The Glass Slipper

Chapter 1 Sweat ran from Cillian’s black curly locks, down his already grimy, stained chemise as he wielded the clunky hammer. Despite his efforts to attach the railing, the iron nail refused to penetrate the wooden fence post, as if mocking him for lack of muscle. Yet, no one else in the village could match Cillian’s massive physique. The sun’s heat roasted the dewy ground, raising the humidity to stifling levels, making it difficult for him to breathe. He had long since removed his shirt, because the perspiration caused it to stick to his skin and impede his tasks. “Father thought you’d have that fixed by now,” a voice behind him taunted. Cillian clenched his teeth and pounded harder, not looking at the speaker. The anger gave him strength to drive the stubborn nail into place at last. “I probably would’ve been finished if I had help,” he growled without turning around. “Shall I tell him the reason you’re not done is because you’ve been busy at the pond with the miller’s son again?” Cillian whirled around on the speaker, a handsome, pale-skinned redhead with icy green eyes, a sharp contrast to Cillian’s dark features and tanned skin. “You wouldn’t dare.” He held up the hammer in a threatening pose. A look of fear flashed behind Arten’s face and he took a step back. He smirked, turning his head away, nose in the air. “Or maybe I’ll say you were in the barn with Hamel, the chandler’s son? Or perhaps the chandler himself?” Cillian threw the hammer to the ground, narrowly missing Arten’s feet and the redhead yelped and jumped back in surprise. “What should I care if you tell him? He’s only my uncle, not even my real father. He reminds me of that fact all the time. Why should he mind what I do?” Cillian crossed his arms over his massive chest. Arten recovered from his shock. He glanced at Cillian’s pectoral muscles for an instant and then back up to his eyes. “Because if he thinks you’ve been dabbling with the young men in the village again, he’ll have you locked up by the constable. If you’re locked up, the story will get around the shire and then you won’t have a prayer of finding a woman with a sizeable dowry to get out of this pigsty. Since you’re only nineteen, you’ll have a long miserable life ahead of you.” He waved an arm around him to encompass the pasture and the decrepit assortment buildings that made up the manor, barn, and stables. Weeds and tall grasses encroached upon everything, threatening to undermine the foundation of the house. Its plaster walls were cracked and crumbling. The thatched roof leaked, and the windows were either broken or cracked, letting in the frigid air and snow in the winter. Everything needed fixing, like the fence but repairs were ignored. Cillian’s uncle-through-marriage Pepys had the money to pay to have the estate patched up, but preferred to squander his fortune on his worthless, spoiled sons, Arten and Dodd, giving them a sense of entitlement and leaving Cillian to do all the chores. Cillian had fallen far behind in his duties, performing only the most pressing and necessary jobs, and as usual, receiving no help from his step-cousins. Also, being the only one with blacksmithing skills for many leagues in any direction, his services were frequently called upon by the villagers. These side jobs should have supplemented the manor’s income but Pepys snatched up any extra funds for his lazy brats. “However,” Arten said, still smirking. “If you promise to fix the axle on the surrey, I just might overlook your lack of progress.” “After I fix the fence, I have to get the cows back into the pasture, and then chop wood for the fireplace. Otherwise, you will have a cold dinner and then freeze tonight,” Cillian protested. In spite of the heat, he watched Arten shudder. “The cows can wait then.” “If I don’t catch the cows, you won’t have milk for your breakfast.” Arten pursed his lips as if thinking about a response. “Then you’ll just have work late or I’ll tell Father you’ve been with Keefer. He’ll probably whip you again.” Cillian suppressed a tremor at the recollection of the whip’s sting. His step-uncle had wielded a cruel punishment when he discovered him and the miller’s son coupling in the shadows of the barn. He still bore the scars from the beating that night. Before he could retort, the sound of running feet reached their ears. They looked up to see Dodd bearing down on them as fast as his legs could carry him. “They’re coming!” he shouted, gasping for breath as he came to a stop. “Who?” Cillian asked, feigning indifference. Whoever Dodd was excited about might not be anyone important, but those were the only people that could raise such energy in his step-cousins. Dodd, who so closely resembled his brother they were often mistaken for twins although two years younger, gave him a look of disdain. “Never you mind,” he snapped. “Come on, Arten! We want to make sure the king sees us. He’s coming with the prince, the princess, and his good queen mother to spend the summer at the castle here.” They scrambled over the fence, taking great care not to snag or tear their jerkins or breeches. Garment mending was one chore Cillian could not perform, so any torn clothing had to be sent to the tailor in the village, who charged a pretty coin for his services. Cillian followed them across the pasture toward the road. Before they reached it, he could hear the sound of hooves filling the air. It soon grew to a roar and seconds later, a huge entourage of men on horses, banners, carriages, and wagons came into view. The trio watched in awe as soldiers, passed by, sunlight reflecting off their armor, followed by King Malo, upon his steed. Handsome and resplendent in dark blue jerkin with gold silk slashes on the sleeves, his matching brocade leggings were tucked in tall riding boots that almost reached his knees. A short cape lay loose on his shoulders. King Malo wore no crown, letting his short-cropped dark hair shine in the sun. Although the father of two teenaged offspring, he sported only a touch of gray at his temples. He raised a gloved hand, waving at them, as the entourage passed. “Hail to the King!” Cillian shouted. An instant later, Arten and Dodd echoed his greeting as if embarrassed they hadn’t called out first. An ornate carriage bedecked in gold trim with closed velvet curtains followed the king. As it rolled by, the curtain in one of its windows pulled back slightly, but Cillian could see nothing in the darkness beyond. Behind the carriage, wagonloads of trunks, servants in carts, and scores of farm animals trailed in the choking dust cloud left by the king and his men. A shout at the front of the train brought the parade to a sudden halt. A soldier broke from the ranks and trotted his horse back to the carriage. He spoke to someone inside for a second through the windows, and then spurred his horse into a trot, riding back to the trio. “Good day, gentlemen,” he spoke in a clipped but pleasant tone. “Who resides in that manor beyond this pasture?” He pointed to their dilapidated house on the opposite side of the field. Cillian hoped the distance would mask the disrepair and let the soldier think it was in much better shape than it actually was. “Hello, my good sir!” Arten said, with a sweeping bow. “That modest abode belongs to my honorable father Pepys. I am your humble servant, Arten and this is my younger brother, Dodd.” Dodd bowed low, imitating his brother’s stance. “Who is this young man?” the soldier said, indicating Cillian with his chin. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the shadows of his helmet. “No one, good sir,” Arten said before Cillian could speak. “He’s only our servant.” “I am Cillian, sir,” he said, finding his voice and bending slightly at the waist. “I am Pepys’ ward. He is the brother of my mother.” “Uncle, eh?” the soldier said. “Much more than a lowly servant then.” He gave Cillian a quick grin and whirled his horse around. He returned to the carriage and spoke again to the person through the curtained window. Arten and Dodd glared at Cillian until the soldier had resumed his place in the ranks and the entourage moved on. “How dare you contradict me?” Arten spat as he advanced on Cillian. He stood a head taller, but Cillian had a solid thirty pounds more muscle on him, a result of his days of apprenticeship to a blacksmith. “I am not your servant,” he fired back, staring into Arten’s eyes. “Like it or not, I am your cousin.” “I like it not,” Arten retorted. “Wait until Father hears about this.” He turned on his heel and headed in the direction of the manor. Dodd gave him a satisfied smirk and followed his brother. Cillian sighed as they retreated. He decided he looked more like a servant than a member of the family. His stained clothes and unshaven face made him resemble a simple farmhand more so than gentry. His hair and beard were ragged and unkempt even though his step-cousins made sure their clothes and coifs were perfect each day before facing the world. He himself was surprised when the soldier took note of him. “What made him ask of me?” he wondered aloud. “If he believed Arten and thought I was a servant, he wouldn’t have bothered.” He turned the question over in his head as he completed mending the fence, collected his shirt, and then herded the cows into the pasture after their brief excursion of freedom. Darkness had fallen by the time the herd was accounted for. As he closed the gate, he paused in exhaustion. The exertions from the day still lingered as dust and sweat caked his hair and his skin. His clothes stunk. He stunk. “And I still have to chop wood or I’ll be punished,” he muttered, but the energy to move escaped him. He walked away from the house and down the slope toward the stream that ran into the mill pond. “If they can’t find me, they can’t punish me.” He waded in the water with his boots on until he came to the pond and dove in, still clothed. Surfacing, he splashed about enjoying the cool, refreshing dip. The bright moon illuminated the area and Cillian scanned all around him, ensuring he was alone. He emerged from the pond and removed his clothes, laying them out on a rock. The heat of the day was fading fast, but the stone retained some warmth. I hope they’re dry by the time I go home. He jumped back into the water, naked, letting the cool liquid wash and cleanse his body, sweeping the stench of sweat and grime from his skin and hair. “That’s no way to treat your clothes,” a voice said from the darkness. Cillian turned toward the sound and watched a young man, just a few years older than he, step to the edge of the lake. Stace, the village tailor, picked up Cillian’s clothing and held them at arm’s length with only his fingertips, as if afraid to have any more skin come in contact with the grungy items. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed new clothes?” “I have no money to buy new clothes,” Cillian replied with a smile. “Since when do you need money? You know you can pay me in trade.” Stace’s tone sounded playful. “Why don’t you come out here and let me make a down p*****t?” Cillian said. “Thought you’d never ask.” Stace stripped off his leggings, jerkin, and shoes, tossing them onto the ground and waded out into the lake. He kissed Cillian on the mouth and ran his long, thin fingers over the hair on his chest, playing with his n*****s. Cillian chuckled at the touch and clutched Stace by his long blond hair, kissing him again. His manhood swelled as Stace massaged the sore muscles in his shoulders and arms. “I feel a p*****t coming,” the tailor chuckled. He wrapped his arms around Cillian’s neck and legs around his waist, rising out of the water. He lowered his body onto Cillian’s engorged c**k, sliding his hole over it like a sheath. Cillian waded through the pond toward the shore, bouncing Stace on his hips, thrusting deeper as the water became shallower and Stace became heavier. He laid the tailor on his back in the soft sand near the edge of the lake. Rising up on his elbows, he shoved his hips forward, forcing his c**k deeper into Stace’s hot manhole. The hair on his chest rubbed against Stace’s smooth skin, creating a heat that spread over Cillian’s body, making him sweat again. Stace squirmed and twitched beneath him with each thrust, gasping for breath and moaning loudly. “Oooh! Slow down, Cill,” Stace whispered. Cillian chuckled but didn’t let up. He continued his pounding as Stace dug his bony fingers into his back. Despite his protests, the tailor squeezed his legs together, pressing Cillian’s body against his. Cillian’s knees dug into the sand and he rose up on his arms, putting a gap between their bodies, bringing him a brief respite from the heat generated by the friction from their skin rubbing together. Mainly, it was Cillian’s furry chest creating the warmth. Stace’s pale skin, which at first seemed to glow under the moonlight, reddened from friction and the passion. His manhole felt a fiery furnace to Cillian’s poker as he pushed and retreated, the lake cooling it briefly before re-entering. His balls swung back and forth, the water slowing their motion as they tried to keep up with Cillian’s thrusts, bumping gently against Stace’s ass cheeks. His climax rose deep inside him, like a blacksmith’s furnace stoked and ready to purify metal. Cillian growled and sent his seed into Stace. He gasped as his body contorted with ecstasy, causing the tailor to squirm beneath him. “Ooh!” Stace cried. “I’m coming, too!” Cillian felt warmth spread between their bodies as Stace spewed semen, twisting and writhing with pleasure. Cillian collapsed on top of him and they lay in each other’s’ arms, gasping and laughing. “Come up to my shop sometime tomorrow,” Stace said, stroking Cillian’s beard and running his hands through his hair. “I’ll get you set up with some new breeches and a chemise. You should do this for Blaz, the barber. I’m sure he’d gladly give you a haircut and shave for no charge if you meet him out here some night, too.” He gave Cillian a wink and a knowing smile. Cillian remained kneeling in the pond, washing the mess off his stomach, c**k, and balls while Stace dried off with his jerkin and then gathered up the rest of his clothing. “Thanks for the ride, stud,” he said. “Hope you see you again out here soon.” He turned and vanished into the shadows of the trees. Cillian sat still for several minutes watching the place where Stace disappeared. It’d be good to have some new clothes, but Uncle Pepys would be furious. He’ll never allow me to wear something nicer than Arten or Dodd. He’ll probably burn them. And if I get haircut, he’ll wonder where the money came from. Then he’ll restrict my movements even more, Cillian thought. Even keeping me in the dungeon until they get desperate for firewood or something else they can’t handle themselves. If he could, Cillian would move to another village, set up a blacksmith shop there, and make his own living, if Pepys would give him his inheritance. He had plenty of friends here but none of them had any interest in leaving. Even if they did, they probably wouldn’t take him with them. They all believed Pepys to be a kind and generous guardian. He was the only one in such a pathetic situation. No one else seemed to understand his circumstances. Cillian gathered up his clothes, which hadn’t dried yet, in his arms and walked home. No lights shown in any of the windows as he approached the manor. He breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they were all in bed. He pushed open the door, making as little noise as possible. The hinges emitted a soft squeak and he froze in place. He stayed motionless until he was certain that no one heard him, and heard no movement in the house. Cillian took a few steps inside toward his room and pushed the door shut, latching it without a sound. A soft whistling noise alerted him only an instant before an excruciating pain sliced across his bare back. Cillian screamed in agony and crumpled to the floor, as another s***h cut into his flesh. “Coming in naked and after dark? What have you been up to?” Pepys’ voice cried out of the shadows. “Who have you been with? Hamel? Keefer? Someone else?” The whip lashed across the back of Cillian’s legs and arms. He tried to rise despite the agony, but Pepys continued whipping him, slicing into his flesh. He fell back to the floor, curling up into a fetal position, trying to protect his stomach and chest. “I will not have you out there destroying my chances to rise in this pathetic village,” Pepys shouted. “Arten! Dodd! Get in here!” The sound of running feet on the wooden floor covered with old and wilted rushes covered up the whistle of the whip through the air but did nothing to cloak the burning pain each lash created. The coppery smell of blood filled the air as warm liquid ran down the back of his legs, arms, and back. Pain flashed like lightning bolts across his skin and through his body. He couldn’t rise as his limbs failed him, buckling if he put any weight on them. “Lock him in the dungeon,” Pepys ordered. Hands grabbed Cillian by the arms and hauled him to his feet. Before he could resist, Arten and Dodd hustled him down to the dungeon, dumping him on the floor and chaining his arms to shackles in the wall. If he hadn’t been in such pain or injured, he could’ve broken their grasps with little effort, but now he was at the mercy of his two feeble-minded, weak-bodied step-cousins. They slammed the door shut behind them as they left. The cold stones of the walls and floor eased the fire in his wounds, but the frigid air chilled his body. His wrists were clamped near the wall on either side of him, forcing his arms wide apart. Cillian curled his legs up to his chest, hoping to preserve some warmth. The day’s heat had done little to warm the underground room, and the barred windows high in the wall allowed the cold night air to seep in. Still, it was better than the beating. Cillian laid his head on his knees, leaning forward as much as the chains would allow and tried to go to sleep.