw the first sliver of her--a glint of gold, then the pale arc of a forehead, then the full, commanding form of the queen.

Griselda.

She descended with unhurried grace, just as Snow White neared the landing. Their eyes locked across the narrowing distance. Black eyes, deep and unreadable, swallowing the light. Snow White struggled to hold the gaze, her own breath coming too fast, too shallow. The queen's lips curled--not quite a smile, more like the faintest trace of something cruelly amused, as if she could still taste the morning on her tongue.

Snow White passed her, brushing close enough to inhale the scent that clung to her--rich, dark, intoxicating like the intensity of a cypress. A scent that belonged to no perfume but to the woman herself. It made her stomach tighten, made her limbs heavy.

Neither of them spoke.

Snow White did not look back.

She climbed the last step, her thoughts in chaos. She had no father. No prince. And the world had abandoned her to the mercy of that woman.

She wished, desperately, to turn back time.

But time only moved forward.

Twenty years earlier...

Bavaria, 1689

PART I - WHITE AS SNOW, RED AS BLOOD

Chapter 1: Once Upon a Time

In the waning years of the 17th century, beneath the looming spires of a Bavarian castle, a child was born. The duchess, in the hushed intimacy of their chambers, had always whispered to her husband, Duke Von Waldeck, of her longing--a daughter with skin as pale as freshly fallen snow, with hair dark as the void between the stars. The years had passed in fruitless yearning, their prayers unanswered, until age had begun to weigh upon them both. And then, at last, when hope had nearly withered, a child quickened in her womb.

The labor came upon her in the heart of winter, when the world outside lay wrapped in ice and shadow. The storm raged, rattling the high windows, howling through the empty halls, as if the very elements bore witness to the struggle within. The duchess labored through the night, attended by her handmaidens, her cries swallowed by the thunder that roared beyond the castle walls. Hours stretched into an eternity, agony mounting, until, finally, with the first breath of dawn, a wail pierced the cold morning air.

A daughter.

But the price was cruel.

The duchess did not rise from her bed. Her strength ebbed away with the last vestiges of the night, her trembling hands only just able to touch the newborn's downy cheek before falling still forever.

Duke Von Waldeck, upon hearing of his wife's passing, was shattered beyond words. Grief was a merciless specter, settling upon him like frost upon the fields, creeping into every corner of his soul. And yet, even as he mourned, he clung desperately to the only piece of his beloved that remained--the child she had left him. Out of devotion, he named her Snow White, as his wife had wished, for she had wanted this child more than life itself.

As the years passed, the duke found solace in his daughter. Though sorrow never fully released its grip upon him, Snow White became the light that guided him through the gloom. She was radiant, delicate; yet, full of life-- a glimmer of warmth in the vast, lonely halls of the castle.

Instead of succumbing to despair, Duke Von Waldeck threw himself into the affairs of his duchy, ruling with wisdom and unwavering resolve. His people adored him, singing his praises in the villages and raising their voices in gratitude. They spoke of him as one of the finest regents to ever grace their lands--strong, just, and deeply loved.

But even the greatest of men are not spared from fate.

And fate, as always, had plans of its own.

Chapter 2: Griselda

Loneliness weighed upon the duke, a silent specter haunting the great halls of his castle. He longed for companionship, a steady presence at his side--not only for himself, but for his daughter, who, he feared, needed the guiding hand of a mother.

And so, his gaze fell upon Griselda of House Halfenstein.

She was a woman of striking severity--tall, commanding, with jet-black hair that framed her face, like ink bleeding into parchment. Her beauty was cold, her presence intoxicating. The court whispered of her with hushed voices, of a past shrouded in scandal and shadows. There were warnings, murmurs of treachery, of dark arts and ambitions that ran deeper than any vow of love.

But the duke, perhaps blinded by longing or ensnared by her charms, dismissed these concerns. Griselda wanted him, and that, for the moment, was enough.

The wedding was swift, the celebrations grand. And just like that, she became duchess Von Waldeck, mistress of the castle, a shadow stretching across its halls.

It did not take long for the truth to surface.

Griselda was cunning, deceitful. She knew how to coil herself around power, how to bend it to her will with an elegance that few could resist. Whether it was seduction or something more sinister, she had ensnared the duke, and thus, she ruled at his side.

But there was one thorn in her side--Snow White.

At first, her presence was tolerable, little more than a child lingering in the background. But as the years passed, that child grew.

Snow White became a vision of beauty, her alabaster skin untouched by the sun, her raven hair spilling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her lips, full and naturally red, stood in stark contrast against her pale complexion. And her body--tall, slender, graceful--blossomed into that of a young woman.

Griselda watched her with a quiet, simmering hatred.

It was not only the girl's beauty that stoked her envy, but the way the duke looked at his daughter--with warmth, with adoration, with a love that Griselda, herself, had never known.

And so, what began as silent resentment festered into something darker.

Snow White was no longer a child.

She was a rival.

Chapter 3: Snow White

Snow White had long understood that the duchess bore no love for her. Yet, she did not return that coldness with hatred--she hated no one.

She was a bright soul, warm and kind, always eager to share her joy with those around her. Though her father shielded her from the cruelty of courtly life, he had never kept her ignorant. Under his watchful eye, she was educated as few girls of her time were. She learned to read and write, studied the arts and sciences, and was taught proper etiquette. She understood castle management, mastered sewing, and even horseback riding, an uncommon skill for a noblewoman. Though raised within the confines of privilege, she was neither arrogant nor dismissive of those beneath her station.

To the castle servants, she was a friend as much as a mistress. She treated them with a gentle hand and a courteous word, earning their respect not through fear, but through kindness.

Among them, one stood above all in her affections--Annelise.

Annelise was diligent and soft-spoken, a girl of humble birth, but graceful in her manner and speech. Her light brown hair was often tied into a thick braid, a simple but elegant crown upon her head. Though slender, she was strong, her arms hardened by years of labor. There was a subtle beauty to her, something natural and unpretentious. Snow White noticed it--she noticed it more than she cared to admit.

In their rare moments of leisure, they walked together through the castle gardens, speaking of dreams, love, and the future.

They spoke of men, too.

They were both women at that moment, yet neither had ever lain with a man. Sometimes, Annelise wondered what it would be like--to surrender oneself, to feel that intimate connection. Snow White, ever dreamy, confessed that there was someone she longed for in secret.

Prince Leopold.

Whenever he visited the castle, her heart raced at the mere sight of him. His presence filled her with something strange--excitement, fear, longing. But when the moment came, she always hesitated, unable to approach him, afraid of revealing too much of herself.

Annelise listened, smiling softly, though something lingered in her eyes. A question unspoken.

If not him, then who?

Chapter 4: The Prince

Prince Leopold did not often visit Duke Von Waldeck's castle, but when he did, he found himself reluctant to leave.

His father held the duke in high regard, and their alliance was one of mutual respect. But Leopold's interest in returning was not solely political.

Each visit brought him face to face with two beautiful young women--servants whose presence intrigued him. Yet there was one who drew him in above all others.

Snow White.

Her beauty was striking, but it was not merely that--there was something graceful, almost otherworldly about her. Every glance exchanged between them sent a thrill through him, yet he never dared to approach her directly.

There was one shadow over these visits, however-- Duchess Griselda.

Leopold disliked her from the moment he met her. She was cold, distant, her presence unsettling. But there was more--something darker.

Rumors had reached his ears.

A young girl from Bergfreiheit had died under mysterious circumstances. A tragedy that sent whispers through the village. And though no one spoke of it openly, some believed Griselda was responsible.

Leopold found himself watching her closely, searching for signs of the cruelty he suspected.

His father had noticed his interest in Snow White and had warned him against it.

Yes, they were of equal nobility. Yes, they were of marriageable age. But there was one insurmountable difference.

She was Lutheran. He was Catholic.

Leopold tried to bury his longing, reminding himself of this divide. But each time he visited the castle, each time their eyes met, his resolve faltered.

For the time being, all he could do was look.

Chapter 5: The Secrets of the Duchess

Duchess Griselda was a woman of many secrets.

Over time, she had grown more treacherous, more manipulative, more dangerous. Yet, she wore the mask of a noblewoman flawlessly, ensuring that her dark passions and forbidden knowledge remained hidden.

Her true power had begun when she was initiated into the arts of alchemy.

Though such teachings were strictly forbidden to women, she had seduced a master alchemist into revealing them to her. It had started with simple mixtures, but over time, she had perfected her craft--concocting potions, poisons, and elixirs capable of twisting the body and mind.

It was this knowledge that had sealed Brunhilde's fate.

Years ago, a girl named Brunhilde had lived in the nearby village of Bergfreiheit. She was beautiful beyond words, admired by all--especially men.

Griselda's envy had turned to fury, a poisonous blend of contempt and obsession.

When she learned that Brunhilde had a fascination with forbidden knowledge, Griselda had lured her in. She had tempted the girl with secrets of the occult, drawing her ever deeper into her web.

But Brunhilde had been a fool.

She had trusted Griselda, and for that, she had been transformed--in a way no one could have imagined.

Here, years later, the duchess had everything she had ever wanted--power, wealth, status--yet something still felt incomplete.

The metamorphosis was not finished.

Her desires had grown darker, more violent. She craved possession--not just of wealth, but of bodies. Men for their virility, women for their beauty. Her husband was no longer enough. She wanted more, without restraint.

And so, she had set her sights on Snow White.

It was the same feeling she had once had for Brunhilde-- resentment mixed with reverence.

She wanted the girl.

Her lips, her skin, her slender form--Griselda longed to claim her, even if only once.

But she was not a fool.

She knew she could not harm Snow White. The duke's love for his daughter was absolute, and if the truth ever came to light, it would be her ruin.

So, she began to devise a plan--one that would allow her to possess the girl, if only for a moment, without ever being suspected.

6. Snow White and Annelise

Snow White and Annelise shared a deep bond, though neither dared to put it into words. One afternoon, as they walked in the garden, their hands met, fingers entwining in a silent confession. Snow White hesitated only a moment before leaning in, brushing her lips against Annelise's.

The kiss was soft, hesitant--until curiosity turned to hunger. Their embrace deepened, breath mingling, hands exploring with newfound boldness. When Snow White invited her to her chambers, Annelise followed without question.

In the quiet of the castle's upper floor, they slipped inside, locking the door behind them. Snow White's room was neat, perfumed with fresh linen, the afternoon light casting golden patterns through the window. The brass-framed bed awaited.

Without a word, they lay together, exploring each other's warmth. Clothes fell away, pale skin against pale skin, sighs swallowed in secrecy. They knew the risk--discovery would mean disgrace. This was no longer innocent play, but something forbidden. Yet, in that moment, sin and sanctity ceased to matter.

The two girls intertwined in an embrace of passion and lust. Licking each other's bodies tasting their flavour, discovering the first glimpse of eroticism forbidden to many girls of that country. Passion among women was considered immoral. [2] But for them, it was just their nature.

7. The Castle Dungeons

Beneath the castle, in the depths of the dungeon, lain a vast chamber that the duchess claimed as her domain. She requested it from the duke, soon after their marriage, and over the years, it became the heart of her secretive pursuits. There, she brewed her alchemical concoctions, practiced forbidden arts, and weaved the intricate threads of her schemes.

The room was dimly lit by candles of all shapes and sizes, their flickering flames casting restless shadows on stone walls. At its center stood an alchemical table, cluttered with vials, powders, and arcane tools. A large athanor oven smoldered in one corner, its heat essential for the transformation of rare ingredients.

Few had ever set foot in this chamber. The duke himself had ventured in, curious about his wife's craft. She spoke of herbal remedies and harmless tinctures, a skilled deception that justified the endless shipments of rare substances and cryptic artifacts. He even indulged her request for a sturdy leather whip--an item she claimed was for protection against intruders.

Annelise, the young servant girl, was among the few permitted to enter. Tasked with cleaning, she moved through the space with dutiful ignorance, failing to grasp the significance of the items around her. Most of all, she remained oblivious to the mirror--the duchess's most prized possession. A relic that she had created by herself, it had been with her since before her arrival at the castle, and only she knew the ritual that awakened its power.

During a cleaning, once, Annelise was too curious not to look into the cupboard, so she opened it. Inside, she didn't find clothing as she expected. Instead, at her eyes were revealed things that appeared as torture instruments. A long whip, in black leather. A flail, such those of the penitents. Some chains, thin, in opaque iron. And a phallic instrument that she wasn't able to define. That vision was unsettling, almost creepy, then she closed the cupboard and fled away from the room.

At that time, Griselda's thoughts had turned obsessively toward Snow White. A hunger would gnaw at her, dark and insatiable. She would long to drag the girl into this chamber, to break her with every cruel tool at her disposal, to revel in her pain, her beauty, her helplessness. But she knew such a desire was dangerous--too risky with the duke's ever watchful gaze.

Yet, she would not be denied entirely. The plan she was weaving would not grant her the fantasy she craved, but it would allow her to claim the princess in another way. And that would have to suffice.

8. Dissatisfaction

Griselda was already growing weary of her husband's embrace. The duke, in his sixties, was a man absorbed in politics and the affairs of his realm. His physique--slightly pudgy, his muscles softened with age--did little to inspire her. Nor did his skills as a lover. Their couplings had quickly become predictable, lacking in passion, and the duchess had begun to withdraw from even the most basic expectations of a wife.

She outright refused to take his member in her mouth. In the early days of their marriage, she had feigned enthusiasm, using her charms to secure his favor. But once he was firmly under her control, she saw no need to indulge him further. At first, the duke was wounded by her rejection, but she would always respond with the same cool dismissal: "A lady does not do such things." Over time, he ceased to protest. And so, Griselda had her way--offering him only what was necessary, and only when he insisted. Fortunately, his demands were infrequent.

Yet, there was one occasion where the duchess, on a whim, decided to test the limits of her husband's restraint. During one of their dull encounters, she suggested something different--something to amuse herself. She took a candle from the bedside and proposed that he push it inside her.

The duke hesitated, puzzled at first. But when he understood what she was asking, his expression darkened with revulsion. He refused outright, his voice firm, almost angry.

Griselda was not accustomed to being denied. She pulled away, ending the act abruptly, and spat bitter words at him--mocking his prudishness, his lack of imagination, his unwillingness to explore the pleasures of the flesh.

The incident left the duke unsettled for days. The request had disturbed him in a way he could not quite explain. He did not speak of it, nor did he seek her out again for a long while.

Griselda, on the other hand, was not bothered in the least. She had already begun looking elsewhere for satisfaction.

9. Betrayal

Griselda had grown restless. Her husband's touch no longer pleased her, and his absence left her with cravings she could not ignore. She was not one to deny herself pleasure, and so she began to observe the men around the castle with a discerning eye.

Among the many servants, coachmen, and gardeners, one in particular caught her attention--Friedrich. He was a slender young man, taller than most, with brown hair and an awkward demeanor. But what interested Griselda most was his submissive nature. He was obedient, unlikely to question her, and even less likely to speak of anything that might happen between them. He was the perfect prey.

One afternoon, with the duke away on business in a neighboring county, Griselda made her move. She summoned Friedrich to prepare a bath for her--a task usually assigned to the female servants. The boy hesitated, uncertain, but did as he was told. He filled the tub in one of the castle's bathing rooms, a spacious chamber devoid of windows, adorned with thick rugs, scented oils, and polished brass tubs.

When the preparations were complete, Friedrich made to leave, but Griselda stopped him. With deliberate ease, she turned the key in the lock, sealing them inside.

She did not speak at first. Instead, she moved toward the steaming tub, unfastening her gown as she walked. The fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, revealing her naked form.

Friedrich turned his gaze away, flustered. He knew this was wrong. The duchess was a married woman--his lord's wife. If they were caught, the consequences would be severe.

Griselda submerged in the perfumed water, smiled at his hesitation. "Look at me," she commanded, softly.

The boy swallowed hard. She was beautiful, that much he could not deny. He dared to glance at her, and the sight of her body, glistening in the bath, sent a rush of heat through his veins. He willed himself to remain still, to remain proper--but the strain in his trousers betrayed him.

Griselda noticed, of course. She noticed everything. And as she leaned back in the water, stretching languidly, her gaze was fixed on the very part of him that could no longer hide his desire.

Then the woman rose, slowly, like a statue of marble awakening from centuries of slumber. Water streamed down her alabaster skin, gilded by the flickering candlelight, pooling in rivulets over the sharp contours of her body. Friedrich's gaze was helplessly drawn--first to the generous swell of her breasts, the darkened nipples taut like the points of a crown, then to the taut plane of her belly, the curve of her hips that seemed sculpted for sin. And lower still, where a dark, bristling triangle framed the altar of her sex, stark against the pale glow of her flesh.

Griselda beckoned him forward with an imperious crook of her finger. Standing in the basin, she loomed above him like a deity of old, her nakedness lending her not vulnerability, but power. She seized his chin, tilting his face up to hers. Her lips brushed his with the softness of silk before pressing harder, commanding. He recoiled at first, murmuring weak protests, whispering of treason. But she cut him off with a quiet laugh, dark and honeyed.

"I command you, boy," she whispered, against his lips. "You are sworn to serve the duke--and you are sworn to serve me."

His breath hitched, torn between duty and the heat surging in his loins. His limbs betrayed him; he did not resist when her fingers slipped beneath his shirt, peeling away the cloth that clung to his fevered skin. Beneath her touch, he shuddered--lean, malnourished, but young, full of the restless energy of untamed hunger. She appraised him as one might a banquet laid before them. When her hand curled around his stiffening flesh, she found it pale, slender, not quite to her liking. But desire was a fickle thing, easily swayed by the promise of power, of transgression. The thought of defiling her husband's honor filled her with a perverse thrill, and with a slow, wicked smile, she lowered herself before him.

Friedrich gasped, as her lips, warm and unyielding, closed around him. The pleasure was too sharp, too sudden, and he clutched at the edges of the tub, as though reality, itself, had begun to slip. Her mouth was not tender--it was an assertion, a conquest. She was not a woman seeking pleasure, but a queen demanding fealty. And he, helpless as a sacrificial offering, gave it.

Moments later, she turned, bracing her hands on the edge of the tub, presenting herself to him, her body gleaming, her spine an elegant curve of temptation. He hesitated only a breath before stepping forward, guided by something far greater than reason. The first thrust sent a jolt of heat through him, but he barely had time to revel in the sensation before another overtook him--sharp, almost burning, where her coarse hairs abraded his own soft skin. He winced, but the duchess only chuckled, deep and satisfied, tightening around him like a velvet vice.

At the peak of her pleasure, she withdrew, turning to face him once more. One hand wrapped around his length, stroking with lazy, practiced ease, until his seed spilled into the water in pale ribbons, dissipating like ink in a well. She kissed him then, deep and lingering, tasting the last of his resistance as she swallowed it whole.

When it was over, she regarded him with a smirk, watching as pleasure melted from his face, leaving behind only stark realization. Dismay, perhaps. Guilt. The shadow of something darker.

"Dress yourself," she commanded, her voice laced with amusement.

He obeyed, hands trembling, as though the weight of the act had only now begun to crush him.

"And fetch Annelise," she added, stretching languidly, her form still half-submerged in the bath's warmth. "Tell her to come and dry me."

Friedrich gave a feeble nod, accepting the key she handed him, before slipping from the chamber, his shoulders hunched as though burdened by an invisible yoke.

The duchess exhaled, her lips curling in satisfaction as she leaned back into the water. Perhaps, she should have warned him against speaking of their encounter. But then, she had seen the terror in his eyes--no words were necessary.

Minutes later, the door opened again, and Annelise entered, hesitant but dutiful. She lowered her gaze as the steam curled around them, veiling her mistress's form in mist. But Griselda would not allow her modesty.

"Look at me," she murmured, stepping from the tub. The water cascaded from her limbs like liquid moonlight.

Annelise hesitated, then lifted her eyes, taking in the statuesque beauty before her. She had seen the duchess unclothed before, but never like this--never unveiled, never commanding in such a way.

"Do you find me beautiful?"

"You are beautiful, my lady," Annelise answered, voice barely above a whisper.

"How beautiful?" The words curled around the girl like tendrils of smoke.

Annelise hesitated, searching for the right response. "As beautiful as a full-moon night," she finally murmured.

A slow smile spread across the duchess's lips. "Then kiss this full moon."

She stepped closer, close enough that Annelise could feel the heat of her skin, the scent of perfumed oils and something darker--something forbidden. She reached for the girl, pulling her into an embrace that was both tender and unyielding. Annelise stiffened, unsure, but unwilling to resist.

When Griselda's lips met hers, the girl flinched--then, with slow surrender, softened beneath the woman's touch. Their tongues met in a languid dance, and the duchess drank in her hesitation, savoring it, molding it into something pliant, something hers.

"Now, dry me," she whispered against the girl's trembling mouth.

Annelise obeyed in silence, her hands careful, reverent. And all the while, the duchess smiled, the glint in her eyes both predatory and pleased.

10. Alchemical experiment: the aphrodisiac

The air in the dungeon was thick with the acrid scent of burnt herbs and alchemical fumes. Bent over her work, the Duchess Griselda scrutinized the viscous liquid swirling within the glass vial, a slow and predatory smile playing upon her lips.

She had long experimented with potions to subdue, extinguish resistance, forget, or become excited. Previous drafts had been crude--too pungent, too slow. But this new creation, a refined aphrodisiac, was something else entirely: an exciting substance dissolving into wine, leaving no trace but the inevitable exaltation. And she already knew upon whom she would first test its potency.

The duke, her oblivious husband, held fast to his nightly cup of wine, sipping at it without question as she watched with feigned disinterest. The effect was almost immediate: his eyelids opened, his hand became active, and he finally started to have a vigorous erection like the duchess had never seen before.

Griselda stood over him, studying this new excited form of her husband, with a mixture of amusement and hunger. How often had he denied her what she sought? How often had he left her cold, untouched, dissatisfied? At that moment, the balance had shifted.

Finally, that man was able to give her the attention she required. She asked him to dedicate himself to her body, and to satisfy it.

With deliberate slowness, she peeled away the garments from his inert body, her touch both reverent and cruel. Her fingers traced the muscles of his back, once so rigid with authority, but here, utterly slack beneath her will. She reached for a thick candle on the bedside table, its wax softened from the evening's burn, and ran her tongue along its edge before pressing it where no man of his station would ever allow. A delighted shudder coursed through her as she pushed deeper, relishing the obscene intrusion into his most guarded back sanctum. He did not stir, did not resist. He was probably enjoying it, free of the mindful restrictions of his conscience. How exquisite.

The pleasure of conquest made her skin burn. She straddled his broad frame, grinding herself against his warmth, indulging in a luxury long denied. Soft sighs filled the chamber as she rode the crest of her own triumph, savoring every illicit second. When, at last, her ecstasy ebbed, she withdrew, her body still thrumming with dark satisfaction.

But the second part of her plan had yet to be completed, the part where she invited him for a final cup of wine before the deserved sleep. There, she poured another powder into the glass, something that had the potential to erase the last memories.

Hours later, a sudden gasp shattered the silence. The duke jolted awake, breath ragged, hands clutching at the sheets. He turned to her, confusion knitting his brow. "A nightmare," he murmured, rubbing his temples. "Something... strange. I felt pain."

Griselda, reclined against the pillows, watched him through half-lidded eyes, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "It was only a dream, my love," she purred, drawing the sheets around herself. "Sleep now. The night is still long."

And as he sank back into uneasy rest, she traced a finger along his bare spine, whispering to herself the final lesson of the evening: the potion's hold was not infinite, but it was strong enough. Strong enough for the moment.

11. Her back sanctum

Griselda had long nurtured an appreciation for the forbidden recesses of the body-- the anus or what she called the back sanctum, the unspoiled passage. She had always preferred it in the feminine form, the yielding flesh of a woman sculpted to perfection. Yet, even the experiment with her husband had proved to be of mild interest. A curiosity, nothing more.

Lately, she had found her thoughts drifting elsewhere, fixating upon a vision she could not purge from her mind. Whenever she crossed paths with Snow White in the castle halls, her gaze, like a snake uncoiling in the dark, slithered downwards. She imagined the girl's back sanctum--pale, delicate, the purity of untouched porcelain. A rare, pristine thing. The duchess became obsessed.

And so, with that hunger gnawing at her, she turned to the mirror in her dungeon.

Griselda summoned its sorcery, willing it to peer into Snow White's most intimate moments. The polished glass shimmered and then obeyed, revealing the girl's chamber with an unnatural clarity. She watched--silent, ravenous--as Snow White undressed, her gown sliding from her shoulders like the shedding of innocence itself. The duchess devoured every detail: the gentle curve of her waist, the firm, untouched globes of her bottom, the way her skin gleamed in the candlelight. Her back sanctum was as white and round as porcelain. A body made for worship, but she had the desire to ruin it.

Griselda stood before the mirror, her breathing shallow, as the vision burned itself into her soul.

Days later, restless and prowling, Griselda summoned the servant Friedrich again.

She asked for the help of the stableman Konrad to arrange an encounter in the wooden buildings of the stable near the castle, ensuring that no one would intrude upon their rendezvous.

Konrad was curious about the duchess' meeting, and he was not astonished by it, because he realized that the woman had such an intense sexual appetite. Hoping to have something for him one day. If she had lain with a servant, she could have lain with a stableman.

Friedrich came to her like an obedient hound, already aroused, his lust apparent in the tightening of his breeches. She let him hunger for a moment longer before indulging him. Their lips met in a frenzy of stolen need, his hands roaming greedily, his calloused fingers lifting the hem of her flowing black skirts. Against the rough wooden wall of the stable, she let him part her legs, let him revel in the power of possessing a woman of her stature. He watched her black bush and had a voracious hunger to penetrate her.

Friedrich was harder than she had seen him before, emboldened by familiarity. When he entered her, it was with desperation, with devotion, his gasps heavy against her neck. She permitted him this small conquest, this illusion of control, and she enjoyed that intense feeling between her legs. But her thoughts remained elsewhere, in the mirror's depths, in the imagined softness of a far purer flesh.

Yet, Friedrich's gaze lingered too long upon her backside, his hands gripping the ample swell of it, his breath hitching with temptation. Then came the question, hesitant but brazen.

"May I have your sanctum, my lady?"

The words shattered the trance. In an instant, the illusion collapsed, the fantasy curdling into revulsion. Griselda stiffened. The air grew thick with silence. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her head, her expression as cold and merciless as a carving of stone.

"How dare you presume, boy?" Her voice was no longer silk, but steel wrapped in venom. "You forget your place. If you ask me again, I will see you castrated."

The color drained from Friedrich's face. The heat of arousal fled him as swiftly as a candle snuffed to darkness. He stumbled back, fumbling apologies, but she had already dismissed him. The spell was broken. The moment was dead.

The two of them didn't know that the stableman, Konrad, was just outside the stable, hearing first the moanings of pleasure, then the discussion inside the structure. He rapidly walked away after that moment, roaming outside the castle.

As he staggered away, mortified, Griselda watched, a cruel satisfaction coiling inside her. Power--it was always about power. And in that moment, she relished in her dominion over his fragile little mind. That was the last time the two of them lay together.

Yet, as she stood alone in the darkened stable, a thought slithered its way through her malice.

What would it be like, she wondered, to claim another in that way? To own, to conquer, to defile?

Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. The mirror had more secrets to show her.

12. The Catch

Snow White moved through her days with an air of lightheartedness, despite all she lacked. Her good humor and optimism allowed her to smile in the face of adversity. Though her stepmother burdened her with tasks akin to those of the servants, she did not mind; it granted her a sense of belonging among them. The old castle held many shadows, but there were warm presences, too--like Erika, the eldest of the serving women, who once aided in her mother's childbirth. The two shared a bond, a quiet understanding that transcended their roles in the household.

That morning, Snow White helped Erika in the kitchen, completing her chores before retreating to her room for her usual respite. The afternoons were hers alone--to read, to dream, to escape.

But the duchess was already at work. She had been waiting for this moment, biding her time. In the quiet of the corridors, she poured a fine, glistening powder into the water jug left by Erika on the princess's bedside table. Then, with the grace of a predator who knew its prey's every move, she descended to her hidden chamber.

Standing before the great mirror that dominated the room, she invoked its spell. This time, she did not summon the spirit within, but instead, another enchantment--the mirror's sight. Across its polished surface, a vision shimmered: Snow White's chamber, as reflected in the tall, slender mirror near her bed.

The princess soon appeared, wrapped in soft white garments, the very image of innocence. She lifted the cup to her lips and drank. The duchess watched, waited. It did not take long. Snow White reclined onto the bed, book in hand, eyelids fluttering. And then, as if drawn into a fevered dream, she writhed.

The duchess ascended. Silent footsteps carried her to the girl's chamber, where she found the door ajar. The scene before her was one of exquisite depravity--Snow White, bathed in the dim afternoon light, her body overcome with urgent need, hands wandering beneath her gown, her breath uneven and desperate.

A cruel smile curved Griselda's lips as she stepped inside and locked the door behind her.

She approached the bed, watching with dark satisfaction as the princess succumbed to the drug's effects, her mind clouded, her body yielding to a desire that was not her own. When Griselda leaned down, her fingers brushing against heated flesh, Snow White did not resist. No, she welcomed it. Enthralled, obedient, lost in pleasure not of her own making.

Their lips met--at first, a mere taste, then a claiming. The duchess sighed into the kiss, feeling the girl's eager response, the uninhibited way she parted for her. The thrill was intoxicating.

The elder woman's hands oamed, pulling aside soft fabric, revealing porcelain skin. And then, unable to restrain herself any longer, she lifted her skirts and straddled the princess's upturned face. Snow White did not recoil; her lips parted without command. The duchess's fingers curled into dark locks, guiding her, pressing herself against that willing mouth.

Pleasure crested and crashed over her in waves, the girl beneath her an instrument, a plaything. The duchess savored every moment, prolonging her indulgence, reveling in the power of it. Again and again, she took her pleasure, until finally, spent yet exhilarated, she withdrew.

But she was not yet finished. There must be no memory of this.

From within her bodice, she retrieved a second phial of powder--this one pale and ghostly. She stirred it into what remained of the water, then pressed the cup to Snow White's lips. The girl, still dazed and pliant, drank without hesitation.

Only when the spell took hold does the duchess rise, smoothing her skirts, ensuring every trace of her indulgence was erased. She left as quietly as she came, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

When Snow White began to stir, the late afternoon light was slanting through her window. She blinked, feeling disoriented, a book resting beside her on the bed. She did not remember falling asleep.

A strange taste lingered on her tongue. A scent--musky, unfamiliar-- clinging to her skin.

She frowned, puzzled.

And yet, the memory eluded her, slipping away like mist in the morning sun.

13: The arrival of the militia

On that day, the Captain of the Bergfreiheit Guards arrived at the castle for an audience with Duke von Waldeck, discussing the organization of the district's defenses. His welcome was conducted with full honors. In the clearing before the castle, a formal gathering had assembled: members of the household staff, noble heirs, and guardsmen stood in ceremonial formation.

Snow White, clad in an elegant gown of white and green, her raven black hair meticulously braided, stood at the forefront. Beside her, loomed the imposing figure of Griselda, swathed in dark, intricate lace. Her makeup, carefully applied, accentuated her sharp features--an unmistakable mark of her noble station.

Behind them, the servants observed in measured silence. Among them, young and gentle Annelise, dressed in town garb of leather and cotton, lending her a statelier presence than usual. Beside her stood old Erika, dressed as always in the modest attire of her daily station. Friedrich, the young footman, had adorned himself in newly acquired finery, the fruit of his wages from the von Waldeck household. And standing vigilant was Magnus, the family's steadfast bodyguard.

The captain arrived astride a magnificent black steed, his armor gleaming under the daylight. His frame was broad and formidable, his eyes dark and piercing beneath the thick, bristling beard of a seasoned warrior. He bore the air of a man accustomed to command, exuding both authority and restrained ferocity. Behind him, rode two of his guards on sturdy brown steeds, their presence reinforcing the prestige of the visit.

As they drew close, the soldiers allowed themselves a smirk of satisfaction at the grand reception. Many eyes, knowingly or not, lingered on Snow White. Though it was common knowledge that the princess was unattainable, that did little to dissuade the admiration she effortlessly commanded.

Captain Ruprecht dismounted, moving with disciplined grace. He extended an elegant, courtly bow, offering a hand-kiss to both the duchess and her stepdaughter. Griselda, ever watchful, did not miss the flicker in his gaze--a lingering, possessive admiration directed at Snow White. A spark of frustration ignited in her, yet in her heightened awareness, she failed to note that the captain's glance had held a similar, albeit subtler, interest in her, as well.

Pleasantries ensued. Snow White found herself captivated, not by the captain's imposing presence, but by his mount. The black steed, regal and sinewy, bore an unusual feature--a small horn protruding from its forehead.

Curious, she turned to Ruprecht. "Your horse, Captain... it is unlike any I have seen."

He smiled, his dark eyes glinting with pride. "You have a keen eye, Princess. Arnulf is no horse. This creature is a Senner -- an ancient creature similar to them, descendant of the ancient warhorses of legend. They possess unmatched endurance, speed beyond the reach of any common steed, and a spirit that few can tame."

Snow White's wonder was evident. She stepped closer, admiring the beast's noble stature. And Arnulf had a short and thick horn in the center of his front, which led Snow White to consider him a unicorn as in the legends.

"Your father tells me you ride," the captain continued, observing her fascination. "If it pleases you, one day, you may ride Arnulf yourself."

The princess met his gaze, a rare spark of excitement in her expression. "I would be honored, Captain."

At that moment, the stableman, Konrad, approached to take the reins and lead the horses to their stalls.

With formalities concluded, Magnus escorted the soldiers into the castle for their meeting with the duke. The gathering dispersed; servants returned to their duties, and Snow White prepared to take her leave. Yet, before she could, Griselda's voice cut through the moment.

"I did not realize you had such an affection for horses."

Snow White turned, catching the measured expression on her stepmother's face. "I have learned to appreciate them since my father had me trained in riding."

A slow smile formed on the duchess's lips. "Then perhaps we should visit the stables."

Together, they made their way across the courtyard. The scent of hay and leather thickened in the air as they entered the stables, where Konrad was already tending to the animals. He was a man in his forties, his brown hair slightly unkempt, but his movements carried the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime in the company of horses.

Griselda regarded him coolly. "Show us the animals. I believe the princess would like to know them better."

Konrad nodded, beckoning them closer. One by one, he introduced the steeds by name, detailing their breeds and temperaments with the ease of a practiced handler. Snow White listened attentively, running a gentle hand along the neck of a chestnut mare.

Griselda, meanwhile, observed--though not the horses, but the way her stepdaughter's fingers traced their sleek coats, the way her eyes gleamed with quiet fascination. A thought flickered behind the duchess's composed exterior, but she did not voice it.

Not yet.

14. Experiments

The passing days brought with them a deepening of forbidden pleasures. Snow White and the duchess, each in her own way, indulged in their secret desires, weaving new strands into the web of intrigue that enshrouded the castle.

Griselda, whose hunger for dominance extended beyond courtly affairs, turned her attentions toward Konrad, the stable master. The scent of horseflesh and sweat clung to him, a rough and unrefined musk that stirred something primal in her. He was not a courtly suitor, not a man draped in velvets and etiquette--no, he was raw, like the world she had known in her childhood, before silks and lace had bound her.

She did not need to seduce him with words. Her mere presence, her slow, deliberate movements as she brushed past him in the stables, the way her gloved fingers trailed across his arm as she inquired about the horses--these were more than enough.

Konrad, though wary, was no fool. He knew what it meant when a noblewoman lingered, when she let her eyes linger just a fraction too long. And yet, the thrill of it enticed him. He knew he was playing with fire, but what a sweetly dangerous fire it was.

It was in the cool dimness of the stable that their tension finally breached. The duchess, standing so close that he could feel her breath against his skin, whispered a suggestion--not a command, but an invitation. And in that moment, Konrad could not resist. His calloused hands seized her waist, his lips crashed upon hers in a desperate, reckless kiss. She welcomed it, her fingers clawing into his chest as though she might carve her claim into his very flesh. Not yet, not yet would she take him fully--but the hunger between them had been loosed, and it would not be easily contained.

Elsewhere in the castle, Snow White was weaving her own spell of seduction, though one of a far gentler nature. Annelise, the wide-eyed servant girl, had become her shadow, following wherever she led. In the gardens, in the corridors, in the secluded alcoves where whispers carried no echoes, their bond deepened.

"You shouldn't spend so much time with me," Annelise had murmured more than once, her cheeks flushed, her hands wringing in the folds of her dress. "People will talk, and besides... I am only a servant."

Snow White would only smile, brushing a loose strand of hair from Annelise's face with the tenderness of a lover. "You are not only anything," she would reply. And in moments of greater intimacy, she had made a promise--she would teach Annelise to read, to write, to possess the knowledge that had been denied to her by birth. The girl's gratitude was wordless, but it was written in the way she melted into Snow White's arms, in the way she yielded when they found themselves alone.

One afternoon, after stolen kisses in the shade of the orchard, Annelise voiced the question that had clearly haunted her. "If you had to choose between me and Prince Leopold, who would it be?"

Snow White's laughter was soft, teasing. "There is no need to choose," she said, tilting Annelise's chin up so their lips hovered a breath apart. "The prince is only an idea, a fantasy."

That evening, fantasy and reality entwined within the walls of Snow White's chamber. She had learned the rhythms of the castle, knew when the halls would be empty, when the household would be too occupied to notice her absence. Within the safety of her bed, silken sheets tangled around their entwined limbs as they surrendered to passion. Hands roamed, mouths devoured, and for a time, there was nothing beyond the heat of skin against skin, the gasps and whimpers swallowed by the darkness.

But they were not alone.

Deep within the bowels of the castle, Griselda stood before her enchanted mirror, its dark glass rippling as her magic wove through its depths. She had grown fond of these moments, of peering into unseen corners, of gathering knowledge that could be twisted into power.

And the mirror had shown her something delicious.

There, within the gilded confines of Snow White's chamber, was the scene of debauchery--the noble princess, stripped of all decorum, writhing in sinful delight with her lowly maid. Griselda watched, her lips curling in a slow, triumphant smirk. Oh, how easily purity could be tainted. How exquisite it was to see the untouchable princess so thoroughly defiled.

She would keep this knowledge close. A weapon for the right moment.

She merely watched, drinking in every detail, every sigh, every moan that played across the mirror's surface.

And she smiled.

15. Exposed Sinners

Desire was reckless, a flame that would burn without caution. And so, it was only a matter of time before Snow White and Annelise, once again, succumbed to the fever of their bodies. Their limbs entwined, lips pressing hungrily in the forbidden secrecy of the princess's chamber, oblivious to the all-seeing eye that watched over them.

The duchess, standing before her enchanted mirror, observed the scene with a slow, satisfied exhale. She had suspected, but she then knew. With calculated precision, she ascended from her shadowed refuge, her steps gliding up the stone staircase, the hem of her dark gown whispering against the cold floor.

In the castle's lower quarters, within the kitchens, old Erika was finishing tidying up after the midday meal. She worked alongside Gisele, a woman of thirty years--practically ancient for a servant. When Griselda entered, the very air thickened. Gisele, caught in the duchess's presence, stiffened. Her fingers trembled. A plate slipped from her hands, shattering against the ground. A gasp escaped her lips, and she stood frozen, her breath shallow, her expression dazed.

Griselda's lips curved ever so slightly. "Oh dear," she purred, "have I startled you?"

Erika, keen-eyed as ever, observed the exchange in silence. Gisele stammered a denial, quickly kneeling to gather the shattered pieces, but her fingers fumbled. The duchess watched her with slow amusement, savoring the charged silence before finally turning away.

"I require my personal servant," she announced, her tone deceptively smooth. "Find Annelise at once."

Erika wiped her hands and nodded, setting off to fulfill her lady's command. But Annelise was nowhere to be found among the servant quarters. Nor in the halls. The absence spoke for itself.

A knowing smirk ghosted across the duchess's lips, as she glided toward the second floor. Her black eyes settled upon the locked door of Snow White's chamber. She raised a hand and rapped her knuckles against the heavy wood.

"Snow White."

A name spoken like an invocation.

Inside the room, fingers still tangled in illicit pleasure, Snow White's heart stopped. Annelise's breath hitched in her throat. The warm haze of their lovemaking was ripped away, replaced by a chill of pure terror. Their bodies, slick and entwined, jerked apart as panic set in.

The duchess called again, her voice silk and steel.

A flurry of movement. Hands grasping for discarded garments. Snow White was wrestling her gown over her head, her fingers clumsy with urgency. Annelise, trembling, nearly tripped in her haste to hide beneath the sheets.

Outside, Erika and Gisele had gathered; Magnus too, the family's steadfast bodyguard. Their presence only heightened the tension.

The door remained shut.

Griselda's lips pressed into a thin, knowing line.

A locked door was an admission of guilt.

The sound of a key turning echoed like a death knell. The princess opened the door, her expression carefully composed--but her hurried dressingwould betray her. Tousled hair. Rumpled gown. The scent of sweat and skin clinging to the air.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Erika was the first to notice. The bedwas not empty.

Griselda strode inside, unhurried, as if savoring the moment. She approached the bed with slow, deliberate steps. Snow White did not move-- could not move. Her feet were rooted to the floor.

The duchess's gloved fingers grasped the edge of the sheets. And with one sharp pull, she unveiled the scandalous truth.

There, in the tangle of silken linens, lay Annelise--naked, trembling, her flushed skin exposed to the world.

And the room erupted into stunned silence.

Chapter 16: Consequences

The moment Griselda stepped into the chamber and found them, time seemed to slow. Annelise barely had a chance to cover herself before the cold weight of the duchess's gaze crushed them. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Even the flickering candlelight seemed hesitant, dimming under the oppressive presence of that formidable woman.

Erika and Gisele, the two attending servants, stood in shocked dismay, their heads bowed. Even Magnus, the ever stoic bodyguard, averted his eyes, unwilling to witness what was to come. The only one unshaken was Griselda herself, who moved with a chilling, deliberate grace as she addressed them.

"Obscene," she murmured, her voice silk over steel. "Such depravity under this roof. It will not stand."

Snow White straightened her shoulders, despite the flush of shame on her cheeks. "We are both guilty," she declared, defiance burning beneath her fear. "Punish me, not just her."

Griselda's lips curved in something that might have been amusement. "You are the princess. Your punishment cannot be the same as a mere servant." Her gaze flicked to Annelise, whose naked form trembled under the cold scrutiny. "It is she who must suffer the consequences of your disgrace."

Annelise closed her eyes. She knew this was inevitable.

A robe was thrown over her shoulders by Erika, but it was a feeble comfort. The duchess turned, her voice ringing with finality. "Follow me."

Snow White, swallowing hard, exchanged one last desperate glance with Erika. The older servant's face was drawn, her nod almost imperceptible. There was no fighting this.

The duchess, turning away, said in a loud voice, "There is no need for the duke to be troubled by such matters for now, and I urge you to keep what happened confidential. It will be my task to ascertain this as best I can." Griselda, turning away and with her back to the others, smiled wickedly, as she spoke those words.

The descent into the dungeons was slow and quiet, the stone steps winding down into a black abyss. The air grew heavier, thick with dampness and the lingering scent of burnt herbs. Annelise had been here before--she knew what lay ahead. Snow White, however, had only glimpsed this place in passing. She felt her stomach tighten as the iron-banded door groaned open.

Inside, the dungeon flickered with candlelight, its shadows dancing along the walls. The space was filled with objects that should not have existed in a household of nobility. Strange powders, mortars, vials of shimmering liquid--an alchemist's den mixed with something far darker. A towering mirror loomed on the right, its polished surface swallowing light, its edges bound in black metal -- a silent observer to whatever transpired within these walls.

Griselda turned to Annelise. "Strip."

A shudder passed through the girl, but she did not protest. She let the robe slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. Naked once more, she stood exposed before them, her slender frame trembling under the chill of the room and the weight of Griselda's gaze.

"Snow White," the duchess said lightly, almost conversationally. "Fetch my whip."

Snow White hesitated. "Whip? I-- I don't know where it is."

Griselda turned to Annelise, the command unspoken.

The servant swallowed. "I... I don't know where it is."

The duchess suddenly approached her, punishing her face with two slaps. "LIAR!" she screamed. "Do you think I don't know that you spied me in my room?"

Annelise was flabbergasted, but maybe she didn't have to feel it in such a way.

"In... in the cupboard."

Snow White walked to the furniture piece with leaden steps. Inside, coiled like a sleeping serpent, lay the whip. Its black leather gleamed ominously in the dim light. Her fingers trembled as she lifted it, its weight unfamiliar, wrong. She turned, her eyes pleading. "Must it be this way?" she whispered.

Griselda's expression darkened. "You, more than anyone, should know that it must."

Resigned, Snow White placed the whip in the duchess's waiting hand. Griselda motioned for Annelise to turn. She did, her arms wrapping around herself as she braced for what was coming.

The first strike fell with a hiss and a crack, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. Annelise flinched, her breath hitching, but she did not cry out. Not yet.

The second blow came harder. The third, harder still.

By the fifth, her body jerked, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. By the tenth, the cries began. Snow White pressed herself against the wall, her nails biting into her palms as she watched the servant's pale skin bloom with welts. The air reeked of leather and sweat, of pain, and something else--something raw and intimate.

A series of lashings on her back and legs that became more and more incessant. The cries became actual screams, and as the scratches began to coat the servant's back, a few rivulets of blood began to gush out.

Then Griselda stopped.

She asked Snow White to bring her the flail that was in the cupboard. Snow White did so, but this time, as she told Griselda, "It is not fair that she alone should pay. Please allow me to share the punishment."

But Griselda thunders, "That will not happen. You are the princess and you must not pay in this way. Annelise will suffer a double punishment because of your behaviors. And it will be you who will have to punish her."

Snow White did not understand, at first, but then gasped in fright, when she realized that the duchess was ordering her to use the scourge on her beloved. Snow White would protest, saying that she would refuse to do so.

"Your turn."

Snow White recoiled. "No. I won't."

The duchess merely arched a brow. "Won't you? And what, pray, do you think your father would say if I informed him of what transpired in that chamber tonight?"

The words coiled around Snow White's throat like a noose. She understood, at that moment, that this was not just about punishment. This was about power. Control. Submission. And, probably, the succession. Dukedoms are not keen to inherit their treasures to a dissolute person.

Snow White's fingers closed around the handle of the flail.

It was made of leather, in this case, brown. The handle was long, and at the end, it was made of three thick, coiled leather ropes.

"Position her," Griselda instructed.

Annelise, still trembling, obeyed. She placed her hands upon the stone counter, her back arching slightly. Her breath was uneven, erratic.

Snow White hesitated only a moment longer before lifting her arm. The first strike was weak. The second, just as hesitant.

"Harder," the duchess ordered.

She obeyed.

The sound of leather against flesh filled the chamber, mingling with Annelise's cries. And yet, beneath the horror, something twisted took root in Snow White's mind. The sight of her lover, writhing, vulnerable. The way her back arched, her thighs quivered. The way pain became something else entirely, something intimate.

Her breathing shallowed. The chamber blurred. The moment stretched, strange and blurred, somewhere between torment and pleasure.

Watching the buttocks of her lover becoming more and more red triggered something in Snow White. She had never flogged anyone, and never thought that could have been such an intriguing experience. But, above everything, their screams were such intense and erotic, and in the meanwhile excruciating.

Above the stairs leading to the dungeon, Erika and Gisele were waiting and listening. When they heard the screams, their faces became saddened. Gisele brought her hands to her mouth when she heard the first ones, as if taken by surprise. Erika lowered her gaze, and told Gisele that it would better to get away from there.

While Snow White continued to flog the poor girl's ass... a sudden snap. A blow landed--one not from Snow White, but from the duchess herself. She had still in her hand her whip, that stroked on the rounded ass cheeks of the poor servant. As Snow White was flailing, Griselda started with a whip, always on the ass, duplicating the pain and the bruises while Annelise's cry became a scream.

Tens, then dozens of whippings and floggings were executed on the round bottom of the lovely slave, carved with stripes, purple with taints of blood.

Tears burned in Snow White's eyes.

Griselda lowered her arm. "Enough."

Annelise's body sagged. The dungeon was silent, save for her broken sobs.

Griselda turned to Snow White. "Wash her. Tend to her wounds. But mark my words--this will not happen again. If it does, the duke will hear everything. And next time... it will be worse."

Snow White swallowed the bile rising in her throat and bowed her head. "Yes, my lady."

Griselda stepped back, gesturing toward the door. "Go."

Snow White wrapped her arms around Annelise's trembling body, leading her out of the dungeon. As they passed the mirror, something flickered within its depths--a faint, eerie glow, shifting like a specter just beyond the veil of reality. Snow White almost turned to look, but the presence behind her--Griselda's silent, watching gaze--held her frozen.

She kept walking, Annelise's warmth against her side the only real thing left in the world.

Chapter 17: The Duchess and the Captain

The Captain of the Guards arrived at the von Waldeck castle with the weight of war upon his shoulders, his brow furrowed by the burdens of strategy and bloodshed. The region was still restless, the specter of the Peace of Westphalia, a fragile parchment, stretched over smoldering embers. Borders shifted like treacherous tides, and Prussian steel sought to carve ever deeper into Bavarian flesh. Ruprecht, hardened by years of command, knew these lands would never truly know peace.

Griselda, however, cared little for the political intricacies that animated the courts of men. She knew that war was a game played with dice of flesh and bone, and that women were seldom given a hand in its outcome. Yet, she had learned that knowledge was power, and that power, properly wielded, could be just as seductive as a whispered promise against a lover's throat.

Whenever Captain Ruprecht came to the castle, Griselda ensured she was the first to greet him. She played the role of the gracious hostess, the eager pupil, the regal woman who, against the expectations of her gender, took a keen interest in the affairs of men. She led him through the winding corridors of her domain, her voice smooth as the silk of her bodice, drawing from him reports of the battlefield with an eagerness that flattered his vanity.

Ruprecht, though a man of iron discipline, was not immune to temptation. He did not immediately perceive the web Griselda wove around him, the way her presence wrapped itself about him like a slow, insidious poison. Her voice was rich, her laughter deep and knowing, and her body--Gods, her body. Even cloaked in layers of fine velvet and brocade, it was impossible to ignore the sensuality beneath. She had the stature of a northern queen, tall and strong, with a bosom that strained against the restraint of laced corsetry. Her eyes, cold and calculating as they were, held within them the flicker of a wicked promise.

He told himself that nothing could happen between them. He told himself that duty must triumph over desire. And yet, each visit brought him closer to the precipice, where the line between propriety and sin blurred like ink bleeding into parchment.

On one such occasion, as they walked beyond the castle walls, Ruprecht dismissed his guards with a mere gesture. He told himself it was for privacy, for the dignity of the conversation they were about to have. But even then, he felt the quickening in his chest, the dark thrill of solitude with this woman, who knew precisely the kind of fire she played with.

Arnulf, his black steed, snorted softly in the crisp evening air, his breath rising in ghostly tendrils. The duchess walked beside him, unchaperoned, unconcerned. Here, in the dying light, she was magnificent--a creature of ice and shadow, wrapped in deep crimson, the color of sin itself.

Their conversation strayed from war into more intimate territory. Their voices lowered, their words laced with unspoken meaning. He did not realize how close she had come, until he could feel the heat of her breath against his jaw, the scent of myrrh and distant roses filling his lungs.

Her lips hovered near his ear, her voice silk and steel. "And tell me, Ruprecht... in war, what does a man do when he finds himself cornered? When surrender is not an option?"

His throat went dry. He turned to face her fully, their bodies mere inches apart. His gloved hand twitched at his side. He knew the answer she wanted. He knew the answer he wanted to give.

"He does what he must," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Griselda tilted her head, her smile slow, knowing. "Then, perhaps, you are not so different from me after all."

She closed the distance, her lips a whisper away from his. And for the first time since their dangerous game began, Ruprecht did not pull away.

Chapter 18: Severed Bond

The duchess, insatiable in her thirst for power and pleasure, was not content with simply taking men into her bed. She craved something more--something that would serve both her desires and her dominance. She wanted Annelise.

She knew how deeply Snow White loved the girl, and she was convinced that the princess would burn with jealousy if she found out. But beyond that, Annelise possessed a delicate beauty that Griselda could not ignore--a softness she longed to corrupt, to mark as her own.

The moment presented itself one morning, when Annelise arrived in the dungeon to clean. The girl had barely stepped over the threshold when Griselda caught sight of her. Her gaze was lowered, her lips slightly parted as if afraid to speak, her fingers clutching the hem of her apron in nervous habit. The wounds from her recent punishment were not visible beneath her dress, but Griselda knew they were there, still raw, still a reminder of who wielded power over her. The servant trembled as she entered the room, and the duchess felt a surge of satisfaction. She was already broken.

Griselda remained inside this time, seated at the alchemy counter, watching with detached amusement as Annelise set to work. She could feel the girl's discomfort, her awareness of being observed. The duchess let the silence stretch, knowing that the weight of her presence alone was enough to unnerve her.

Minutes passed. Annelise worked methodically, but her hands shook as she wiped down the wooden surfaces, and when she finally moved near the wardrobe and mirror, Griselda stood. With slow, deliberate steps, she approached the girl from behind and rested her hands on her shoulders.

"Don't struggle," she murmured, her breath grazing the girl's ear. "Stand up. I have something to tell you."

Annelise froze beneath her touch. She hesitated before obeying, and when she turned, her wide eyes locked onto Griselda's face. The duchess was magnificent in her dark silks and elaborate makeup--her porcelain complexion painted with sharp, predatory beauty. Her raven black hair was drawn back severely, exposing high cheekbones and a mouth curved in amusement. The effect was unsettling, otherworldly, as if she were both enchantress and executioner.

"I punished you because you deserved it," Griselda said, her voice honeyed and cruel.

"Yes, my lady," Annelise whispered. Her voice was barely audible.

The duchess's fingers trailed up from the girl's shoulders to her neck, then down her arms in a slow, possessive caress. Annelise flinched but did not resist.

"And yet," Griselda continued, tilting her head slightly, "after punishment, it is only right that there be reward."

Annelise's lips parted, her confusion apparent, but before she could respond, Griselda moved closer. Her dark eyes gleamed with a knowing satisfaction.

"I know what you are," she said softly. "I know what you did with Snow White. Everything you did."

The words were a whisper of poison, sinking into Annelise's skin. And then, before the servant girl could react, Griselda's lips captured hers.

The kiss was slow, deliberate. Annelise stiffened, her body taut as a bowstring. She did not pull away, but neither did she return it. Griselda, sensing the hesitation, pulled back slightly, studying her with amusement.

"What is it?" she murmured. "I was under the impression you enjoyed women. Or... are you implying that Snow White is more beautiful than I am?"

"No--no, my lady," Annelise stammered. The words tumbled out instinctively, fear overriding her confusion.

"Then..." Griselda traced a gloved finger along the girl's jawline. "Kiss me."

Annelise hesitated only a moment longer. And then, with an acceptance borne of defeat, she surrendered.

Griselda exhaled against her lips as they kissed again, this time with more intensity. The duchess devoured the moment, pressing her advantage, reveling in the taste of submission. Her hands moved, trailing down the servant's waist, pulling her closer. Annelise trembled beneath her touch, her own fingers curling into the folds of Griselda's dress.

Griselda led her back, towards the chair beside the alchemy counter. She sat, her gown pooling around her, her eyes never leaving Annelise's face. And then, with practiced ease, she lifted her skirts, revealing the pale expanse of her thighs, the stark contrast between her black dress and the creamy flesh beneath. Annelise's breath hitched. She could see then--see the bare, shadowed cleft between her mistress's legs, hidden only by the dark, untamed curls above it.

Griselda smiled. She did not need to speak.

Annelise lowered herself to her knees.

In the days that followed, Annelise became distant.

Snow White noticed at once. The girl who had always sought her company, who had shared her secrets and fears, was avoiding her gaze.

One evening, when they were alone, Snow White reached for her. "Did she punish you again?" she asked, voice tight with worry.

Annelise hesitated. Then, as if something within her cracked, she whispered the truth.

She told her what had happened in the dungeon. She told her of Griselda's hands, her lips, her whispered words of temptation. She spoke of surrender, of how she had let herself go--not out of desire, but out of something darker. Something more insidious.

Snow White recoiled. Her breath caught in her throat as the truth settled over her like a curse. Betrayal. That was what it was. The duchess had won, twisting them both to her will, breaking them, piece by piece, until nothing remained of their love but ruin.

Annelise tried to reach for her, but Snow White pulled away.

That night, something shattered between them. And neither girl knew if it could ever be repaired.

Chapter 19: The Princess and the Prince

The heavy iron gates of Castle Von Waldeck groaned open, allowing the grand carriage and its escort to roll into the cobbled courtyard. Snow White had not expected the arrival of Prince Leopold--not today, not so soon. She had learned of it only that morning, overhearing a passing remark from her father, but the duchess had known for days. From her high chamber, Griselda watched with calculating patience, her presence cloaked in shadow, her breath shallow with expectation.

For Snow White, these were uncertain days. Some weeks earlier, the punishment received and inflicted by Griselda to Annelise was still burning inside her. And probably, burning on Annelise's bottom.

Snow White, her pulse quickened, pressed herself against the arched window, watching as the procession came to a halt. The prince rode beside the carriage, his horse--a magnificent white Holsteiner--gleaming in the midday light. He was adorned in pristine blue and white robes, the embroidery catching the sun like scattered jewels. He looked every part the regal suitor, his movements poised, his expression both noble and mischievous. A dream conjured in flesh.

Snow White did not wait for an invitation; she flew down the stone stairwell, her skirts brushing the walls in a silken whisper. Outside, the duke stood already in welcome, flanked by a handful of servants, his voice warm with hospitality as he greeted the prince and his father. Snow White halted a few paces away, breathless.

Leopold turned to her, his smile widening at the sight of her flushed cheeks. He did not bow, as courtly manners dictated. Instead, he extended his hand and, with effortless grace, guided her toward his mount.

"This is Adalard," he said, stroking the steed's powerful neck. "A name fitting for his spirit. He carries me as though he were born to my command."

Snow White let her fingers drift over the horse's silken mane, feeling the heat of its body, the power beneath its skin. Her breath hitched when Leopold's fingers brushed against hers.

"Would you ride with me, my lady?" he asked, his voice low, intimate.

She hesitated. To leave the castle grounds unchaperoned was forbidden. She could almost hear the duchess's sharp whisper in her mind, her grip tightening around the invisible leash she kept coiled around Snow White's freedom.

And yet...

A flicker of resentment stirred in her belly. Annelise had yielded too easily to the duchess's cruel manipulations. Annelise had not fought. The thought burned. Perhaps, for once, Snow White would do something reckless, something that was hers alone.

"Just for a while," she murmured, meeting his eyes.

Leopold's answering smile was brilliant. He climbed into the saddle with ease before extending a hand to her. Snow White hesitated only a moment longer before taking it. He lifted her up with effortless strength, settling her against him. The moment her body pressed against his, she felt his warmth, his breath near her ear. Her heart thundered in her chest.

From her tower, the duchess observed the scene with a knowing smirk. She could have stopped this indiscretion with a single word. Yet, she remained silent, her nails tapping thoughtfully against the windowpane.

The steed galloped toward Nebelwald, the mist-laden forest standing solemn beyond the castle walls. Shadows danced beneath the canopy of ancient trees, their gnarled roots twisting like the fingers of old gods. Here, the world was still untouched, the scent of pine thick in the damp air.

Leopold guided Adalard toward a secluded glade, a pocket of sunlight where the grass grew tall and wildflowers swayed in the breeze. He dismounted first, then turned, offering Snow White his hand once more. She slid down into his arms, her body pressing against his chest for a breath too long.

There was something forbidden in the way he looked at her.

They walked in silence beneath the great fir, the world around them hushed and reverent. Leopold took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. Snow White did not pull away. When he leaned in, she did not turn.

Their lips met, tentative at first, then deepening into something desperate, something that consumed. He pressed her back against the tree, his hands framing her face, her body molded against his. Her breath caught, as his lips moved down her throat, as his fingers traced the laces of her bodice, teasing, promising.

She wanted to let go. To forget.

Yet the weight of duty pressed down upon her, a cold hand gripping her spine.

"We must return," she whispered against his lips, her voice unsteady.

Leopold exhaled, his forehead resting against hers. "Yes," he admitted, though reluctance darkened his gaze. "But tell me, did you not feel safe with me?"

She smiled, the spell not entirely broken. "How did you know we would not be found?"

A knowing gleam lit his eyes. "No one comes to the Nebelwald. They say the depths are empty. No soul lingers there."

His words sent an eerie shiver down her spine. Yet, she pushed the feeling aside as he helped her onto Adalard once more. They rode back to the castle, the golden glow of the afternoon slipping into a dusky violet. Snow White's mind swirled with the lingering heat of his touch, the weight of his kiss.

And high above, behind darkened glass, the duchess watched.

And she smiled.

Chapter 20: The Inspection

On her return to the castle, Snow White found an ominous presence waiting for her: the Duchess Griselda. The woman greeted her with an icy smile, inviting her with a measured gesture to follow her into the dungeon. There was no pretext, no hasty explanation. Only an order disguised as an invitation.

Snow White felt a chill run down her spine. She knew that to refuse would only make the situation worse. And, despite the fear clawing at her stomach, her indomitable spirit refused to show weakness. So, lifting her chin, she followed her stepmother into the meanders of the fortress.

The underground cell smelled of molten wax and damp iron. Griselda, with her stiff posture and expressionless face, approached with a measured calm. "You know I have told your father nothing of your meeting with the prince," she said, in a honeyed voice. "But a mother has a duty to ensure that her daughter's purity remains intact."

The revelation was a dull blow. Snow White felt the blood freeze in her veins. The duchess knew.

She did not answer. She did not move. Any protest would have been futile. Any gesture of rebellion would have attracted attention, generated suspicion, and she could not afford the luxury of that. He had to resist. He had to maintain control.

So, she went along with Griselda's request, in the hope that her body would not betray her.

She removed her skirt and undergarments, positioning herself as Griselda had asked, without protest. The austere woman inspected Snow White's vagina with her long, sharp fingers, attempting to penetrate her gently so as not to unintentionally draw blood.

Snow White remained passive during the humiliating operation. But Griselda, during the act, became tremendously aroused. In the grip of a sudden urge, she ordered Snow White to remain still, telling her she must perform a further inspection. So she took a candle, one of the many in her lair. And she poked it inside the princess, digging it out and deepening it.

Snow White felt an immediate puncture of pain, and manifested it with moans and suppressed cries. This did not prevent her from feeling a subtle perversion thanks to that pain, the sensation of being violated generated sparks in her mind that led her to become aroused by what was happening.

That feeling lubricated her sweet pussy, facilitating the entry of the candle. And Griselda pressed on, sticking it deeper and deeper, digging the young princess, until rivulets of blood began to trickle from her legs.

Snow White, was in a turmoil of perverse excitement and torment. Suddenly, she realised that blood had spilled from her depths, that her body had not betrayed her.

With steady hands, she untied her robes, letting them slip down to her ankles. The cold air tingled her skin as she arranged herself as required.

Griselda approached. The shadow of the candles distorted her face, making it almost ghostly. Her fingers, long and tapering, settled with a studied touch. A meticulous, relentless, almost scientific exploration.

Snow White did not react. She stared at the stone ceiling, forcing her mind to wander elsewhere, to disperse among memories, to dissolve into nothingness. But the nothingness did not come. Her body, instead of remaining inert, gave her a silent betrayal. An irregular throb. An involuntary quiver. A secret hidden in the laboured breathing.

Griselda sensed it. And the flash that crossed her eyes was not that of one who had found confirmation, but of one of who relished a game that was spinning out of one's control. An abyss of frustration and desire devoured her, a vortex that consumed her in the illusion that she had been mocked by her own endeavour.

A blink of an eye. A suspended instant. Then, with an abrupt gesture, she drew back.

"Fine," she hissed, in a strained voice. "Your purity appears preserved."

Snow White lowered her gaze, gathering her robes with studied slowness. She said nothing. She didn't need to. She knew she had won that battle, but not the war. Griselda watched her for a few more moments, her eyes veiled in unfathomable darkness. Then, without adding anything else, she walked out of the cell.

Snow White stood still, her breath short, her heart still pounding in her chest. She did not know if she had really won. But she knew that, at least for that night, she had survived.

In the following days, the memory of that encounter in the dungeon will would grant her shivers of any kind. From humiliation, to a subtle and constant arousal that would have accompanied her since that day.

Chapter 21: Disease and Poison

The autumn of 1709 brought a bitter chill, and with it, sickness. The health of the duke had always been frail, but this time, his illness clung to him like a slow, creeping shadow. It began after a grand banquet held at the castle, attended by nobles from far and wide. Within days, he was bedridden, his body burning with fever. What might have been a passing ailment had instead lingered, festering since early October. Each morning, his breath grew heavier, his skin paler, and his strength more distant. The physicians whispered amongst themselves, offering false reassurances, but Griselda was no fool. She saw the truth in his glazed eyes and sunken cheeks.

The duke was not at death's door, but Griselda had always been a woman of preparation. She weighed the possibilities, calculated the futures that might unfold. Snow White's reputation had already been stained by the obscene ordeal she had suffered, and word of it had slithered through the castle's corridors like a disease of its own. Though the duke had not confronted her about it, she knew he had heard the rumors. And he had always been sentimental when it came to his daughter. That could prove dangerous.

Uncertainty gnawed at her. She needed a safeguard, a contingency. And so, she turned once again to the art that had always served her best--alchemy. A poison, delicate and slow, crafted from nature's own bounty. A drop here, a sip there, and in time, a body would wither as though claimed by natural misfortune. But for such a concoction, she required certain herbs--ones that could not be gathered within the castle's tame gardens. For this, she needed a hunter.

Astrid was an unusual sort, a woman who stalked both prey and vegetation with equal skill. She had been raised by a father whose name was whispered with wariness--an outlaw, some said, a murderer, others claimed. His death had left Astrid to fend for herself, and she had done so with cunning and steel. She was compact, strong, and moved with the silent precision of a wolf. Her brown hair, cropped at the shoulders, framed a face marked by hardship and instinct. Her eyes, dark and sharp like carved wood, spoke of a life spent always watching, always calculating.

Griselda arranged their meeting in the palace gardens at dawn, far from the prying eyes of courtiers. She did not waste words. The huntress was to enter the Nebelwald forest, seek out the required herbs, and return with them concealed among harmless mushrooms. A precaution--should she be stopped, there would be nothing overtly incriminating.

Astrid accepted, as Griselda knew she would. Coin had its way of dulling a conscience.

The forest was dense with mist, the morning light filtering through in pale ribbons. Astrid moved with practiced ease, her blade cutting away the foliage that barred her path. She found the herbs quickly, stuffing them into her pocket before gathering the mushrooms, ensuring the poisonous ones were mixed with the harmless. It was an easy enough task--until she realized she was being followed.

Prince Leopold had been watching the castle closely since his last visit, an unease nesting in his gut. He did not trust the duchess, and with every passing day, his concern for Snow White grew sharper. So when he saw Griselda speaking in hushed tones with a common hunter, when he saw Astrid slip away towards the depths of Nebelwald, he knew something was amiss. He tracked her, his horse's pace measured, his presence a silent shadow in the woods.

Astrid, wary by nature, sensed him before she saw him. But the prince had the advantage--his stallion, Adalard, devoured the distance between them in mere moments. By the time she turned to flee, he was upon her, forcing her to halt beneath the skeletal branches of the trees.

"Stop," he commanded, his voice edged with accusation. "I know who you are, and I know who sent you."

Astrid stiffened, her hand tightening around her knife. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Leopold dismounted with a practiced fluidity, stepping toward her with the authority of one who expected obedience. He seized the bag slung at her side, yanking it open before she could protest. His sharp gaze flicked between the mushrooms, his fingers brushing over ones that bore the telltale hues of poison. He was no herbalist, but he was no fool, either.

"Betrayal," he spat. "You serve that vile woman, don't you?"

Astrid set her jaw, her fingers twitching toward her belt, but she did not strike. "I don't serve anyone," she muttered. "The duchess hired me to gather mushrooms. Nothing more."

Leopold's expression darkened. "Do not lie to me. If you are conspiring with her--"

"I do what I must to survive," she interrupted, her voice cold. "And I suggest you stay out of things you don't understand, my prince."

A tense silence passed between them. Then, slowly, Leopold stepped back. His suspicion was not eased, but he had no proof. Not yet.

"Know this," he warned, mounting Adalard once more. "I am watching. If you and that woman bring harm to Snow White, there will be no mercy."

Astrid did not answer. She watched as he rode away, only exhaling once he had vanished into the treeline.

By the time she returned to the castle, the sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Griselda awaited her in the garden, her silhouette still and expectant. Astrid handed over the herbs, but her expression was grim. "The prince suspects something," she admitted. "He stopped me on my way back."

Griselda's lips curled in distaste. So the boy was meddling again.

"Then we must be cautious," she mused. "But no matter. We have what we need."

With a flick of her wrist, she produced a pouch of coins, pressing it into Astrid's palm. "A bonus," she murmured, her voice laced with a subtle warning. "For your silence."

Astrid tucked the payment away without hesitation. She had no loyalty to kings or queens, only to the weight of gold in her pocket.

As the night deepened, Griselda retired to her chambers, the ingredients for her deadly brew were currently in her hands. The duke's illness had been chance. The next death would not be left to fate.

Chapter 22: End of a Dukedom

Over the following days, Griselda moved with the patience of a spider tightening the last threads of its web. The poison was ready. Each evening, when the duke sipped his beloved wine or the herbal infusions he believed were soothing his ailing body, he unknowingly was taking in the venom that would erode him from within. He did not yet realize that he was dying. And Griselda, in her calculated cruelty, spent those nights at his side, speaking to him as a wife should, offering words steeped in warmth. Perhaps it was guilt--perhaps a morbid desire to soften the blow of his impending demise. But to her surprise, she found herself learning more about him in these evenings than she had in all the years of their marriage.

Yet, she did not falter. The planwas in motion. The Captain of the Guards ensured that the bureaucrats of the territory were aligned, their pockets lined with incentives, their loyalties shifting in favor of the woman, who would soon rule in the duke's stead. Every element had been meticulously arranged over months of silent preparation. The inheritance, the governance, the power--nothing was left to chance.

Still, there was one last act to play. Griselda had not yet revealed to her husband the depths of her knowledge--Snow White's perversion, the shame of her disgraceful entanglements. But in these hushed nights, as the duke lay weakened and prone, she let the revelation slip like venom from her lips.

The duke did not take it well. The idea that his legacy, his bloodline, might be entrusted to a lustful, deviant daughter who defied God's law churned inside him like bile. Rage swelled within him, but he was too weak to give it force. His fingers trembled as he gripped the sheets, his once imposing presence reduced to a ghostly wisp of itself.

As the poison sank deeper into his bones, his health worsened visibly. The fever was taking him. The night sweats left him drenched, and the specter of death grew heavier on his chest. A sense of finality crept into his mind. He knew his end was near. And so, in a final effort of lucidity, he summoned Snow White to his chambers.

She came hesitantly, her heart weighed with unease. The sight of her father--pale, hollow-eyed, barely clinging to life--nearly unraveled her. She had never loved him, not truly, but she had respected him. Feared him. And in that moment, here he lay, reduced to a frail shadow of himself.

The duke did not mince words. He told her of the rumors, of the whispers that had reached his ears. Her affair with the servant girl. The disgrace of it. The filth. His voice, though rasping, still carried the weight of authority, of condemnation.

Snow White knew that to confess now would be folly. To claim that love openly would be to doom herself. She hesitated for only a moment before spinning the lie--one she knew he would believe.

"I have an interest in Prince Leopold, Father," she murmured, eyes downcast, voice measured. "And he in me."

The duke stared at her. He was not entirely convinced, and despite the fog that clouded his mind, he was still a man of reason. It seemed too convenient. Too sudden. And yet... there was something desperate in his daughter's voice, something that made him waver. He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her.

With a sigh that rattled deep within his chest, he reached for her hand. His grip was weak, cold. "When I am gone, you must get along with Griselda. You will need each other. The dukedom must stand. Promise me, Snow White. Promise me."

Her throat tightened. The injustice of it all was suffocating. But she did not argue. She did not fight. Not when he looked at her like this. Not when he was already halfway in his grave.

"I promise, Father," she whispered.

A notary was summoned in the following days, tasked with documenting the duke's final arrangements. He did not know that the notary had already been approached by the Captain of the Guards, that his records would be altered in subtle, damning ways to ensure that the balance of power tilted in Griselda's favor. The ink was not yet dry on the parchment, but the noose had already tightened around Snow White's neck.

But even the Captain of the Guards, in his arrogance, had not realized that he had been watched. One of Prince Leopold's pages, a boy with sharp eyes and a sharper mind, had taken note of the Captain's movements. He reported back to his master, and suspicion began to fester in the young prince's heart.

And then, at last, the duke died.

The household would mourn. The nobles would whisper. The priests delivered their empty platitudes. It was said that sickness took him, that his body could no longer endure.

Only Griselda knew the truth.

But she was not the only one who suspected. Prince Leopold was watching. He did not yet have proof, but he felt it in his bones -- something wicked had transpired here.

And Snow White? She did not think of intrigue or politics in those days. Her heart was shattered. She could only think of her father, of the years spent in fear of him, of the impossible love she had lost.

For the first time in her life, she cursed God. She cursed Him as she never had before. For the chain of misfortunes that had unraveled her world, for the weight of injustice that was smothering her. She cursed Him for making her a pawn in this wretched game of power and lust.

And in the darkness of her grief, she did not yet realize that the true battle was only beginning.

Chapter 23: The Insatiable Duchess

Griselda did not wait long after the duke's death to indulge in her fantasies--especially the most carnal ones. Of course, for the first few weeks, she maintained the expected decorum, veiling her satisfaction beneath the heavy shroud of mourning. There were bureaucratic matters to tend to, documents to sign, and power to consolidate. But beneath the ink and parchment, beneath the black silk of her widow's gown, a different hunger stirred. One that had waited too long.

The absence of her husband loosened the chains that had kept her restrained, and she moved swiftly to embrace the pleasures she had denied herself for too long. With fewer eyes upon her, her lovers were no longer limited to fleeting encounters in hidden chambers. Since then, she could summon them at her leisure, each fulfilling a role in her ever growing game of dominance and indulgence.

The first to partake in her renewed appetites was Konrad, the stableman. She met him in one of her favored sanctuaries--the stables, where the scent of hay and sweat mixed with the musk of animals. There, amidst the creaking of wooden beams and the faint neighing of restless horses, she let him take her. He was rough, as always, eager and desperate in his lust, his hands coarse against her silken flesh. He grunted like a beast, impaling her with a hunger she both allowed and controlled.

Yet Konrad, though brutish, was not foolish. He had learned well from the misstep of Friedrich that he had overheard that infamous day. He did not dare to suggest violating the sanctity of her rear, nor did he attempt to claim more than what she permitted. He took his pleasure in her slick warmth, and when the peak of his desire arrived, he spilled himself into her waiting hands--no higher, no further. He knew his place, and for that, she rewarded him with a smirk of satisfaction before dismissing him with a kiss on his lips.

But with the Captain of the Guards, things were different.

Ruprecht had proven his loyalty in the weeks of mourning, standing at her side, ensuring her dominion remained unchallenged. He had done more than guard her castle; he had secured her power, and for that, she granted him a privilege that few had tasted.

The duke's chambers -- but then having become solely hers -- were undergoing renovations. She had ordered her instruments of alchemy and pain, once hidden in the dungeon, to be relocated to the tower's peak. While the work was underway, she invited Ruprecht into her domain. Not a secretive rendezvous this time, but an act of recognition, of reward.

In the candlelit opulence of her chamber, she let him have her as he pleased. He stripped her from the heavy mourning garments, revealing the pale flesh beneath, the curves of her body that were still ripe with sin. He was not a fumbling brutish like Konrad, nor a cowardly servant like Friedrich. He was a soldier -- strong, disciplined, and relentless. He took her in every way he desired, filling her, claiming her, and she, in turn, used her mouth upon him with rare generosity. When the moment of release came, she did not deny him the final indulgence--his seed poured into her mouth, accepted like an unspoken oath of fealty. The mouth of the duchess was dripping in white gluey liquid, while she gave him an agreement gaze.

As he lay beside her in the afterglow, skin slick with sweat, she turned to him, fingers tracing idle patterns along his chest. Her voice, smooth as velvet, broke the silence.

"What do you think of Snow White? Is she pretty?"

The question caught him off guard. He stiffened slightly, choosing his words with care. "She is... a beautiful girl."

Griselda smirked, tilting her head as she watched him, like a predator. "I've seen the way you look at her."

Ruprecht said nothing, his expression carefully composed. But she saw the flicker in his eyes--the unspoken truth he dared not voice.

"You desire her," she continued, her tone dripping with amusement. "Don't be shy, Ruprecht. I know men... I know you."

Still, he held his tongue, uncertain of the game she played.

She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "If the circumstances are right... I may allow you to have her."

A pause. The words slithered into his mind, wrapping around his thoughts, his inhibitions. He turned to her, searching her face for deception, for jest, but found only the cruel gleam of amusement in her dark eyes.

At that moment, Ruprecht realized the depth of Griselda's depravity. He had always known she was powerful, manipulative, and insatiable. He saw that she was something more. Something monstrous, saying such things right after her husband's death.

And he was not certain whether he feared her, or desired her all the more for it.

Chapter 24: Aphrodisiac Ordeal

Snow White was trying to rebuild the fragile remnants of her life. The death of her father had severed something inside her, shifting her world in ways she had yet to fully understand. She no longer recognized her surroundings. Rumors swirled like a foul wind--whispers that the castle, its lands, and everything she had once called home would soon belong to the duchess.

She no longer recognized the people either. Annelise, the girl who had once been her comfort, was now nothing more than a puppet under Griselda's command, her will thoroughly broken. Erika, the old servant who had always looked after her, averted her gaze and quickened her step whenever they crossed paths. The entire castle staff seemed to avoid her, as if she carried some unseen curse. And then there was the duchess. The shadow looming over her every thought, more terrifying than ever. The walls of this once-familiar home felt like they were closing in.

Then, one evening, Griselda summoned her. A formal invitation, in impeccable handwriting, to meet in the dungeon.

Snow White hesitated. She had heard that Griselda's chambers were being relocated to the tower's highest point--why, then, this request to descend into the dungeon's depths? A cold shiver ran through her at the thought of that place, the memories still raw and bruised.

Yet, she went.

Griselda greeted her at the heavy wooden door, a vision of dark elegance. She was dressed in black, her clothes austere, yet tantalizing in their macabre grandeur. Snow White felt an involuntary heat rise within her chest at the sight of the woman's piercing gaze and cruel smirk.

"Come," Griselda murmured, stepping aside to let her in. "Sit."

She gestured toward a chair near the alchemy counter, where vials of glistening liquid sat among ominous instruments. The mirror, ancient and foreboding, stood in its frame, reflecting the flickering candlelight like molten gold. Snow White hesitated only briefly before taking her seat.

Griselda poured wine into a delicate goblet and handed it to her. The princess accepted. Refusing the duchess would have been unwise.

They spoke at length--about the castle, its future, the burdens of bureaucracy that Snow White need not concern herself with. Griselda assured her she would handle everything. "You need only think of yourself," she purred, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her own goblet. "Your pleasures, your desires. Nothing else."

Snow White found herself nodding, surrendering to those words like the warmth of the wine spreading through her veins. She wanted to let go, to think only of herself--to forget her father's cold, lifeless body, to forget Annelise's betrayal, to forget the emptiness that had settled inside her.

What she did not know was that Griselda had already laced her drink with a potent aphrodisiac, a concoction of her own making, honed through dark alchemical practice. And so, with each sip, the princess's body betrayed her more. Heat pooled low in her belly, unexpected and insistent. Her skin became hypersensitive, every breath an invitation to sensation. It was unnatural--this desire surging through her in the most unlikely of situations.

But that was exactly what Griselda had planned.

She had been waiting for this. Anticipating it for days, letting the hunger fester inside her. At first, she had considered forcing Snow White into submission, but she preferred this--watching the girl fall willingly, caught in the trap of her own arousal.

Snow White's pupils were dilated, her lips slightly parted. She shifted in her seat, her thighs pressing together as she struggled to understand what was happening to her.

"You're flushed, my dear," Griselda observed, amusement curling the corners of her lips. She leaned in, her breath warm against Snow White's ear. "Is something the matter?"

Snow White exhaled shakily, unable to form words. Her gaze flickered to the duchess, drawn to the cruel beauty before her. And Griselda saw it--that flicker of need, of confusion, of reluctant surrender.

Enough waiting.

The duchess's hand shot out, grasping Snow White's wrist and pulling her to stand. The girl let out a small gasp, but she did not resist. Griselda led her toward the sturdy wooden table, pressing her down so that her palms lay flat against its surface.

"You have misbehaved," the duchess murmured, running her hands along the girl's sides, feeling her shiver beneath her touch. "And misbehavior must be punished."

Snow White whimpered as Griselda positioned her, arching her back so that her bottom was presented just the way she wanted it.

Then came the first strike.

A sharp, resounding smack against her clothed rear. Snow White let out a startled gasp, but the heat blooming beneath her skin sent an entirely different message. Griselda chuckled darkly.

"Again," she whispered, and delivered another.

The dungeon echoed with the sound of each slap, firm and deliberate, her dominance written in every strike. Snow White trembled, the pain blurring into pleasure, fueled by the aphrodisiac surging through her blood. She bit her lip, her breath coming quicker. The sensation was intoxicating--this mixture of discipline and desire.

Griselda reached around, her fingers trailing up the girl's thigh before tugging at the waistband of her skirt. "Take it off," she commanded.

Snow White obeyed. Her hands trembled slightly as she unfastened the garment, letting it drop to the stone floor. Her pale legs were exposed, trembling under Griselda's gaze.

"The rest."

A blush burned across her cheeks as she removed her undergarments, baring herself completely to the duchess's ravenous stare.

Griselda sighed, a deep, satisfied sound, as she traced her fingers over the girl's reddened skin. "Such a lovely shade," she mused, before bringing her palm down once more, harder this time.

Snow White moaned, her body betraying her shame.

Griselda's other hand slid lower, fingers parting her folds to feel the slick evidence of the girl's arousal. A wicked smile spread across her lips.

"At last," she whispered. "All mine."

Griselda stepped toward the cupboard and pulled out a whip, its leather coils unfurling with a soft hiss. Snow White's breath hitched as she looked at it, a shiver of anticipation running through her. She remembered the painful memory of when she was forced to whip Annelise. In mere moments, she would taste that leather on herself.

Fully naked, Griselda fastened the wrists of Snow White to the chains hanging from the ceiling. A deep thrill coursed through her, as the duchess circled behind her, letting the first lash strike across the smooth plane of her back. A sharp gasp escaped Snow White's lips, her body jolting, but the sting only amplified the heat pooling between her thighs. The next strike landed on her buttocks, then another, each one leaving fiery red stripes. She moaned, tilting her hips forward, welcoming the next lash.

Griselda watched her with a satisfied smile. "You take pain so beautifully," she murmured, running a gloved hand over the marks she had left. She was discovering that inclination of Snow White. Sure, the aphrodisiac was having its effect on her, but she must be some sort of natural to endure that torment in such an exquisite way.

Once Snow White's skin was a canvas of crimson streaks, the duchess stepped away and opened the cupboard once more. From inside, she retrieved something Snow White had never seen before--a wooden godemichet, double-ended and fitted with a belt. It gleamed in the dim light, the varnished surface smooth and polished.

That bizarre item was seen by Annelise at the time she had peeked into Griselda's cupboard.

Snow White's curiosity sparked, her breath shallow as she watched the duchess lift her skirts and slide one end into herself with a soft moan. Then, fastening the strap around her waist, she turned to Snow White with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"Lie down," she commanded, and Snow White obeyed eagerly, her body already pulsing with want.

She spread her legs as Griselda positioned herself above her, the wooden shaft pressing against her entrance. Snow White was beyond ready, her core aching, and when the duchess finally pushed inside, a deep, pleasure-laced moan spilled from her lips. Griselda moved with slow, deliberate thrusts at first, letting Snow White adjust, then gradually quickened her pace. The rhythm built, each thrust sending waves of ecstasy through both of them. Snow White was clinging to her, her cries rising in pitch as Griselda took her fully, filling her completely.

They move together in frenzied bliss, Griselda's grip tightening, her hips slamming harder as their pleasure crested. Snow White writhed beneath her, lost in the overwhelming sensations, surrendering entirely to the pleasure only the duchess could give her.

After penetrating her copiously in front, she made her get up and asked her to place her hands on the bed, pushing her bottom out. Duchess planned to penetrate the back sanctum, that hidden, forbidden, and painful place. "You must train yourself my dear," Griselda sentenced. "Do not resist and welcome me into your bowels."

"I will try my best, Duchess, for you," the girl answered to her, still in an ecstatic state.

So, Griselda had found a way to get it in. Lubricating it profusely with the copious fluids gushing from both their legs, the overbearing wooden phallus penetrated the young woman's orifice, while the other end was still inside the duchess. The more she thrust, the more the other end thrust into her, increasing the pleasure. In spasms, she felt completely submissive to Griselda. She screamed and struggled, but did not protest, knowing that she must do her duty and endure the treatment.

Griselda, ever closer to orgasm, quickened her pace. She pushed her, taking her faster and faster, with arrogance. She screamed obscenities at her as she felt the pleasure surging up her spine. Pushing it in as deeply as she could, to grant herself an intense orgasm that made her voice rumble in the dungeon.

When the climax finally crashed over her, that left them trembling, their bodies slick with sweat and desire. Griselda collapsed beside her, stroking Snow White's hair.

At the end of the treatment, the girl's bottom had been destroyed, and a trickle of blood gushed out of that virgin hole.

"You were exquisite," she whispered against her ear, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips.

Snow White smiled while panting, sighing contentedly as she nestled into the older woman's embrace. They kissed intensely, even if the girl felt some soreness at her bottom. She cleaned the blood spilling from that hole, before dressing up. She was ready to leave the dungeon after and extraordinarily painful ordeal.

There was no spell to make her forget this time, no powder to cloud her memory. Griselda wanted her to remember every touch, every whispered command, every blissful moment of surrender.

And Snow White did. She never forgot.