Cinderella: Part II

If you’ve just joined us, Part I will help fill you in…

but if you don’t have time for that, here’s where it’s at:

Cindy has just reached the ball, and — thanks to the magic of the Fey Godmother — she looks

Cinderella, in all her finery, stepped into the ballroom, and the congregated multitudes gasped as one. She smiled demurely, but no one noticed. They were all busy watching a firebreather, and he had just made actual flame come out of his mouth.

“Incredible,” said one.

“He’s a witch, burn him,” said another. And so they did. Once that had been completed, and they sat down to their entrées, there was the opportunity to look around a little and spot some of the new ladies of the kingdom.

“Wow, check out that hot bit of stuff,” said a minor Lord, eyeing the last roast partridge.

“Wouldn’t mind a bit of that,” said another, looking at the chocolate pudding they would be having for dessert.

“She’s gorgeous,” said the Prince, looking at Cinderella.

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” said someone else, but no one cared what they thought, as they were not a member of the nobility. That was how it went in those days, before democracy was invented.

Even as the fabulous roast-partridge-infused chocolate pudding was brought before them all, the Prince hardly touched his, so enchanted was he by Cinderella.

Her clothing, mostly, it would seem, or her body, for he was unable to recognise her face later. Nor did he speak to her while they danced, so entranced did he become, for he later knew not one thing about her, nor even what her voice sounded like. A curious fellow indeed, the Prince; however his father was insistent that he marry and produce an heir to continue the family line, even though what does it all matter when you’re dead and gone yourself, the Prince thought, having spent too much time thinking for his father’s liking, and not enough time killing, raping and conquering. That was the downside of an excellent education, the king imagined, not having had one himself, being but a lowly stable boy until he slept and murdered his way to the top.

“Would you like to come, upstairs?” said the Prince to Cinderella, with an ambiguous pause, but an unambiguous erection in his hose.

“I’m sorry?”

“For some coffee,” he explained, losing his nerve and his erection. “Or tea. Whatever you like. Or not. Please yourself, but please don’t. Or at least feel free to do so; the ladies’ is just down the end of the East Wing.”

Cindy was confused, and not a little uncertain of the Prince’s temperament. But a Prince was a Prince was the husband of a Princess, and that meant jewels, servants, obsequiousness and a life of luxury, so she was willing to play ball. However, the hour approaching half-eleven of the clock, she had to turn the offer down.

“Thanks, but not tonight,” she replied. “Maybe next time.” She rushed out of the ballroom, leaving the startled Prince hankering after her and the whole court in wide-eyed astonishment.

Hurrying down the avenue towards the town itself, Cindy became aware of a group of shadowy figures about to descend upon her from behind. It was the Night Watchmen! She quickened her step, ignoring the pain in her feet.

“Hyah!” cried a voice behind her, which she recognised as the Fey Godmother. With a loud braying and the telltale clatter of the cart, the Night Watchmen were sent scattering. In a move right out of Hollywood, the Fey Godmother leaned off to one side of the cart and hauled Cindy up onto it while still travelling at top speed. Cindy glanced back and caught a glimpse of the Night Watchmen, getting to their feet and furiously cursing their luck.

Lashing the side of the donkey mercilessly, the Fey Godmother sped their chariot towards home, where he had a bath of white spirits waiting upstairs for Cindy.

“Quick,” he said. “Get in there before your skin falls off.”

Cindy complied. “Ow,” she complained. “It burns!”

The Fey Godmother dipped his elbow in the liquid and quickly extracted his bony body bit. “Christ,” he said, looking once more at the empty bottles piled in the corner of the bathroom. “That clown gave me sulphuric acid. Quick Cindy, out of there before you disintegrate.”

Having rinsed her off, the Fey Godmother searched the house for something else to remove the dress. Luckily, down in the storage closet where Cindy kept her cleaning products, there was a bottle of white spirits. The Fey Godmother retrieved this and dabbed the liquid about her epidermis until the dress was no more.

“Phew, that was close. Maybe for the next dress, we’ll just use bodypaint,” he said, mopping his brow liberally and literally with a mop he’d found in the storage closet.

By now, they could hear the stepsisters and stepmother returning. The Fey Godmother scarpered as Cindy rushed down the main stairs to make it appear she was coming from her cellar. Halfway down to the hall, she remembered she was completely naked, so she had to run back up the stairs, shimmy down the drainpipe out onto the backstreet, scale the wall, clamber through the rose bush, pirouette in midair, before landing next to the window of her prison in the bowels of the house. Once inside, Cindy quickly fashioned a scivvy’s uniform from ratskins and pieces of scrubbing cloth left lying about in the coal scuttle, before coming up to the bottom of the stairs, ever so slightly breathless.

“Sisters, you have returned from the ball,” she said. “How was it?”

“Stepsisters, you nothing-person,” replied Claudine. “It was great. I had unprotected sex with a Count and drank so much champagne I threw up.”

“Yeah,” said Cynthia. “And me and another girl let ourselves be violated all night long by the Prince in a cupboard.”

“What?!” said Cindy in astonishment. “The Prince?!”

Don’t miss Part III, coming right up!

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About the author: I’m a satirist and humorist fascinated by everything — from the shape of air to the colour of invisibility — with a particular interest in humans, animate life and inanimate life. Check out more and less of this sort of stuff on

My novel, NSA, is out now. Other people love it.

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