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The goblin hordes she commands are, at best, tiresome. Maleficent has long since banished them from the throne room, keeping a second chamber where they are allowed to enter and request her presence. The throne room is for her, and for her guest, alone.

Sunlight reaches the castle, but it is tinted green, like the torches or the fire that provide the evening light. But it was easy enough to adapt to. Maleficent's shoes and the butt of her staff crack against the floor as she makes her way towards the table -- dark wood, blood-red cloth, sumptuous food -- and more precisely the young woman standing beside it.

This place suits Aurora. Perhaps it was to be expected, with Maleficen't magic wound so tightly into her veins, but it was a delicious discovery to make. She looks magnificent in black silk and gold brocade, a low-sweeping neckline that her breasts push against, a skirt slit and layered so that just occasionally a hint of skin can be glimpsed through them. It is almost distracting. Maleficent stands before her and reaches up to stroke her petal-smooth cheek.

A flutter of eyelashes, golden against lilac eyes. There is just a ghost of a smile on Aurora's lips, though she hides it relatively well. And, just at the corner, a smudge of cream. Maleficent runs her hand down Aurora's jaw, up her chin, and then traces one thumb across those delicate lips. Every time, it makes her think of how fragile Aurora can feel, a framework of bones and skin that splits as easily as that of a peach. Yet somehow she, unlike all of the others Maleficent has met in her long and busy years, has survived to stand at the side of the queen of darkness.

"You began without me," says Maleficent. Her thumb presses firmly against Aurora's lower lip, just for a moment. "You know that you are not supposed to."

Aurora's expression is the very picture of studied innocent. "I know, Mistress," she said. "I would never dream of disobeying you."

Her tongue flicks out to remove the cream from her lips, and Maleficent smirks. In a lightning move, her hand is locked around Aurora's wrist, and she raises it level with their faces. There is cream beneath Aurora's nail as well.

Slowly, never losing eye contact, Maleficent runs her tongue from the base of Aurora's finger to the very tip. She can hear the girl gasp, and it is so perfect every time. Heat coils in her belly as she sucks Aurora's finger into her mouth, tracing around it with her tongue, savouring the tangy salt of skin. The way that Aurora's breath hitches makes her breasts push harder against the black fabric constraining them.

That blue thing had not been bad. But there were far better things that could be done with fabric, and Maleficent knew how to make Aurora beautiful.

Now she brushes her teeth over Aurora's skin, then achingly slowly drags her lower lip along the digit.

"I think," she says, voice low and dark and full of wicked promises, "that you are lying to me."

Aurora's eyes go stage-wide. "Mistress!" She protests, and the word goes straight to Maleficent's loins. "I never would!"

Maleficent snatches her closer, so that they press body-to-body, their eyes barely inches apart. She can feel the heat of Aurora's skin, see the blush rise in her cheeks like the sun reddening the evening sky. "Impertinent girl," she breathes, and Aurora looks almost ready to swoon. "You need to be taught a lesson."

Releasing the girl's wrist, she walks over to her throne. It is grand and black and always cool to the touch, though it is hard to say if it is stone or wood or shadow made solid. She shrugs off her cloak to reveal the slim black dress beneath, and sits on her throne. Aurora stands, hand still raised and breathing coming quickly, until Maleficent tilts her chin and smiles like a snake.

"Come here."

Aurora's eyes turn to the ground in a play of humility. She looks beautiful presented as a princess to the masses, in fine clothes and haughty posture, her chin held high and her eyes fixed on the far distance. But before Maleficent, and Maleficent alone, she will bow her head and await her punishment.

Finally, she reaches Maleficent's knee. Her hair is a golden curtain around her face, the black and silver circlet on her head better than any earthly crown. Her skirts whisper. Maleficent lets the moment hang in the air, brewing and strengthening, then reaches out and grabs Aurora's arm to pull her down across her lap.

Aurora gives a cry, but it is not fright, not shock; Maleficent recognises the throaty gasp of it. She falls face-down across Maleficent's knees, her bottom raised into the air, her legs a tangle and her hair mussed. She tries to push herself upright again, but Maleficent puts one hand on her lower back and just a touch, no pressure needed at all, is enough for her to still.

"You know what happens to impertinent young women, Aurora."

"Yes, Mistress," Aurora breathes.

It is always Aurora here. It was Aurora who was cursed so many years ago, though she would smirk and say now that she was chosen. Briar Rose was a fiction, a figment; Aurora is real and flesh and blood, and a warm weight on Maleficent's lap.

Of course, another reason for the layering of her skirts is that it makes it so easy for Maleficent to draw them aside to reveal the glorious skin beneath. "And no underclothes," Maleficent says, running her hand across one buttock and feeling the faint lines her nails make. "My, my, how very improper."

This time, Aurora does not say anything, but Maleficent can feel the tension in her body, the faint quiver. She does not bother slipping a hand between the lily thighs to check that Aurora is aroused; she will be. Instead, Maleficent draws out the aching torture, running her hand in langurous circles over Aurora's buttocks, pausing to squeeze lightly, raking with her nails. Aurora's breath becomes more and more ragged with the wait, and she shifts her hips hopefully against Maleficent's knees.


Maleficent brings her hand down in a sharp slap, and Aurora yelps and bucks. "You do not determine your punishment, do you?"

"No, Mistress."

"Very good." Maleficent massages the neat pink outline of hand, and Aurora squirms again. She kneads the skin beneath her touch, then brings her hand down with a sharp smack again, this time on the other cheek. Aurora's cry has the cadence of a moan about it this time.

"Count," she says, and sees Aurora nod.

Crack. "Three," says Aurora, quite smartly counting the ones which have already taken place. Maleficent lets it slide, and strikes again. "Four." Again. "Five."

She continues to count as Maleficent brings down her hand, blow after blow on the pearly skin raising pink marks tipped with the points of sharp nails. The numbers become moans, become half-sobs, and one of Aurora's hands clutches at Maleficent's ankle beneath her dress.

She stops at twenty-five, for no particular reason, and gently strokes Aurora's thighs. "Good girl," she breathes. "And what have we learnt."

"To wait for you, Mistress," whimpers Aurora.

With a smooth chuckle, Maleficent draws her upright again, holding her hands until she is steady on her feet and the rush of her head passes. Aurora's cheeks are flushed, her hair tousled, her lips shining and parted as she pants, and she is so sexually desirable that Maleficent cannot help the pulse she feels between her thighs.

"Yes, my dear," she says, "and you have learnt it very well indeed."

Her hands part the front of Aurora's skirt and reach beneath, and this time they do slip between her thighs. Aurora whimpers from the first touch, before Maleficent's hands do anything more than brush against her lower lips, and Maleficent smiles as she sees that her princess is already wet and plump with need.

"In fact," she continues, "I think a reward may even be in order."

One finger strokes lazily along the length of Aurora's slit, sliding on skin. Aurora gives a little choked sob. "Please, mistress. Maleficent. Please."

She manages to make Maleficent's name sound like music, like a blessing rather than a curse. It was one of the things that had caught Maleficent's attention in the first place.

She slips a second finger alongside the first and presses a little, feeling Aurora open up to her like a flower to the sun. Her skin is slick and hot, and when Maleficent's fingers trace high enough to brush over her clit it makes her moan. Still smiling, still needing only one hand as Aurora reaches to grasp the arm of the throne for support and leans over, breasts almost spilling out, Maleficent starts to rub small circles. She knows how much Aurora wants this, a need so deep it is almost an ache, a desire so hot it demands to be quenched.

Her touch grows faster, more insistent, and Aurora's hips began to rock against her, her hand tightening on the arm of the throne. Her moans crack, and still it sounds like liquid gold. She is so thoroughly... debauched.

Maleficent is well able to read as Aurora's climax nears. She sees it in the sway of Aurora's body, the tilt of her chin and the way that her eyes close in growing pleasure, the way that her thighs quiver.

"Come, my heiress of evil," Maleficent says, her voice black velvet and nightshade. "Come for me."

"Maleficent!" Aurora climaxes with a scream that rings in the hall, the pleasure almost visibly rolling from her, her hips thrusting against Maleficent's hand and her eyes closed upon some inner dream. Then for a moment still she stands there, arms shaking, Maleficent's hand cupping her sex as if she is holding her up, before finally peeling upright.

Maleficent smiles, and draws her hand away. Her fingers shine. "And what have we learnt, Aurora?"

The smile that Aurora gives has just a touch of wickedness about it. "To always wait for your attendance, mistress."