Beauty, the Beast (Angela Carter Remix)


Crane, Walter. Illustration for Beauty and the Beast. London: George Routledge and Sons, 1874.

My captor comes to me, drenched in marbling moonlight. His face is a latticework of scars, hooded generously by the night. He always comes at night, limping through corridors towards me. Daytimes are spent in silence, as an army of clockwork servants washes, feeds and dresses me.

Lazily, he tosses a sack of gold coins at my feet. Its contents, iridescent in the gloom, ooze into the shade around it. The hands with which he leaves it there are hairy, his nails jagged.  I smile, unnoticed in the darkness. As a prisoner I have no use for money, but this is merely a formality. So ancient are the locks of my prison even a child could shake them to rust. But this is what I want; this is what I bargained for.

As he approaches, he stinks. Urine-stained fur, dried sweat, the stench of carnivorous teeth. His swollen chest bursts through the frayed silk of his Italian shirt and his cloven feet click and clack as he crosses the varnished floor towards my bed. Beneath me the sheets are stained with blood, the marks of violence and sex.

I am ready for him. He jerks my hair back, firm, baring my jugular to his kisses as though he might rip my throat out. His lips are hairy; his chin scratches me with fierce stubble. Claws run over my breasts, shredding lace and velvet, baring them to his sticky, panting breath. Against my leg, I feel his ripening cock, a fruit ready and veined and hard. I coil my fingers in the tangle of his pubic hair and tug him towards me. His mane falls about my neck and shoulders, and I feel his heat.

He paws my stockings, tearing them away from my legs, and slides four fingers upwards, beneath my skirts. Pulling away my garters, he clasps my sex in his leathery palms and feels my nipples harden against his chest. As I lie back, he drops his trousers and straddles me. My beast-man hisses as I slide my penis inside him. My eyes glint and my mouth waters. Outside, a cloud covers the moon, throwing us into gauzy shadow, and my beast bleeds across the bed covers.

Adam Lowe is a writer, publisher and producer from Leeds, UK.

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