Beauty and the Beast - a sequel, a short story by Rico.Viejo. Date added: 2012-07-28. Times viewed: 2722.

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Intro: As requested by an anonymous commenter. A bit of bestiality.

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Beauty sat on a rose-silk cushion in a gleaming-white-enameled window-seat and looked out on the greensward, dotted with flowering fruit trees and Greek and Roman sculptures, with sparkling gravel paths connecting lush flower beds. Puffy white clouds floated in the deep blue sky above, happy birds darted here and there, the smell of fresh baking wafted up from the kitchens through the open casement, carried by a light, warm breeze. She listlessly dipped another plump strawberry in powdered sugar and conveyed it to her sad mouth.

 

It was a horrible, dismal life for Beauty. She'd preferred being chained in the dungeon day and night, but for the few hours she was brought up for her meal of cold porridge and tepid water followed by brutal rape, sprawled across the filthy dining table, held helpless by invisible hands for Beast's pleasures. At least she was the focus of someone's attention then.

 

Her father, for whom she'd been created at the cost of her mother's life, to be his 'beautiful companion', was wholly occupied with a lusty, busty, giggling matron. The Beast, who'd have been her husband if she'd just lied and told him she loved him, was wholly occupied in stretching her sisters. Her formerly-ugly sisters continued to treat her with utter disdain—although in a very sweet, pretty way. 

 

Her misery made her doubly-ugly—she seemed scrawnier, more thin-faced, redder-nosed—a true eyesore: the others blinked and rubbed their smarting eyes if they happened to notice her. The Beast, to protect his equine eyes, wore a flymask when there was any chance of an encounter. He averted his eyes, now, when she bounded out of the bushes at him, while he was taking a riding-crop-swishing constitutional on his lush grounds.  

"I wish you'd go away," he said, heartlessly.  

"I want to go home, back to where I was born at the cost of my dear mother's life, but I don't know how to get there," she whined.  

"Take Bucephalus. He knows the way," he averred.

 

Beauty went straight to the stable. "Phallus," she said—that was her apt nickname for him, "would you take me home?"  

"You betcha," he replied. "Now that Beast's got two horny humans to prong, he's no time for horseplay with his old buddy."  

Invisible hands conveyed a fine velvet blanket and a richly jeweled sidesaddle to Bucephalus's back and cinched him up. The hands then gently fitted his hackamore and reins. The hands then abruptly picked Beauty up and plonked her onto the saddle, hooked a knee over a pommel, and shoved a foot into a stirrup.

 

They rode to the gates. "You or me?" said Bucephalus.  

"I'll do it," said Beauty, slipping her leg from the pommel and her foot from the stirrup, to slide to the ground. She went to the gates and unlatched them. The instant she pulled on one of the gates to open it, the silver tarnished black-brown and the hinges corroded to the point it took all her strength to pull the gate far enough open for Bucephalus to pass. The mansion grounds had instantly turned from grass to weed, trees deciduated, shrubs withered, song birds fell dead from the sky, the sun dove behind a cloud, a dismal, cold fog moved in.  

Even there, a quarter mile away, masculine howls of despair could be heard from the mansion. Beauty imagined Beast suddenly finding his lingam lodged in the spout of a living gargoyle, her father finding himself dragging dick in the drought-dry, desert wash of an old crone.  

After she led Bucephalus through she said, thoughtfully: "Should I close the gates?"  

The horse replied: "It would be the kind thing to do."  

"I'm not doing it," she said, like a child being told to eat her spinach.

 

There were no invisible hands to help Beauty back onto the saddle. The two walked a mile or so down the rutty, muddy road before they found a suitable, fallen, rotten tree. She drove off two vultures, who'd been tearing at the corpse of a lamb- or faun-sized animal, by smiling at them. They squawked, lifted, and thundered into the sky.  

"You're not making a lot of friends," said the horse.  

"I just need one friend, Phallus," she replied, leaning forward to rub her cheek on his neck and lick him and hug him.  

"Um," said the horse.  

They were narrowly missed by large gobs of vulture-poop from on high.

 

"How long?" said Beauty.  

"As long as Beast's, for certain."  

"No, to my village."  

"Depends," said the horse. "I could have you there in an hour, a day, or a week, but, to do it quickly or really quickly, I'd burn magical powers you might want me to have later."  

"No hurry," she said. "Nobody's waiting for me there. And it's good to be out of that horrible mansion."  

"Especially horrible since you left the gate open," said the horse. 

 

That night, so Beauty would not have to sleep on the swampy ground, they rigged a horse-suspended bed, of vines and the trunks of saplings and the horse blanket. Beauty could just slide into the bed between the blanket and Bucephalus's underbelly. As she lay with her toes up by his withers, she looked up into the semidarkness and said: "I hated it, but I miss it."  

"No need," snorted the horse.

 

In the night, she awoke to heavy pressure on her scrawny chest. "Push it over the side," said Bucephalus. "I gotta pee." Beauty could sense, rather than feel, the mighty torrent passing close over her face and chest. She directed the flow idly, with a little push of a thin hand, here and there.

 

The next night, she slept with her feet down by his tail, and used her thin knees to maneuver his member.

 

When they arrived at her home, she asked Bucephalus: "Are you going back, now? I left the gate open for you."  

"Yah, sure you did! For me? Nah, I'm stayin'. Kind of fond of you and what you do."  

Beauty gave him a big hug and a dozen kisses, then sent him off to graze while she assessed the business situation.

 

As if by magic, none of the perishable goods had perished—all was as if her father and her step-sisters had departed moments before. Over the next few years, Beauty applied herself, buying and selling. Her horse got the finest grains to eat, a boy exercised him every day, he got his due share of apples and sugar lumps. And loving attentions from Beauty.

 

One day, she rushed out to the pasture with a letter in her hand. "Phallus," she cried, "a ship is due to come into the seaport tomorrow with a cargo of what my wealthiest customers' wives are desperate for!"  

"That's a week's ride from here," the horse noted.  

"Yes, but you said you had magical powers."  

That little business trip increased her vast wealth ten-fold, but the effect on Bucephalus was evident. He became listless, less interested in food, spent much more time napping. Beauty devoted a great deal of loving attention to him, to make it up to him, but it didn't help—perhaps made him worse.

 

But greed triumphs over love. A few months later, another letter: a merchant had died, his goods were to be auctioned—starting in an hour.

 

Beauty had major commercial success, getting goods at a fraction of what they were worth, engaging a cheap shipper. But Bucephalus suddenly looked his age. "It's been a long time since Alexander was sitting proud, up where you are," he moped.  

Beauty immediately dismounted. "Come, old dear, we'll walk home, even if it takes weeks," she said.  

"You can't weigh five stone," he said.  

She insisted on walking, close to her dear horse, worried that she'd lose him. As they proceeded, two vultures circled overhead—perhaps the very ones she'd offended before. The attendant vultures fluttered from branch to branch, as the girl and her horse wandered in a dead forest. The ground was bare—not a leaf—nothing for a girl or a horse to eat or drink.  

"Is this the way?" Beauty asked.  

"I don't know the way anymore," sighed the sad horse.  

Beauty looked around; all she could see, in every direction, were the trunks of trees, seven to ten fathoms high, strips of bark peeling off bare, dead wood. There was no irregularity to the distribution of the trees or to the flat, dead soil. They could have been walking in circles for hours.  

"Lie down, dear Phallus," she said. "It's pointless to wander endlessly. We'll quietly starve and die, together, here."

 

That night, Beauty raised her head from the horse's flank. It was pitch-dark, except for a faint glimmer of light in the distance. "Another Beast," she thought, "in an enchanted mansion. If we can get there, perhaps we can break a spell and recover my dear Phallus and live happily ever after." She roused the horse, and pointed out the glimmer to him, but he couldn't attend to it. She had to lead him slowly along, by his reins.

 

When the forest became dimly lit by a sun rising somewhere, Beauty could make out a strange building not far away. A short distance out was a horse-trough filled with clear, cold water. The two, parched with thirst, drank, side-by-side. There was an open barrel of fresh grain. Beauty led Bucephalus there and held up handfuls for him to eat until he could nose into it and feed himself. While he was eating, she inspected the house. It was locked tight. It was made of the strangest materials—they looked like hard gingerbread and white sugar frosting. She reached out and grasped a shingle to bend it. It broke, yielding a familiar aroma. She bit off a piece and chewed it. She ran to the horse and gave him the rest.

 

When they had eaten their fill of siding, they rested and napped, then snacked. At dusk, a dim light exuded from the sugar-glass windows. Beauty went up to the door and knocked. There was a shuffling noise, then the sound of metal bars being shifted, the rattle of chains. The door creaked open. Beauty saw, standing in front of her, a man-sized cat. It had on a blue velvet doublet, a white hat with a pink ostrich feather, a silver belt with a sheathed short sword, tall boots with turned down tops, green gauntlet gloves, and an evil grin.

 

"What's that on your face?" snarled the cat, wiping Beauty's chin with a gauntleted finger, then tasting it. "You've been eating my house. For that you shall die!"  

Beauty just looked at the cat, sagely.  

"Why are you so unconcerned?" demanded the cat.  

"I know you monsters! I can see, from where your breeches aren't, you're a woman-cat. You're tired of tomcats: you want a man. My father will volunteer to take my place, and, in time, your curse will be lifted. And you and my father will live happily ever after in the magically unblighted forest."  

"About the only thing you got right was my gender," snarled the cat. "I love being clawed by those yowly toms. Daughters may be stupid enough to sub for their Dads, but never the other way. Any curse is on you, for getting lost and coming here. And your horse is still eating!"  

"Forgive him! He's very old. Thousands of years? He once carried Alexander the Great across Persia!"  

"Yeah, and I'm Pussy in Boots," snarled the cat.  

"Well, you are," Beauty observed.

 

"I'm going to fatten you up, then eat you like a mouse," decided the cat. With that, Beauty was seized by invisible hands and forced into a large cage with a folded rug in one corner, a litter box in another, a water bowl in the third, and a bowl of fresh, rich cream in the fourth. She was put on a regimen of ample meals of the finest canned catfood, with morsels of shingle for dessert.

 

After two weeks, Beauty was pulled from the cage by the invisible hands and stripped naked. "You haven't gained an ounce," complained the cat. "I'm not eating a scrawny thing like you. And as for your almost-dead horse who's literally eating me out of house and home ..."  

The cat pulled her sword from its scabbard and paced the room, swinging the sword to help her think.  

"What would be the most horrible, painful death for a pathetic thing like you?"  

"Being split in half by the horn of a stallion!"  

"Yes!" yelled the cat. "That's it!"  

"We already have the harness for that. It's in my horse's saddle bag," Beauty suggested.

 

As the weary horse, with the last bit of his strength, roused by endless, disgusting foreplay, entered the eager Beauty, there was a clap of thunder simultaneous with a lightning bolt that obliterated the leering cat. The observing vultures flew disconsolately away, leaving a descending rain of poop.  

"Don't stop," Beauty implored Bucephalus. "It feels so, so good."  

"No, me," said a masculine, uncatlike voice.  

Beauty looked around the horse's foreleg to see, in the cat's costume, a tall, Princely young gentleman. "As you can see," he said, in his breecheslessness, "I'm the equal of any horse."

 

The forest did not revive. Never did. The three—the androgynous Prince, the wan Princess, and the swaybacked horse—found their way back to Beauty's home and lived happily and prosperously ever after.

 

No report on the others.

 

 

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