“My stepsister,” the daughter replied.
She smiled maliciously and added, “Cynthia Eleanor‘s mother thought that she was so ugly she died, so now my mother has to try to raise her.
She’s not one of
us
, though,” she assured her friend.
“Cynthia Eleanor?” the twelve year old laughed.
“You have your very own Cinderella?”
Cynthia’s lip trembled and she fought to keep from crying at the cruelness of the girls, and several of the other twelve year olds began laughing and chanting ‘Cinderella’ at her.
Cynthia looked up at her father, hoping that he would stick up for her.
He was leaning against the patio bar and nodding at something her stepmother had said, completely ignoring his daughter’s humiliation.
Cynthia ran to the garden, a move that she would surely be punished for later.
She did not care, because it was only the sanctuary of her magical flowers in the garden that could make her feel better.
If the stepmother’s friends had not fawned over the riotous beds of colorful blooms, Ava probably would have had the gardens ripped out.
Now, they were another chore for Cynthia to toil over… and the only thing that she truly enjoyed.
She sat in her bland secondhand dress and ripped out the few errant weeds… picturing her stepmother and stepsisters’ faces as she twisted the stems and tore them to pieces.
Years passed, and Cynthia Eleanor continued to become more beautiful, though her expressionless face held little emotion unless she was out in the garden talking to her flowers… and smiling wistfully as she choked and shredded the weeds.
She was eighteen, and while her twenty-two year old stepsister languished by the pool with no interest in school or work, the household was busy planning for the other sister’s twentieth birthday.
Cynthia remembered all of the sisters’ birthday galas since they turned eighteen, as each year became a more desperate attempt from her stepmother to get them betrothed.
Ava’s friends were invited along with their eligible sons, and she was careful to preclude any girls of competitive age.
It was an obvious, futile attempt to get the homely girls settled with wealthy aristocratic men.
It had failed every year, and Cynthia suspected that Ava would have as little success this time.
The years of undermining Cynthia’s esteem had not produced the effect that Ava had desired.
She had noticed the girl would try to stay out of trouble, completing the most mundane of tasks without complaining.
Cynthia did this with such a quiet grace and sophisticated air that ordering the girl around as a servant had lost its attraction.
Ava had hoped that the tall girl would turn gangly and unbecoming.
Instead, Cynthia continued an increasing flawless beauty that was especially apparent when set beside her two stepsisters.
Ava’s funds had dwindled considerably since marrying the girl’s worthless father, and the thought that Cynthia Eleanor would soon inherit her mother’s fortune while Ava had not been able to achieve a suitable arrangement for one of her daughters, made her livid.
Ava had figured that she would have Cynthia under her control enough to delve into her finances when the coffers were finally opened.
Sometimes, Ava caught what appeared to be a resolved determination in Cynthia’s eyes that had her nervously considering this might not be the case.
For this birthday, stepmother had invited an even more obscure group of friends.
They were all of good name and fortune, of course, but several were older and had lifestyles that held both a ‘public’ and ‘private’ face.
Some had reported mob associations, a few were corrupt politicians, and some had ‘old’ family money with centuries old estates and enterprises that were kept hidden.
Ava was panicking as her resources ran low, fearing that she would lose her handsome husband, and that her precious daughters might find themselves without a worthy situation of their own to help support her.
Cynthia dressed in her plain long gown, and while hairdressers worked on her stepsisters’ creations, she plaited her hair in a long braid that fell forward over her shoulder.
She put on the lightest touch of make-up, not realizing that even with none she was stunning.
Tonight she would serve cocktails and eat dinner in the kitchen with the servants.
After dessert, she would serve brandy to the men, while stepmother encouraged them towards her daughters.
If there were no dates requested… no future promises to call on the hideous young women… Cynthia’s life would be a constant barrage of the angry women’s orders for the next few days.
She had purposely let the garden’s weeds grow for the occasion.
After dessert, Cynthia was shuttling brandy to the men while stepmother maneuvered her daughters in front of them.
Even the older men could see through the artfully applied makeup and form-enhancing undergarments to the… at best… plain young women.
Throats were cleared and birthday acknowledgements made, but Cynthia could tell by Ava’s scowl and almost panicked brown rat eyes that no one was interested in her daughters.
The doorbell rang and Cynthia turned to deliver a brandy to the late guest.
The man stopped abruptly when he entered the lounge and his eyes immediately flew to hers.
Cynthia felt herself held… compelled to look into the man’s stare.
He was older than she was, though how much she neither knew nor cared.
They continued to stare in silence at each other, while Cynthia handed him a snifter.
Ava pushed in between them and smiled.
“Alexander, I was afraid you would not make it.
Let me introduce you to my daughters.”
Cynthia backed up and was handing a drink to a young man who was trying to hide behind his father and avoid the oldest daughter’s attentions.
She kept glancing at the new guest and she felt something building inside her that she did not understand.
There was an immediate bond and steady strength in his dark stare, and Cynthia felt that this man understood everything about her.
She sensed that he was angry at her situation, and she allowed him a slight smile.
“Who is that?” the man asked, with his eyes never leaving the exotic young servant.
Ava naturally assumed that he was speaking about her oldest daughter and with a relieved smile, she called her over.
The man put his hand on the girl’s shoulder to move her aside, and still gazing at Cynthia he said, “Not her…
that
one.
Who is she?”
Ava’s mouth dropped open at his rudeness, and the complete disregard for her daughter.
“Cinderella,” she snapped.
“Cinderella?”
Alexander was intrigued by Ava’s reply and the obvious anger building in the green eyes of the young woman.
“She’s the bastard child of my husband,” Ava lied, trying to discredit the brat further.
“She’s no one you need to concern yourself with, Alexander.
If she’s bothering you, I’ll send her to the kitchen.”
Cynthia fully understood what these parties were for.
They were arrangements to settle her stepsisters in suitable financial engagements.
Although she had nothing… as she had no knowledge of her mother’s bequest… Cynthia laid the half-empty tray down on a table, straightened, and walked calmly up to the man.
She held out her hand and he caressed her palm with his thumb and lifted it to his lips.
“I am Cynthia Eleanor and I am eighteen years old.”
She stared into his eyes.
“Get me the hell out of here,” she demanded.
Alexander smiled and replied, “Pack what you need.
You will
not
be coming back here.”
Ava paled.
She watched Cynthia ignore her and their guests while she walked calmly to the staircase.
There was very little Cynthia wanted… only the few mementos from her mother that she had managed to keep hidden… and she was back in the foyer to witness a strange scene.
Alexander was leaning over a table, opening his checkbook and uncapping his pen.
He looked up at her and raised his eyebrow.
“Do you mind if I buy you from them?”
“No, sir,” Cynthia assured him, in a regal tone that set stepmother back.
“Though, I’m eighteen so it should not be necessary.
Besides, I’ve had nothing but second hand clothes for years, so the price should not be too steep.”
Her father argued, “But, she comes into a trust when she’s twenty-one,” …as if it was his fortune.
Cynthia kept the surprise out of her voice.
“Which you will never see a penny of, so I suggest that you accept whatever Alexander offers for me.”
She turned to her stepmother and said, “As long as I’m here, your attempts to throw your shrewish daughters at these men are going to fail.
Look at your guests, stepmother.
They strip me with their eyes, and envision
your
face on your daughters as they get older.
I know that your money is gone, because instead of shopping you’ve had me mending your clothes.”
A few of the men were grabbing their sons and sidling towards the door.
If the witch was broke and had no dowry for the sour young women, it was not worth their consideration.
Cynthia continued, “You stand no chance of marrying your bitch issue when the men only show up to see if
I
am the one finally being presented.”
Ava had no idea that the contemptuous girl had considered the idea that had caused her so many sleepless nights.
She turned red with angry embarrassment and leapt at the girl.
Cynthia slapped Ava so hard across the face that several of the men gasped.
“No more.
I am never going to clean up after you or your spoiled, hideous daughters… and father, I will never speak to you again,” Cynthia vowed.
Her father was actually afraid that Alexander would withdraw his offer after seeing his daughter’s callous display.
They needed the money more desperately than even his wife was aware of, due to a bad call at a gaming table.
Cynthia was whisked out the door to a waiting limousine.
Within a week she and Alexander were married, and he gave her the keys to his two thousand year old estate, as well as his heart.
He showed her a world of sadistic pleasure that she craved, and her twisted psyche found a place to flourish and heal.
It was after the birth of her first son, and she had returned to their arousing pastime, that Cynthia Eleanor asked Alexander why she desired tormenting young women.
He smiled, kissed her forehead, and replied, “It’s your ‘Cinderella Syndrome’, my love.”
Chapter I
Cynthia Eleanor Strega Venetia was a tall woman, close to six feet, with a surprisingly strong figure and the light olive complexion of her father’s ancestry.
At nearly fifty years old few wrinkles marred her face, though she was quite often seen stretching her features in tight cruel disdain or narrowing her green eyes in sadistic anticipation and arousal.
Her hair was long, reaching almost to her waist, with no gray daring to mix with the glossy black tresses.
It was pulled back and secured in an ornate bun woven with strands of pearls, when guests were invited to the estate… which was rare.
Usually, it hung about her like a shroud; either as a silky black curtain, or wild and windblown when she exerted herself correcting or training her servants.
Alexander’s estate flourished when he brought his Cinderella back to the stone mansion to rule with him.
The apathy he had affected over the years of living alone was reflected in the slaves he had trained.
There had been no passion and only routine perfection, while he went through the motions to produce the merchandise that funded the estate.
That was before Cynthia, and he gave her free rein to create a new empire with her unusual methods and design.
After their sons were old enough to be brought into the family enterprise, Alexander and Cynthia saved the culmination of their sexual appetites for each other, using the training of their slaves as sadistically arousing foreplay.
Alexander had discovered Cynthia’s passion was gardening, and she had beautiful flowerbeds surrounding the front of the castle.
It was the ‘other’ garden he had helped her plant… the dungeon garden in the stone cellars below… that had produced exotic varieties, ensuring their family as renowned exporters in their unique society.
Cynthia was mercilessly cruel to the slaves, because each of them represented the tormenting sisters and their friends of her youth.
Just as she patiently coaxed exotic hybrids for her outside garden, Cynthia worked with the girls until she determined they were of sufficient quality to represent the estate.
She thought of them as ‘weeds’ when they first arrived, and after carefully deciding by a method only she could decipher, the girls were trained to fully blossomed, unique perfection.
When infrequent guests visited the estate, the trembling girls called her Mistress.
In the privacy of the stone walls, when it was only Cynthia, Alexander, and their four sons, the flowers called her stepmother… a most wicked, wicked stepmother.
* * * * *
“I think we have reached your limit, Marigold.”
Cynthia stared down into the kneeling girl’s blue eyes and noted the predictable nervous hope.
The girl had quickly settled into a complacent attitude of desperately wanting to please.
She did not know that what these strange people wanted was a unique blend of arousal and fear.
Marigold strived to give stepmother the emotions she thought were required, but she had no individual flair that could set her apart.
Cynthia had seen this when the girl was brought to the estate, and short of destroying her mind, she had decided that it was better to transform her into a common flower… one that would be easy to grow.
The girl had a plain face, and even in pain or arousal her expression barely changed.
Straight blonde hair fell to her shoulders, thin and limp with no body and no waves or highlights.
Her breasts were small and her nipples unremarkable, as were the thin lips of her pussy.
There was little shape to her waist or legs, and her bottom was almost flat.
Still, the flower did have an agreeable nature, and she caused no undue stress for the garden.
“Clean the chamber, and then wait in your cage,” Cynthia ordered.
“Yes, stepmother.”
Marigold did not even balk when she had to wipe her sweat or juices from the strange equipment.
Cynthia shook her head sadly when the obedient girl scurried off towards the cabinet, and she reached for the dildo that had been secured in her pussy all night.
She closed the chamber door behind her, not bothering to lock it.
Marigold would do exactly as she was ordered.
Cynthia’s blue silk robe shimmered in the ambient light while she climbed the stone staircase.
She heard a scream from a room further down the hall, and smiled to herself.
Alexander was keeping busy so that he would not have to think about his sons leaving the estate.
Cynthia barely glanced at Rose who was kneeling at the foot of the main staircase, where she would remain until Cynthia called for her.
She made her way to the parlor and sat at her cherry wood desk, lightly tapping her nails on the top in anticipation.
This was not a nervous reaction… Cynthia was absolutely never nervous.
That emotion was as foreign to the strict woman as the gray that refused to streak through her hair.
Her green eyes gazed across the reflective, polished surface while she studied her four sons.
Sloane, the oldest, with his father’s handsome looks and the same brooding nature; Daryl, much more a strategist like herself; and the twins, Liam and Kyle, identical except for their sadistic desires, with Liam enjoying psychological methods, and Kyle curious and aroused by the sounds and tears of physical pain.
“Sloane, you go south, Daryl, north, Liam take east, and Kyle, you get the west this time.
Two weeks, boys,” she reminded them.
Cynthia handed them each an envelope and kissed them on the cheek.
Sloane walked out without looking back, while Daryl and the twins placed bets and made choices.
Cynthia shook her head, smiling.
Poor Kyle got stuck finding a redhead again.
It was not that the boy was adverse to them, because the usual feisty nature was an interesting assignment.
His selection would be fewer, because he would seek out the girls with deeper natural copper coloring and no freckles.
Kyle found the errantly placed marks distracting when he was training them, and being the baby of their family, he was constantly fighting an internal battle for his place with his brothers.
Liam had been born with their rakish good looks a few minutes earlier than him, and Kyle tried to find something to make himself stand apart.
Cynthia walked to the window and she looked across the flower garden to the circular gravel driveway.
Not surprisingly, Sloane chose his black pickup truck, Daryl his luxury sedan, and the twins spun off in identical sport coupes.
She watched Kyle’s car disappear through the trees surrounding the estate, and her eyes returned to her lovely flowers.
When she spotted the pansies with their colorful bonnets, her eyes pulsed an excited beat.
She inhaled a cleansing deep breath and smoothed her hands down her floor length silk robe.
Cynthia loved the feel of the shimmering sapphire material caressing her body, and that, along with the sight of her garden, had her moving back towards the heavy wooden door leading to the basement.
Her flat slippers did not make a sound as she descended the narrow stone staircase.
The old architecture of the estate that had been in Alexander’s family for centuries had remained basically unchanged, except for the upgrades of conveniences such as plumbing and electric wiring.
Some relative before him had replaced the original sconces that lined the stairwell and hallways below with amber shaded fixtures that produced almost the same delicious intimidating shadows for the walk to the dungeon that the fires must have emitted.
She imagined the terror the young women must have felt when walking down the cold steps while the flames flickered off the rough stone surface of the gray walls.
At the bottom of the landing, Cynthia listened, and a few moments later she heard a scream and moan from the cell on the end.
“Sweet Pansy, again,” she whispered.
Alexander seemed to have a special fondness for the girl, though Cynthia could hardly blame him.
Her shrieks were crystal in quality, and made even
her
yearn to hear them again… and then, there were the unusual violet eyes.
Sloan always procured the most unique young women, and Cynthia was fairly certain her son would be keeping this flower until another struck his fancy.
* * * * *
Pansy reached her hands around the heavy chain and she searched for a release that she knew was not there.
Oh god
… the concrete was cold and rough under her toes and she tried to push away.
The links through the ankle cuffs stopped her, and she looked at the man drawing the whip back again.
Pansy bit her lip to keep from pleading, because the Master would add two lashes if she did.
A drip of sweat trickled from under her arm down her ribs, tickling and itching until it rolled onto one of the welts and stung.
Everything… even the natural act of perspiring… brought pain.
Always, pain.
She could not remember a time when she was free from it.
The Master stood in front of her, bare chested and looking as evilly handsome as always.
Pansy hated that.
She hated that with all of the terrible things that had been done to her, she still found the men in this tormenting family so arousing to look at.
They enjoyed making her suffer, and then they would smile in superior control when they found her wet and excited.
It was something she still could not comprehend, but it seemed as though they expected her reaction of sexual arousal, and they either complimented or rewarded her for responding with heated passion.
Lately, she was humiliated with the uncomfortable knowledge that the sons or Master merely needed to enter her cell and her pussy would clench in mock desire.
Surely, the tightening wet spasms could not be true need… not when the price was so much pain.
“Aaaaee…”
The whip crossed the tips of her nipples, and she saw the red stripe begin to rise across them.
The pain from the welts on her belly and thighs took a back seat to this new agony.
More useless tears flowed down her cheeks, causing Alexander to smile.
They always stopped short of letting her drift into unconsciousness to get away from the torment.
Pansy looked up when she heard the heavy door open and she sobbed.
The witch had come in… the controlling force behind the men, and the reason for her abduction.
It was one of the first lessons she had learned, and Pansy knew without doubt that no matter who was training her, stepmother was in charge of the dungeon garden.
Cynthia walked through the door of the cement cell and she smiled when her husband turned to the sound of her entering the stone chamber.
He was three inches taller than her own impressive stature, with hair as dark as midnight like her own, though his was silvering in dashing sweeps at the temples.
“The boys have left,” she informed him.
“This collection is almost ready.”
Alexander’s brow was glistening with sweat and the whip lay along his right leg.
The girl hanging from the chains on the wall bore the welts of the excruciating torment of his endeavors.
“Ppplease, stepmother, may this slave attend you?” the girl quivered.
Pansy hated the wicked woman, but after months of training she had been programmed to make the request as soon as the frightening witch made an appearance.
Even through the throbbing of the lash welts, she had not missed the reference to the horrible sons being gone, and it offered her a small measure of relief.
The Master and Mistress were as aggressively cruel in their methods of training… even more so, in ways… but now there were four girls for them to divide their attentions between.
With the sons gone, it promised a break to someone constantly calling on her for more agonizing treatment.
Cynthia ignored the girl’s request, and she said, “I will be bringing Marigold upstairs first, I think.”
“That’s probably the wisest choice, Cynthia.”
Alexander considered the small blonde.
She was pretty, in a plain sort of way, and he thought she would make a good house servant.
“Do you have a buyer lined up for her?”
“Shataki mentioned using her for guest services.
The Japanese always seem to have an interest in petite blondes, and with her accepting nature and adequate responses, I think it might be the best we can do with her.
I have warned Kyle about giving more consideration to his quarry.
He has the redhead this time.”
Cynthia envisioned Marigold, with her slightly small breasts and slim hips.
“It’s unusual that the blonde be the low bid for a group,” she noted.
Cynthia made her way to Pansy, who was stretched to her toes by the chains secured to her wrist cuffs.
She ran a red talon nail down from the side of a meaty breast, over moist ribs that were brought to a painful sweat even in the chill of the dungeon, and she scraped along a welt that wrapped around her waist.
Cynthia was rewarded with a shuddering response.
“If Sloan does not choose this one… though, I expect he will… I may keep her here and send Rose with the auction.”