Cinderella's Rebellion Read online

  CINDERELLA’S REBELLION

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, July 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1056 Home Ave.

  Akron, OH 44310

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0283-0

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  CINDERELLA’S REBELLION Copyright © 2005 BLAIR VALENTINE

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Raelene Gorlinsky.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Cinderella’s Rebellion has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Cinderella’s Rebellion

  Blair Valentine

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  NASCAR: National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing, Inc.

  Frisbee: WHAM-O MFG. CO.

  Cheval Blanc: SOCIETE CIVILE DU CHEVAL BLANC CORPORATION

  Hoover: The Hoover Company

  Baccarat: COMPAGNIE DES CRISTALLERIES DE BACCARAT CORPORATION

  Coppertone: Schering-Plough HealthCare Products, Inc.

  Tinkertoy: HASBRO, INC. CORPORATION

  Energizer: Eveready Battery Company, Inc.

  Botox: ALLERGAN, INC.

  Montblanc: Montblanc-Simplo GmbH Corporation

  Chapter One

  Sex was so boring in the tranquil kingdom of IsBn.

  Fully nude, His Most Supreme and Gracious Majesty, Hizzhonor, the grand Poo-Bah and head genie of IsBn, Derek MacKenzie stretched out on a floating bed the size of the Library of Congress. Curls of inky smoke drifted upward from several golden incense burners, scenting the air with the crisp fragrance of printer’s ink.

  He lazily opened one eye, regarded the gleaming rows of iridescent monitors flashing on the walls of his luxurious chamber. Each monitor scrutinized books in the mortal world, ensuring the characters behaved as they ought. The classics were still classical, the romance novels were romancing, the chick lits were chick-litting, the mysteries were behaving mysteriously. All the characters throughout the fictional literary world were acting as they should, hallelujah, amen.

  A deep sigh fled his lips. Some days, it was good being the king. But for once, he wished a little excitement would land in his lap. He glanced at the woman whose soft lips were ministering to him. Well, something different, anyway.

  The character working eagerly on him was Sheila, a recent romance rejection hoping Derek could sway a snobbish editor into accepting her. The editor said Sheila’s character lacked depth. Derek privately agreed with the haughty editor, but damn, she had a mouth like a Hoover®.

  Suddenly a warning bell sounded, splitting the air with a shrill screech. He had the peculiar feeling he was about to be granted his wish. His current flavor of the month tore her lovely lips away with a startled cry.

  “Omigosh, what was that?”

  Derek ignored her as he sat up, his gaze sweeping over the monitors. Everything fine in mass market horror, since Stephen King returned to the fold, anyway. He swung his gaze over to romance. Did Nora Roberts fail to make The New York Times list? Nope, nothing wrong there either. Then his keen eyes caught sight of a pulsing black spot on the furthest row of monitors. The children’s section. Fairy tales.

  With a grunt of annoyance, he pushed Sheila aside and waved his hand. The bed gently descended. Derek jumped off and stalked in naked splendor (no false modesty here, he was king of IsBn) over to the monitor.

  Cinderella. Something was dreadfully wrong with the story.

  “Your Majesty? Aren’t you coming back to bed?”

  Sheila’s lower lip jutted out in a pretty pout. Derek sighed. He hated interruptions.

  “Sorry, I’ve got a small emergency on hand. One of the fairy tale characters has gone off the deep end.”

  “So? Can’t it wait?” The pout increased and an annoying whine lilted her voice.

  Small wonder the editor rejected her. Sheila had a brain the size of a dried pea, the very same one used under the mattresses in another fairy tale. Derek assumed his sternest expression, nodded toward the door. “Leave me,” he ordered. “Go work on your character development.”

  She tossed him a baleful look, snatched a silk robe over her nude body and flounced off, muttering about meanie genies who only wanted to use her to get off.

  Pressing a glowing blue button, he summoned his Under Minister for the Commission of Character Behavior, Fairy Tale Division. Simon materialized before him, wringing purple hands, his balding countenance looking very worried.

  “Your Majesty,” he uttered, dropping to the floor, forehead kissing the carpet.

  “Stop groveling.” Derek jerked a thumb at the monitor. “What happened?”

  Simon stood, brushing at the wrinkled kneecaps of his violet polyester leisure suit. “She escaped. Cinderella. Oh, we are doomed. We are all doomed. Doomed, doomed, doomed! I shall curse the day I was formed that this happened under my watch. Woe is me. Better to be tossed into the hailstorm of a dark and stormy night…”

  The unstated king of purple prose, Simon loved theatrics.

  “Enough!” Derek folded his arms over his chest, his annoyance hitching up a notch. “You allowed her to escape? Your job is to maintain control of the fairy tale characters. Fairy tales, man!”

  “She simply would not listen to me.” Simon’s watery lavender gaze pleaded with him.

  Derek thumbed the remote to Cinderella. On the monitor, the fairy godmother stood, wand dangling from her fingers. He pressed another button and the playback rewound.

  Cinderella stood in soot-covered rags, her honey-blonde hair covered with a dirty gray kerchief. She stared, as the story line demanded she should, after her departing stepsisters as they rode off to the ball. The fairy godmother hovered, ready to dispense Cinderella’s dearest wish. Cinderella’s beautiful, full mouth wobbled. Her ice blue eyes misted with tears. She parted her lips. “I wish I could. I wish I could…”

  Suddenly hard resolve replaced moisture shimmering in her eyes.

  “I wish I could get the fuck out of here.”

  The fairy godmother’s jaw dropped.

  Simon interrupted. “She said fuck. A fairy tale character cannot say fuck, can she?”

  “She just did. Quiet. I want to hear the rest.”

  The fairy g
odmother looked confused. “Er, that’s not in the script.”

  “Damn straight it isn’t. You’re my fairy godmother. You’re supposed to grant my wish. So grant it. I want to live in the real world.”

  Derek groaned.

  “Uh.” The fairy godmother looked wildly around the room as if searching for someone to cue her. Then she looked pleadingly at Cinderella. “You wish to go to the ball, is that not true?”

  “The ball? No way. I wish to live in the mortal world.” The blonde beauty—alabaster skin splotched with cinders, nicely rounded hips and long legs—thrust out her chin.

  “I wish, fairy godmother, for an oceanfront condo in Florida. I wish for a closet filled with decent clothing instead of rags, and no polyester blends, either. I wish for a sporty pink truck to drive, a bank account with free checking, two major credit cards and a job.”

  The blonde cinder wench paused, putting a grimy finger to her lush mouth. “Let’s see. I don’t wish to be something mundane, certainly not a maid. Something unconventional for a woman, but practical.” Then a brilliant smile tilted the corners of her lips up.

  “I know. I wish to be an electrician. Fully trained, with my own business. No more ashes or fires. I want to illuminate the world.”

  The fairy godmother stared.

  “Oh, and slap on a reasonably priced insurance liability policy. Lawsuits, you know.”

  Derek ground his perfect, very white teeth together.

  “One more teensy thing. I want a clean bikini area and hairless legs. No shaving or waxing. Ever. I want men to admire my legs.”

  The fairy godmother seemed to hesitate, but true to her character’s behavior, she raised her hands, waved her magic wand. Poof! Cinderella vanished.

  Despite his mounting irritation, Derek felt a reluctant tug of admiration for the feisty wench. He frowned at Simon. “Go now, into the story, and change her mind.”

  With a wave of Derek’s hand, Simon vanished into the tome. Derek watched the monitor intently as Simon gestured for the fairy godmother to give him private time with the rebellious queen of ashes. He tried to reason with Cinderella.

  “Why do you want to leave?” Simon whined in a pleading tone. “You’re the envy of all the other female characters. You get to attend the ball, dance with the handsome prince, and the glass slipper is yours. You live happily ever after.”

  Cinderella gave a disgusted little sniff, tore off her grimy kerchief.

  “Uh huh. My transportation is a hollowed orange vegetable driven by four red-eyed white mice. Disease-carrying rodents are my coachmen. I wear plain glass slippers, not Baccarat® crystal. I go to a froufrou society event and I get to dance with a nancy boy prince whom, I have suspected for a long time, has an eye for the huntsman from Snow White. And I marry him. I don’t want a gay husband who will boink me once or twice just to produce a screaming, midget-sized carbon copy of him, and there’s no promise of hired help after the marriage. For all I know, I’ll still be chapping my knees, scrubbing the damned floor, only this time it’s a drafty castle, and my fingers are going to prune forever.”

  “But what is there for you in the real world?” he wailed.

  “Freedom. Career choices. The half-price rack at Neiman Marcus. My own floors, not some namby-pamby prince’s, to scrub. Or not to scrub. And, there is something else. My dearest wish, something my fairy godmother can’t grant.”

  She gave a dramatic pause, her gaze softening. High spots of color flushed her aristocratic cheekbones. “I’ve been told by my, um, advisors, it’s not politically correct, but I long for it.”

  Simon looked encouraging. “Longed for what, dear girl? You can tell me,” he cajoled. “I want to see you happily. Ever after, of course.”

  Cinderella leaned forward. Her voice dropped to a bare whisper.

  “I want to get royally fucked,” she confided.

  Simon’s face grew a violent shade of rose lavender. “Uh, um,” he stammered.

  “Not just by any man, especially not a wishy-washy prince. I want to be conquered by a handsome, powerful man in the mortal world, a prince who will take my virginity as his prize and tutor me in the art of love. But he must be willing to pursue me and then, when I am caught, I will surrender to all that he demands.” A dreamy sigh wafted from her pouty red mouth.

  Her words sent a hot surge of unexpected lust through Derek. He recoiled, startled, as his dormant cock gave a sudden twitch. As if it recognized the challenge, and accepted it.

  Cinderella wanted to be bedded, and bedded well. The thrill of the chase and the ensuing sweet surrender. A satisfied smile curled his lips.

  Derek waved his hand again and summoned Simon back to his side. “I knew it. It’s the damn prince. She needs a real man in bed, not one afraid to even kiss her. Send him some Sly Stallone DVDs. It will teach him to act less swishy.”

  A knock sounded in the air. “Come,” he barked.

  Clone, in charge of reprints, materialized before him, wearing the same clothing as yesterday, the day before and the decade before that. He never changed.

  “Your Highness, we have a problem,” he began.

  “Now what?” Derek snapped, patience wearing to a thin thread.

  Clone consulted his portable electronic device, upon which he always scribbled memos, and tried to look self-important, even though he was always old news. Clone never experienced the thrill of a first press run or making the lists for the very first time. He was reliable, sturdy. Dull as furniture assembly instructions. Nothing ever happened in Clone’s division.

  “Cinderella’s rebellion has stirred up the other fairy tale characters. I cannot proceed with reprints. Goldilocks shot the three bears and is now running for president of the NRA. Snow White has refused to eat the poisoned apple, claiming she’s on a low-carb diet and the seven dwarves are forming a union and insisting on being called Little People. They want…”

  Clone glanced down at the memo portion of his PED. “A reality TV show. The rebellion has spread to nursery rhymes as well. Mary’s little lamb followed her to school and Mary’s classmates convinced her… Well, the lamb is now—dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Derek stared in horrified astonishment.

  “Roasted. With mint jelly.”

  Derek dismissed him. He shoved a hand through his dark, thick locks and glared at Simon. “Find her. Send ten Navy SEALS from a romance series. No, forget them, they’re too much into finding their secret babies and having amnesia. Go to Mystery. Send a detective from popular fiction. I want her found and the minute you do, report back to me.”

  Simon vanished after groveling again.

  Pacing the rich, thick carpeting, Derek mused over this horrific problem. His mind tripped through a frightening scenario of possibilities. With her one defiant act, Cinderella posed to change fiction forever. Such disobedience would not be tolerated.

  Derek thought long and hard. And once Cinderella was found? She wouldn’t be amenable to returning. It would take a more subtle convincing, a delicate situation requiring tact. A powerful person who could work powerful magic.

  Himself actually.

  But for all his formidable powers, he could not simply snap his fingers (much as he liked!) and command her back to the pages. If she were forced, the potential for more ruin was enormous. Nothing prevented her doing something as drastic as stripping nude, gluing on tasseled pasties, waltzing up to the prince at the ball and twirling like mad.

  Then he pondered the real reason she escaped to the mortal world. Cinderella wanted her prince to sexually conquer her.

  If her dearest wish were granted, she could be coaxed into returning. Especially if he toughed up the fairy prince into a manly hunk fit enough to please her in bed. Keep her happily ever after occupied. So much so that once “The End” came, she would come as well. And keep coming and coming and coming.

  Whom could he send to seduce the fair Cinderella? Derek considered other fairy tales and nursery rhymes. Jack Sprat was too lean, and he was marrie
d as well. Old King Cole might suit her, but the man smoked and he was, well, old. Wee Willie Winkie? Derek grimaced. Perish the thought. Three men in a tub? Had its possibilities but a ménage a cinder wench was too carnal for an innocent’s first time.

  He sorted through fiction and realized with sudden pleasure it had to be him. He’d seduce her, teach her about making love, and send her back.

  Derek padded over to the Cinderella monitor. Her beautiful face remained frozen in a mutinous expression. He gave the plasma screen a thoughtful tap, stroking the stubborn jut of Cinderella’s lower lip like a lover.

  “You’re mine, sweetheart,” he said in a dangerously soft voice. “You asked for it. No one escapes from me. I’ll find you. And when I do, you’ll find out what a real man is like in bed. And I promise you, it’s not going to be glass slippers and ball gowns. Not by a long shot.”

  A few hours later, excellent news arrived as he held court in his library, hearing his audience. Simon magically materialized at his side, scraping low.

  “Your majesty, the detective found her.”

  “Excellent. Give me a minute, Simon.”

  Fully clothed now in a white linen shirt, open at the throat, and a red and gray plaid kilt, Derek sat upon his wooden throne of teak bookshelves. The audience today consisted of characters with minor complaints he easily dismissed (a few typos, some grammatical mistakes). But this batch of newbies needed specialized treatment.

  Derek stood and doled out solace and clean hankies to the group of newly published romance characters weeping over a particularly bad review. New characters were very sensitive and always needed extra nurturing. Many had skins the thickness of onion peels. He patted one on the shoulder comfortingly.

  “There, there. You know this business is subjective. Who cares what this Mrs. Snickers says, anyway?”