Grim Reaper | Casper x Custom Female Main Character (PWP, NC-17 || 5k words || smut, fluff, dirty talk, consensual voyeurism, masturbation on camera)
Summary:
Casper was caught in 4K during call, and MC lives for it. They banter lots, tease each other, Casper's barking and begging.
!Warning!
Not Enterely Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence, Slight Canon Adjustments, Alternative Timeline, Canon Typical Angst and Mentions of Death/dying/etc (but nothing bad really happens, I promise) (at least not in this fic) (this is pure smut with just a sprinkle of warnings)
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"You're blushing, Casper," Caha smiled, her head tilted as she watched him sputtering on the other side of the screen. Somehow the certainty of being seen made his usually perfectly coordinated limbs stiff and awkward.
"…What are you wearing?" he managed in a strangled voice, habitually avoiding answering unwelcome statements.
"Oh, this?" Caha tugged on one of the straps of her top, and her breasts jiggled right in front of camera. Casper wanted to look away, but couldn't, eyes glued to the display. "Laundry day clothes. Be thankful I bothered to put on anything at all."
Did it mean she could've potentially been sitting there naked..? He tried really hard not to think about it, but failed miserably. A stupid thing, really. Not that he never reaped someone during the intercourse, or never saw other bodies naked—both things happened to him plenty of times. The problem was, those things happened with strangers he had no feelings for whatsoever, and so was able to stay perfectly calm and composed the entire time.
And Caha, as much as it pained Casper to admit it, wasn't such a stranger. She was a nuisance and a sole failure in his outstanding career, and, fuck, why was she leaning closer..?
Casper straightened up, squeezing himself into the back of his armchair, watching Caha's chest practically pressing against the camera as she fished for something. He never knew she had a mole there, right in between. Perfect spot for kissing.
"Lyusha says hiiii," Caha hugged the cat to her stomach and waved Lyusha's paw.
No, he wasn't at all disappointed with the creature's appearance. Or the fact that she was now babied to pieces, taking all of Caha's attention.
In fact he could stand not being watched for a minute or two.
Losing a glove in process, his right hand slid under the desk, brushing against the throbbing tent of his pants. Hells. It was infuriating how little Caha needed to rile him up.
Casper watched her scratching Lyusha's belly, breasts jiggling with each movement of her arms.
Caha had plenty of moles on her face, but he never knew… Right in between, huh..?
He propped his chin, leaning on his left against the table while his right hand was quietly pulling down the zipper. Unlike certain someone, he was dressed properly for the call. And now regretted it a little: sweatpants would've been easier to get around. Still, he managed. Without the constraints of tight clothes, his erection freely stretched the boxers.
Casper took a quick look at the screen, but Caha was still preoccupied with petting purring Lyusha sprawled on her lap with the most annoying baby voice accompaniment possible. 'Oh, who's the cutest sweetest little thing in the whole wide world' and 'yes, my darling baby angel, you guessed right, it's you' were spilling from her like they cost nothing, flowing right into his ears together with the endless kissy noises, like she was saying that to him.
She wasn't, though, and Casper couldn't help but look at Caha, voicelessly begging her to spare at least a crumb of that attention and affection to him.
She didn't notice, of course.
She never did.
Casper hid the lower part of his face under his left hand and took a first tentative stroke, still through clothes, lips tightly pursed to not let out the slightest sound, eyes on the screen, on that fucking mole, thinking only about how it would feel on his lips. Caha was so warm that one time he touched her. So soft. Even through his gloves, Casper felt that.
His lips would probably melt off on spot if he were to kiss her. Run his palms along her curves. Squeeze her chest, fingers sinking into soft flesh. Bite her collarbone, then neck, taking in the pulse of her life beating against his lips.
Now he could only bite on his glove and swallow down the swears as he slowly stroked himself. Quiet. He needed to keep quiet.
Caha paused, then smiled, eyes sparkling.
"I was expecting a pretty please, but that's better."
She slipped out of straps of her top and then yanked it down, breasts bouncing free of fabric. Casper watched her, breath caught in his throat, mouth suddenly dry. Caha scooped them into her palms, fondling herself carelessly, fingers digging into flesh. That mole was there again, deep brown in jarring contrast against Caha's pale skin.
"Well, how about it?" she asked, looking at him with a smile. "How do you like your bones, Grimmy? Are they up to your distinguished taste?"
He tugged his left glove away with his teeth and ruffled his hair, shaking his head that felt two sizes too big all of the sudden.
"You really want to see me barking at you like a dog, don't you?" Casper sighed helplessly.
"Maybe. Is that the only thing you want to do with me?"
"…Hardly. If anything, I want so much, I can barely think human thoughts."
Caha let out a satisfied laugh as she plopped back into the pillows.
"Not a very good boy, are you now, Grimmy?" she teased, finger circling around her nipple. "With many, many naughty thoughts in that fluffy white head of yours, tsk, tsk, tsk."
"And who's at fault for that?" He couldn't help but glare at her, grating his teeth.
"Yours, of course," Caha scoffed in a matter of factly manner, her chin raised high. "You could've been fucking me like an animal all you wanted, no thoughts, head empty, brain smooth and unwrinkled, but instead you chose this. Now suffer in the bed you've made. Or rather, in a chair. Touch yourself with those beautiful cold hands of yours, thinking about how mine would've felt. Warm. And soft. Very, very soft. No calluses, no rough spots. Wrapping around all of your length, one atop another, stroking, caressing and rubbing you all over."
"Hah… hngh…"
Casper choked on his suddenly thickened spit. With Caha voice in his ears, saying stuff like that as she played with her tits, watching him masturbating, his body tingled all over, nipples tender and taut, hips thrusting into his hand by themselves.
"Please… Talk more, Sunshine… Please… I want…I want to hear more…"
She sighed in a way that made him tremble, then her right hand slid down again.
"It's not just my hands that are warm, you know? It should be much hotter inside my mouth. I'm not sure if I'd swallow you whole, you're kinda…a handful, in more ways than one, but the tip? I would've circled it with my tongue and taken it in. You know those ridges at the roof of the mouth? Right behind the front teeth? Bet they'd feel good against the skin, won't they?"
"…Yes, yes they would."
Hot sweet mouth. That sharp tongue of hers gliding all over him. She would definitely be all teethy about it, just to make him quiver in anticipation of a bite.
Hands on him, warm touch of them. Handling him with that tender carelessness of hers. Soft, then firm, then soft again. Light scratches.
Her face, her eyes, looking at him from the bottom up with that mischievous glint to remind him that she may be on her knees now, but it's him who's getting played. Defenseless and at her mercy. Getting the desired relief only with her permission.
"You're so pretty, Casper. So, so pretty." Caha whispered, words round and sticky inside her mouth, r's rolling from her tongue right into his head like pebbles, disturbing his already unstable mind.
"Can't…take your eyes away…can you?" he scoffed weakly, trying to shake the picture away before he'd start begging out loud.
"Can't."
"Knew…it. Ha. Good…you're finally admitting it. Told you…I'm charming…and irresistible…for your kind. Hah. Hngh. Fuck…"
He bit on his lip, squirming in his chair, close, so close…
"I'm trying, believe me. You know…there is another hot and wet place beside my mouth I can put you in? One that'll take you whole. It's practically dripping now, I'll have to squeeze my shorts after this call, really, what are you doing with me… Better then, what you're not doing with me. When you could've. Honestly. You. Ugh."
He knew what she was talking about. Of course he knew.
"Caha…"
"It's hard to do it dry handed, isn't it? You're so sensitive, Casper. Bet it's grating to you without any lube, huh? I could've helped with that. Maybe. Depends on your attitude."
"Please…"
"No. More."
"Woof..?"
"Still no. More."
"Sunshine…please…"
"Please what? Use words."
"Please…help me. Please… I…I want…"
"Yes?"
"I want…this. You. I want…you…so much, I'm going…crazy. You're fucking up… my life…and my head…and my job…and I still… I… I… Caha… Sunshine… Please."
"…You're telling all this, but still aren't coming. Even though I have perfectly toasty dripping pussy to put you in. Swallow you whole and squeeze the life out of you. Or death. Or soul. Or something. I'm sitting here, wet heaving, frothing at my privates, begging to be stuffed. Begging, Casper. Contracting on nothing but air. Achingly empty inside. All those nice wet folds and pulsing muscles left unused when they could've been wrapped around your stupid pretty pink cock. Hot and tight, so, so, sooooo tight. Milking every last drop out of you. Wouldn't that be nice?"
That was the only thing in his head as Caha spoke, words and images blending together, all the fantasies about her he played on repeat swarming in at once, flickering under his eyelids in sporadic fragmented flashes: Caha with her legs spread wide, demanding to fill her; her again, palm pressed against his chest as she straddled him with that annoying cute irresistible smirk on her lips, her wet folds sliding against his cock, covering him in her juices; her again, hands on his shoulders, palm cradling the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin as he thrust inside her; her again, pushing his head between her thighs, fingers raking through his hair before grabbing a fistful of it right at the roots, the tug just the right amount of painful to feel pleasure; her again, eyes closed, teething on her lower lip, all her soft flesh and curves trembling while he mindlessly beat into her like an animal in heat; her again, riding his face, trembling and moaning, his fingers digging into her thighs to keep her in place; her again, his teeth on her neck, biting and licking and biting again, leaving possessive marks in his wake, mine, mine, mine. Her body, her soul, her heart, everything, all of her, only his.
Nothing but her on his mind.
Just like she wanted.
Casper came and choked, gasping on air, dizzy and breathless, lost between fantasies and reality, not sure which was what.
Caha looked at him from the screen, head tilted, pouting, her cheeks bulged.
"Congratulations. Good for you. I still think I would've done a better job. Made much less of a mess. And you could've cuddled with me afterwards, and I would've kept you warm. Humph."
She turned her face away, but soon looked back at him from the corner of her eye, then turned even further, chin raised high, harrumphing again.
How could someone be simultaneously so stinking cute and so fuckable? It was still a mystery to him.
Casper leaned onto the back of his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, evening his breathing and heartbeat.
Caha was so incredibly wrong about that one thing: she was the one who made all this mess in the first place. Unceremoniously squeezing into his life, into his head, carelessly breaking and destroying all the rules he upheld, all the things he thought were right, all the plans he had for the future, and triumphantly taking the main place among the rubble of his disorderly mind, crowning herself as she took all the space inside it, leaving no room for other thoughts.
And a week later he was supposed to claim his rightful rewards for winning the bet and ferry her soul to the afterlife, never see her again, and turn back to the life he had before he ever knew her.
Yeah.
She couldn't have made a bigger mess if she tried.
“Columbus in Chains”
by
Jamaica Kincaid
Outside, as usual, the sun shone, the trade winds blew; on her way to put some starched clothes on the line, my mother shooed some hens out of her garden; Miss Dewberry baked the buns, some of which my mother would buy for my father and me to eat with our afternoon tea; Miss Henry brought the milk, a glass of which I would drink with my lunch, and another…
Title: The unsuccessful self-treatment of a case of “writer's block”
Date: 1974
Published in: Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis
Publicly available? Yes
Citation: Upper D. (1974). The unsuccessful self-treatment of a case of "writer's block". Journal of applied behavior analysis, 7(3), 497. https://doi.org/10.1901/jaba.1974.7-497a
https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402605
“Do I need a reason to dance with my wife?”
Just a short fluffy ficlet written as a gift.
Work Text:
Lucius Malfoy had not bothered to remove his dark, muggle style suit before he sat down heavily in his study with, in his opinion, a well-earned glass of brandy. He pulled off the tie and tossed it aside, leaving his shirt open at the neck, silently glad to be rid of it. He never would have thought he would ever wear such a thing, but there had been many of those moments over the last few years.
He closed his eyes, letting the burn of the liquor uncoil his tense muscles, soothe his furrowed brow. He had never expected to be taken into the good graces of decent society again, so the customary whispers, stares and muttered insults that followed him had been expected. Even though it put him on edge, made him brace for a fight, he couldn’t say it bothered him on a personal level. There was only one person whose words and thoughts he coveted and cherished…
“Mind if I join you?” The One’s soft, soothing voice caressed his hearing.
He smirked at the question. He never minded and she damn well knew that.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her pleasing profile. She was all grace and elegance, still dressed in the dark navy evening dress she’d worn to the fundraising gala. She had removed her gloves, and coat, her dark heels adding to the natural curve and swell of her nylon clad calves, drawing his eye to the gentle flare of her hips. Her dark, curly hair barely tamed into an almost regal French twist, one long slender finger dragging a manicured nail along her red sumptuous lips as she leaned in the open door, gazing at him impishly.
By the gods was she beautiful.
Desperate to distract himself, he fought for conversation. “Where’s the baby?” he asked curiously.
“With Draco.” She smiled, straightening and stepping into the dark sanctum of his study. “She should be sleeping, but with her big brother in the house, sleep is off the table it seems. She was having such fun, I asked if he’d hold out with babysitting duty for a while.”
She perched on his knee and he struggled against a groan.
“Oh? To what end?” he asked, taking a swallow of brandy for some strength to resist the more primal urges in him fighting for realization.
“This one.” She whispered, threading her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his tenderly.
He smiled against her kiss, feeling the stress of the evening spent in company of people who he either didn’t know or who still quietly despised him sloughing off of him at her touch. Who would have known two short years ago, that a simple request from the minister of magic to meet with this intrepid young witch to discuss his public support of a new set of laws as a show of good faith with the forgiving ministry would have blossomed into this?
He stood with her, setting her feet gently on the floor as he abandoned his drink to the table beside the chair. Wrapping his arms around her trim waist, he apparated them with a swift pop to the brightly lighted and more spacious drawing room of their townhouse. With a flick of his wand, the Victrola in the corner spun out a melody and as she smiled brightly, tilting her head back in joyful abandon, her laugh brightening his soul as it always had, he pulled her into his arms and drew her into the assured, swaying steps of a waltz.
“A dance?” she asked with intrigue, raising an attractively arched eyebrow. “What’s the occasion?”
“Do I need a reason to dance with my wife?” he asked huskily.
She shivered at his breath at her ear and sighed happily, leaning into his embrace and his chest tightened with unrestrainable reverence, his pulse thrumming with passion, love and adoration. He closed his eyes once more, breathing in her scent, vanilla and jasmine, that kissed the soft flesh of her body.
It was a funny thing, he thought. In the cold silence of winter, you became accustomed to the frost on the glass. The clear, ear ringing silence of the night only snowfall could bring. The bitter wind that chilled your lungs as you breathed. Even the sharp tingle of the ice against your flesh. It could even contain a beauty, a charm, of its own. You learned to be content in the cold, and the silence. There were after all warm fires to sit beside, hot drinks to imbibe on, thick blankets to seek refuge under – but outside the wind still howled, the ice still crackled, the cold still persisted undaunted.
And then, the awakening. Those first weak shudders of spring, as the buds struggled out from the frosted, brittle branches, the birds chirped their songs, defiant sprigs of green and color clawed out from the hard ground. Still the earth shivered, consumed by winter’s sting, blind to the stirrings and first gasps of a world reborn. As they all went on in their grey, sun starved pallor, the landscape dragged the first hints of warmth into its lungs and breathed out hope of renewal…
That’s what it felt like to hold Hermione Granger-Malfoy.
“I’ve been watching you all evening, soliciting donations, striking up support for your campaign.” He said, her cheek pressed gently against his as they turned about the floor in slow, lazy steps. “I was becoming quite jealous. I even envied your champagne flute more than once.”
She laughed again, gazing up at him with such devotion it made his chest ache. “You know by now you own my heart.” She touched his face as if to accentuate her words, dragging her thumb affectionately along his jaw. “I always return to your side.”
It was his turn to breathe deeply in contented tranquility. She was the spring to his winter, melting his December into May. Oh, winter would cling on. Winter would fight. Frigid nights and cold snaps would signal the death rattles of February, struggle through March but eventually life won out, and the warm rays of sun banished those tainted memories of frigid barrenness. Her smile was light bathing the frozen surface of a lake. Her touch was blooms breaking free of their tombs of soil. Her eyes were the warm pools of balm made with fresh herbs that he lost himself in when the past reached out its dead, clawed hands for his soul…
Well it couldn’t have his soul, for he had given it to her.
"Frauds on the Fairies" was a text by Charles Dickens, published in an 1853 issue of his magazine "Household Words". I discovered it while reading Palacio's study of fin-de-siècle fairytales, since it is a good illustration of what became of fairytales in 19th century England. And it contains a full Cinderella parody!
I will be copy-pasting the content of a website that you can find here.
First, a little introduction to explain the context behind the article:
Although he was an old friend as well as colleague of Charles Dickens, illustrator George Cruikshank (1792--1878) earned the novelist's Horatian satire for his re-writing traditional fairy tales in a moral manner designed to inveigh against the evils of alcoholism, which the reformed dipsomaniac had explored in a cautionary series of plates entitled The Bottle (1847) and its sequel, The Drunkard's Children (1848). Dickens's initial response to this social realism was initially positive, but as one who favoured reasoned moderation rather than absolute teetotalism, Dickens gradually came to regard Cruikshank's temperance propaganda as fanaticism. "As a child he had detested books which had discounted the wonderful and the bizarre in favour of precept or homily, and now his old faith in the stories of his youth was crystallised in this little essay" (Peter Ackroyd, Dickens [1990), page 689). By 1 October 1853, when "Frauds on the Fairies" (written in Boulogne, France) appeared in Dickens's weekly journal Household Words, relations between the novelist and his former illustrator had become somewhat strained. However, re-writing fairy tales as moral (particularly teetotalism) was nothing new in 1853: Dr. Thomas Bowdler (1754-1825) who in retirement on the Isle of Wight issued the sexually sanitized Family Shakespeare in 1818 had also re-written traditional fairy tales.
Then the article itself:
We must assume that we are not singular in entertaining a very great tenderness for the fairy literature of our childhood.What enchanted us then, and is captivating a million of young fancies now, has, at the same blessed time of life, enchanted vast hosts of men and women who have done their long day's work and laid their grey heads down to rest. It would be hard to estimate the amount of gentleness and mercy that has made its way among us through these slight channels. Forbearance, courtesy, consideration for poor and aged, kind treatment of animals, love of nature, abhorrence of tyranny and brute force--many such good things have been first nourished in the child's heart by this powerful aid. It has greatly helped to keep us, in some sense, ever young, by preserving through our worldly ways one slender track not overgrown with weeds, where we may walk with children, sharing their delights.
In an utilitarian age, of all other times, it is a matter of grave importance that Fairy tales should be respected. Our English red tape is too magnificently red ever to be employed in the tying up of such trifles, but every one who has considered the subject knows full well that a nation without fancy, without some romance, never did, never can, never will, hold a great place under the sun. The theatre, having done its worst to destroy these admirable fictions--having in a most exemplary manner destroyed itself, its artists, and its audiences, in that perversion of its duty--it becomes doubly important that the little books themselves, nurseries of fancy as they are, should be preserved. To preserve them in their usefulness, they must be as much preserved in their simplicity, and purity, and innocent extravagance, as if they were actual fact. Whosoever alters them to suit his own opinions, whatever they are, is guilty, to our thinking, of an act of presumption, and appropriates to himself what does not belong to him.
We have lately observed, with pain, intrusion of a Whole Hog of unwieldy dimensions into the fairy flower garden. The rooting of the animal among the roses would in itself have awakened in us nothing but indignation; our pain arises from his being violently driven in by a man of genius, our own beloved friend, MR. GEORGE CRUIIKSHANK. That incomparable artist is, of all men, the last who should lay his exquisite hand on fairy text. In his own art he understands it so perfectly, and illustrates it so beautifully, so humorously, so wisely, that he should never lay down his etching needle to "edit" the Ogre, to whom with that little instrument he can render such extraordinary justice. But, to "editing" Ogres, and Hop o'-my-thumbs, and their families, our dear moralist has in a rash moment taken, as a means of propagating the doctrines of Total Abstinence, Prohibition of the sale of spirituous liquors, Free Trade, and Popular Education. For the introduction of these topics he has altered the text of a fairy story; and against his right to do any such thing we protest with all our might and main. Of his likewise altering it to advertise that excellent series of plates, "The Bottle," we say nothing more than that we foresee a new and improved edition of Goody Two Shoes, edited by E. Moses and Son; of the Dervish with the box of ointment, edited by Professor Holloway; and of Jack and the Beanstalk edited by Mary Wedlake, the popular authoress of Do you bruise your oats yet.
Now, it makes not the least difference to our objection whether we agree or disagree with our worthy friend, Mr. Cruikshank, in the opinions he interpolates upon an old fairy story. Whether good or bad in themselves, they are, in that relation, like the famous definition of a weed; a thing growing up in a wrong place. He has no greater moral justification in altering the harmless little books than we should have in altering his best etchings. If such a precedent were followed we must soon become disgusted with the old stories into which modern personages so obtruded themselves, and the stories themselves must soon be lost. With seven Blue Beards in the field, each coming at a gallop from his own platform mounted on a foaming hobby a generation or two hence would not know which was which, and the great original Blue Beard would be confounded with the counterfeits. Imagine a Total abstinence edition of Robinson Crusoe, with the rum left out. Imagine a Peace edition, with the [97/98] gunpowder left out, and the rum left in. Imagine a Vegetarian edition, with the goat's flesh left out. Imagine a Kentucky edition, to introduce a flogging of that 'tarnal old nigger Friday, twice a week. Imagine an Aborigines Protection Society edition, to deny cannibalism and make Robinson embrace the amiable savages whenever they landed. Robinson Crusoe would be "edited" out of his island in a hundred years, and the island would be swallowed up in the editorial ocean.
Among the other learned professions we have now the Platform profession, chiefly exercised by a new and meritorious class of commercial travellers who go about to take the sense of meetings on various articles: some, of a very superior description: some, not quite so good. Let us write the story of Cinderella, "edited" by one of these gentlemen, doing a good stroke of business, and having a rather extensive mission.
ONCE upon a time, a rich man and his wife were the parents of a lovely daughter. She was a beautiful child, and became, at her own desire, a member of the Juvenile Bands of Hope when she was only four years of age. When this child was only nine years of age her mother died, and all the Juvenile Bands of Hope in her district--the Central district, number five hundred and twenty-seven--formed in a procession of two and two, amounting to fifteen hundred, and followed her to the grave, singing chorus Number forty-two, "O come," &c. This grave was outside the town, and under the direction of the Local Board of Health; which reported at certain stated intervals to the General Board of Health, Whitehall.
The motherless little girl was very sorrowful for the loss of her mother, and so was her father too, at first; but, after a year was over, he married again--a very cross widow lady, with two proud tyrannical daughters as cross as herself. He was aware that he could have made his marriage with this lady a civil process by simply making a declaration before a Registrar; but he was averse to this course on religious grounds, and, being a member of the Montgolfian persuasion, was married according to the ceremonies of that respectable church by Reverend Jared Jocks, who improved the occasion.
He did not live long with his disagreeable wife. Having been shamefully accustomed to shave with warm water instead of cold, which he ought to have used (see Medical Appendix B. and C.), his undermined constitution could not bear up against her temper, and he soon died. Then, this orphan was cruelly treated by her stepmother and the two daughters, and was forced to do the dirtiest of kitchen work; to scour the saucepans, wash the dishes, and light the fires--which did not consume their own smoke, but emitted a dark vapour prejudicial to the bronchial tubes. The only warm place in the house where she was free from ill-treatment was the kitchen chimney-corner; and as she used to sit down there, among the cinders, when her work was done, the proud fine sisters gave her the name of Cinderella.
About this time, the King of the land, who never made war against anybody, and allowed everybody to make war against him--which was the reason why his subjects were the greatest manufacturers on earth, and always lived in security and peace--gave a great feast, which was to last two days. This splendid banquet was to consist entirely of artichokes and gruel; and from among those who were invited to it, and to hear the delightful speeches after dinner, the King's son was to choose a bride for himself. The proud fine sisters were invited, but nobody knew anything about poor Cinderella, and she was to stay at home.
She was so sweet-tempered, however, that she assisted the haughty creatures to dress, and bestowed her admirable taste upon them as freely as if they had been kind to her. Neither did she laugh when they broke seventeen stay-laces in dressing; for, although she wore no stays herself, being sufficiently acquainted with the anatomy of the human figure to be aware of the destructive effects of tight-lacing, she always reserved her opinions on that subject for the Regenerative Record (price three halfpence in a neat wrapper), which all good people take in, and to which she was a Contributor.
At length the wished for moment arrived, and the proud fine sisters swept away to the feast and speeches, leaving Cinderella in the chimney- corner. But, she could always occupy her mind with the general question of the Ocean Penny Postage, and she had in her pocket an unread Oration on that subject, made by the well known Orator, Nehemiah Nicks. She was lost in the fervid eloquence that talented Apostle when she became aware of the presence of one of those female relatives which (it may not be generally known) it is not lawful for a man to marry. I allude to her grandmother.
"Why so solitary, my child?" said the old lady to Cinderella.
"Alas, grandmother," returned the poor girl, "my sisters have gone to the feast and speeches, and here sit I in the ashes, Cinderella !"
"Never," cried the old lady with animation, "shall one of the Band of Hope despair! Run into the garden, my dear, and fetch me an American Pumpkin! American, because some parts of that independent country, there are prohibitory laws against the sale of alcoholic drinks in any form. Also, because America produced (among many great pumpkins) the glory of her sex, Mrs. Colonel Bloomer. None but an American Pumpkin will do, my child."
Cinderella ran into the garden, and brought [98/99] the largest American pumpkin she could find. This virtuously democratic vegetable her grandmother immediately changed into a splendid coach. Then, she sent her for mice from the mouse-trap, which she changed into prancing horses, free from the obnoxious and oppressive post-horse duty. Then, to the rat- trap in the stable for a rat, which she changed to a state-coachman, not amenable to the iniquitous assessed taxes. Then, to look behind a watering-pot for six lizards, which she changed into six footmen, each with a petition in his hand ready to present to the Prince, signed by fifty thousand persons, in favour of the early closing movement.
"But grandmother," said Cinderella, stopping in the midst of her delight, and looking at her clothes, "how can I go to the palace in these miserable rags?"
"Be not uneasy about that, my dear," returned her grandmother.
Upon which the old lady touched her with her wand, her rags disappeared, and she was beautifully dressed. Not in the present costume of the female sex, which has been proved to be at once grossly immodest and absurdly inconvenient, but in rich sky-blue satin pantaloons gathered at the ankle, a puce-coloured satin pelisse sprinkled with silver flowers, and a very broad Leghorn hat. The hat was chastely ornamented with a rainbow-coloured ribbon hanging in two bell-pulls down the back; the pantaloons were ornamented with a golden stripe; and the effect of the whole was unspeakably sensible, feminine, and retiring. Lastly, the old lady put on Cinderella's feet a pair of shoes made of glass: observing that but for the abolition of the duty on that article, it never could have been devoted to such a purpose; the effect of all such taxes being to cramp invention, and embarrass the producer, to the manifest injury of the consumer. When the old lady had made these wise remarks, she dismissed Cinderella to the feast and speeches, charging her by no means to remain after twelve o'clock at night.
The arrival of Cinderella at the Monster Gathering produced a great excitement. As a delegate from the United States had just moved that the King do take the chair, as the motion had been seconded and carried unanimously, the King himself could not go forth to receive her. But His Royal Highness the Prince (who was to move the second resolution), went to the door to hand from her carriage. This virtuous Prince, being completely covered from head to foot with Total Abstinence Medals, shone as if he were attired in complete armour; while the inspiring strains of the Peace Brass Band in the gallery (composed of the Lambkin Family, eighteen in number, who cannot be too much encouraged) awakened additional enthusiasm.
The King's son handed Cinderella to one of the reserved seats for pink tickets, on the platform, and fell in love with her immediately. His appetite deserted him; he scarcely tasted his artichokes, and merely trifled with his gruel. When the speeches began, and Cinderella, wrapped in the eloquence of the two inspired delegates who occupied the entire evening in speaking to the first Resolution, occasionally cried, "Hear, hear!" the sweetness of her voice completed her conquest of the Prince's heart. But, indeed the whole male portion of the assembly loved her--and doubtless would have done so, even if she had been less beautiful, in consequence of the contrast which her dress presented to the bold and ridiculous garments of the other ladies.
At a quarter before twelve the second inspired delegate having drunk all the water in the decanter, and fainted away, the King put the question, "That this Meeting do now adjourn until to-morrow." Those who were of that opinion holding up their hands, and then those who were of the contrary, theirs, there appeared an immense majority in favour of the resolution which was consequently carried. Cinderella got home in safety, and heard nothing all that night, or all next day, but the praises of the unknown lady with the sky-blue satin pantaloons.
When the time for the feast and speeches came round again, the cross stepmother and the proud fine daughters went out in good time to secure their places. As soon as they were gone, Cinderella's grandmother returned and changed her as before. Amid a blast of welcome from the Lambkin family, she was again handed to the pink seat on the platform by His Royal Highness.
This gifted Prince was a powerful speaker, and had the evening before him. He rose at precisely ten minutes before eight, and was greeted with tumultuous cheers and waving of handkerchiefs. When the excitement had in some degree subsided, he proceeded to address the meeting: who were never tired of listening to speeches, as no good people ever are. He held them enthralled for four hours and a quarter. Cinderella forgot the time, and hurried away so when she heard the first stroke of twelve, that her beautiful dress changed back to her old rags at the door, and she left one of her glass shoes behind. The Prince took it up, and vowed--that is, made a declaration before a magistrate; for he objected on principle to the multiplying of oaths-- that he would only marry the charming creature to whom that shoe belonged.
He accordingly caused an advertisement to that effect to be inserted in all the newspapers: for, the advertisement duty, an impost most unjust in principle and most unfair in operation, did not exist in that country; neither was the stamp on newspapers known in that land-- which had as many newspapers as the United States, and got as much good out of them. Innumerable ladies answered the [99/100] advertisement and pretended that the shoe was theirs; but, every one of them was unable to get her foot into it. The proud fine sisters answered it, and tried their feet with no greater success. Then, Cinderella, who had answered it too, came forward amidst their scornful jeers, and the shoe slipped on in a moment. It is a remarkable tribute to the improved and sensible fashion of the dress her grandmother had given her, that if she had not worn it the Prince would probably never have seen her feet.
The marriage was solemnized with great rejoicing. When the honeymoon was over, the King retired from public life, and was succeeded by the Prince. Cinderella, being now a queen, applied herself to the government of the country on enlightened, liberal, and free principles. All the people who ate anything she did not eat, or who drank anything she did not drink, were imprisoned for life. All the newspaper offices from which any doctrine proceeded that was not her doctrine, were burnt down. All the public speakers proved to demonstration that if there were any individual on the face of the earth who differed from them in anything, that individual was a designing ruffian and an abandoned monster. She also threw open the right of voting, and of being elected to public offices and of making the laws, to the whole of her sex; who thus came to be always gloriously occupied with public life and whom nobody dared to love. And they all lived happily ever afterwards.
Frauds on the Fairies once permitted, we see little reason why they may not come to this, and great reason why they may. The Vicar of Wakefield [in Goldsmith's novel] was wisest when he was tired of being always wise. The world is too much with us, early and late. Leave this precious old escape from it, alone.
