the mirror curse

Once upon a time, before rational thought sent magic into hiding, a princess lived under a curse. It was all the mirror's fault, of course. The queen, her mother, had been a vain woman. She had loved the king—to the limit of her shallow heart—but she wasn't content unless she found her image in the eyes of everyone she met.

Deep in the dusty corridors was a forgotten room where a mirror ruled. It was tall and silver-backed, with an ebony frame of curious workmanship. The queen first saw it in a flash of light and she followed it--drawn, helpless, fascinated. She marveled at the loveliness of her face, the daintiness of her hands, the shape of her belly.

As she met her own gaze, the fire deep within her grew to a conflagration. She had to see. Without any conscious decision on her part, the queen let her robe drop to the dusty floor and watched her mirror self bring her hands up to caress her breast. Slowly, carefully, the queen reached down to tease her aching clit, always meeting her mirrored eyes, never noticing the ripples passing over her belly as the princess prepared for birth.

It was dawn when the king found her. She had fallen but her eyes were still held fast by the mirror. Ignored on the floor beside her was the little princess, wiped clean and staring at the mirror with hair black as the ebony, skin fair as snow, and strange silver eyes.

The new father was frightened, and swore vengeance on the mirror which he blamed for the queen’s death—but when the hammers came and lifted to smash the mirror into oblivion, the newborn princess screamed terror so great that the hammers shattered and the king grew pale. He dismissed everyone, locking the door to the mirror room and forbidding all from entering.

Princess Snow grew into a quiet child. She was made much of by the king and all his court. She was given seven little maids whose only duty was to attend her every need, staying with her all day and spending their nights guarding her bed. In most things, she was completely obedient.

But from the time she first learned to crawl, Snow would escape from her dwarfish maids and make her way down dusty halls to the room where the mirror was kept. No scolding, no punishments were sufficient to end this fascination. Everyone in the castle soon knew that if the princess couldn’t be found, she would be sitting in front of the mirror in the exact spot where her mother had died.

Time passed.

On the day Princess Snow turned eighteen, the king died. Snow moved through the pomp of a royal funeral with only one real thought in her head. That night, she ordered the mirror to be brought to her chamber. Once it was secure on her wall, she dismissed her seven maids and locked her door with seven locks.

In the morning, Snow wouldn’t answer the door. Her maids chopped it into splinters and rushed in. To their dismay, Snow lay asleep in front of the mirror surrounded by seven candles burning black. The candles formed a barrier that none could pass. Their only indication that she yet lived was the gentle movement of her finger, massaging her clit.

Proclamations were sent to the four corners of the world—any prince or hero, magician or adventurer who could break Snow’s curse would win her hand and the kingdom.

Many came.

When the first prince left, defeated by the unbreakable barrier that the candles marked, many more came, certain that if they couldn’t rescue the princess, at least they would carry the memory of her beauty, her long black hair fanned out across her bedroom floor, her eyes closed in sleep, her skin pale as snow, her nipples peaked and red, her pussy flushed and swollen, her ruby lips parted, her barely audible gasps and moans, her ever working finger. Her people were desperate—allowing every seeker to try to wake the princess, even those who came for a second, third, or twelfth time.

Months passed and years. Still the princess lived, as unchanging and beautiful as when she first was cursed. The princes still came, but less often—one in a month instead of one an hour. Her maids stood vigil, barely leaving her side to eat and sleep, hoping that eventually they would have their princess back, but even their certainty was fading.

The last prince crawled out of the mirror as silent as any reflection. He waved a hand and the seven dwarf maids slept. He didn’t approach the candles—instead he remained behind the mirror. He whispered a word, and the silver began melting. Snow’s movements became more frantic.

He drew in a breath and the glass faded into him. He stepped through the ebony frame to stand over her, just as she finally screamed her release. In the following silence, he disrobed, standing over her erect and ready.

She opened her eyes. Her finger finally stilled after seven long years.

She smiled and stood to greet him. “What took you so long?”

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