Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)Beauty had worked in Mrs. Adrian's sewing studio for many years now, but never had she the experienced what she had over the last week. A costumer had been displeased with her and the seamstress' work, but Beauty had denied her accusations of not following her instructions. She was sure they'd done it to the letter. The old crone, obviously offended, had shouted - "should you prick your finger upon a sewing needle, you will fall into an slumber until the world ends!" She had laughed at the woman's words and ushered her from the shop. When she had told her boss about this, Mrs. Adrian had looked at her, almost sadly. She said, "not until the world ends, my dear, until a kiss is bestowed upon your lips." Beauty had laughed that off as well.
She was sitting in the studio, sewing the hem of a dress. Slipping the needle in, and pulling it through - rinse and repeat, all the way around. Today, the innocent young Beauty wore a simple black, turtle neck, sleeveless dress, that fell to her mid thighs. Stockings rose to her thighs and gave way down her legs to black, strapped heels. She wore some bangles on her wrists, her nails neatly done and manicured. Her long, slightly curled raven hair spilling freely down her back and over her pale shoulders.
Beauty was spacing out, her mind wandering from the task at hand, when she suddenly gasped. Having pushed the needle too far in, she'd jabbed the pad of her index finger. She jerked her hand to her mouth to catch the beading blood when, suddenly, the old crone's words echoed through her mind. Poppy-cock, just plain old bullshit. Even as she thought that, her head suddenly began to throb and she grew dizzy. She stumbled from her chair, to make her way to the bathroom, but she didn't make it, collapsing to a heap on the floor. Sleeping.
Mrs. Adrian found her that way. Carried Beauty's thin body from downstairs to the upstairs loft. Inside was an oddly barren room, save a lush, and grand, black canopy bed. The seamstress laid her body upon the floor and adjusted the bed, before picking her up and laying her upon the silk sheets. She pulled the slight blanket to the thin woman's waist and left her thusly.
Ten years passed, then twenty, thirty, fourty, and even, fifty. The world changed drastically, slaving socities becoming rampent in a declining economy. Woman forced to the whims of men, or even men forced to the whims of woman - being tortured, enslaved, sexually mistreated, and even sold to bring to a single entity a profit. Each of these 'facilites' were mansions, in cut off places, one single person running it from the top and taking in the profit. Many masters worked in these mansions, to break the slaves and bring them into the sexually driven world. To humilate them at another's pleasure.
One of these socities heard of the sleeping Beauty and a master was sent to inquire of her. Mrs. Adrian's shop had long since closed since the mysterious seamstress had disappeared. The only part of the two-story studio that laid untouched was the loft where the young Beauty - eternally twenty two - slept in her cursed slumber. The slumber of Sleeping Beauty, as the legend said, to be awoken with a kiss of true love. This man did not believe in such ridiculious curses, or such fairy tales, but had come to bring back to the lovely beauty they spoke of. He would find the doors unlocked and Beauty asleep, as if in an eternal state of rest, in the embrace of the cold canopy bed.
She was sitting in the studio, sewing the hem of a dress. Slipping the needle in, and pulling it through - rinse and repeat, all the way around. Today, the innocent young Beauty wore a simple black, turtle neck, sleeveless dress, that fell to her mid thighs. Stockings rose to her thighs and gave way down her legs to black, strapped heels. She wore some bangles on her wrists, her nails neatly done and manicured. Her long, slightly curled raven hair spilling freely down her back and over her pale shoulders.
Beauty was spacing out, her mind wandering from the task at hand, when she suddenly gasped. Having pushed the needle too far in, she'd jabbed the pad of her index finger. She jerked her hand to her mouth to catch the beading blood when, suddenly, the old crone's words echoed through her mind. Poppy-cock, just plain old bullshit. Even as she thought that, her head suddenly began to throb and she grew dizzy. She stumbled from her chair, to make her way to the bathroom, but she didn't make it, collapsing to a heap on the floor. Sleeping.
Mrs. Adrian found her that way. Carried Beauty's thin body from downstairs to the upstairs loft. Inside was an oddly barren room, save a lush, and grand, black canopy bed. The seamstress laid her body upon the floor and adjusted the bed, before picking her up and laying her upon the silk sheets. She pulled the slight blanket to the thin woman's waist and left her thusly.
Ten years passed, then twenty, thirty, fourty, and even, fifty. The world changed drastically, slaving socities becoming rampent in a declining economy. Woman forced to the whims of men, or even men forced to the whims of woman - being tortured, enslaved, sexually mistreated, and even sold to bring to a single entity a profit. Each of these 'facilites' were mansions, in cut off places, one single person running it from the top and taking in the profit. Many masters worked in these mansions, to break the slaves and bring them into the sexually driven world. To humilate them at another's pleasure.
One of these socities heard of the sleeping Beauty and a master was sent to inquire of her. Mrs. Adrian's shop had long since closed since the mysterious seamstress had disappeared. The only part of the two-story studio that laid untouched was the loft where the young Beauty - eternally twenty two - slept in her cursed slumber. The slumber of Sleeping Beauty, as the legend said, to be awoken with a kiss of true love. This man did not believe in such ridiculious curses, or such fairy tales, but had come to bring back to the lovely beauty they spoke of. He would find the doors unlocked and Beauty asleep, as if in an eternal state of rest, in the embrace of the cold canopy bed.