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  Belle

  a Twisted Fantasy

  by Tamara Vincent

  Belle and Twisted Fantasies, © Tamara Vincent.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a fantasy story and it should be not taken too seriously.

  "Be savage, not average"

  When the summons came from the mansion, Annabelle was not surprised. Worried, certainly, and possibly excited, but not surprised.

  The Master of the Mansion’s black Rolls Royce had been prowling the neighborhood, and she had been followed, twice, on her way from the library to her home. She had wondered whether the mysterious man that lived alone in the villa had been hiding behind the smoked windows of the car.

  “The Beast’s got his eyes on you,” her father said, with a mixture of pride and disgust. “Teaches you to go about wasting your time. Showing off.”

  “I have not been showing off,” Annabelle replied. “Whatever that means. And as for catching the Master of the Mansion’s eye, I have my doubts—”

  Her father snorted, and cut her short. “I always knew that a daughter would only bring grief,” he said. “But who knows, maybe putting a foot in the door of the Mansion will be a good thing.”

  “There are rumors—” she said.

  “Yeah, we all know the rumors,” her father laughed. “But you brought it upon yourself, and we’ll have to take the good with the bad of it.”

  Annabelle sighed, and retreated to her room.

  The good with the bad, she thought. Rumors had that the girls summoned at the Mansion to work for the Master were seduced and ravished. The Master kept them as his playthings, subjecting them to the worse humiliations, and once he was tired of them, he would send them away. The girls left, all expenses paid, and moved to far away cities, and their families got a rich compensation.

  The good with the bad.

  She could see why her father was not so displeased, after all, of her imaginary indiscretions.

  The black Rolls Royce stopped in front of their house the following morning.

  The back seat of the car smelled of tobacco and leather. Annabelle sat stiffly, her small suitcase by her side, and watched the hills roll by as they drove to the countryside. She had no idea of who was driving the car. There was a black glass between her and the driver’s seat. She had stepped into the car, the door opening and closing by itself. No word had been spoken, no sound heard.

  Her father had watched her go, scratching his belly, and she had felt a strange sense of relief, which she thought wrong, but could not hold back. She was on her own.

  But hadn’t she always been?

  Ever since her mother had died, her father had treated her like an intruder. She had gone through school like little more than an orphan, while at home she kept things going. She learned to cook, to do the chores, all the things a good housewife was supposed to do. But her real passion was reading, and she had found a job, first as assistant librarian and then, when old miss Grosnik had retired, as head librarian.

  The black glass handed her back her reflection. Dark hair in a bun, pale face, blue cardigan over a white blouse. She sighed. Long years among the shelves had lent her a vague smell of dust and old paper she did not dislike. She was twenty-seven, and she looked forty. But it had not been the work in the library to age her prematurely.

  Yes, she was relieved at leaving home.

  While she was daydreaming about her past, the car had left the fields and entered the forest. Black gnarly trees extended their branches like raptor claws over the street, and the wind blew the autumn leaves along the gutters. She caught some movements among the trees, and thought she spotted a deer, moving slowly through the undergrowth.

  Then they passed the great iron gates of the Mansion.

  She turned, watching the gates close behind them.

  The park of the Master’s domain was as wild and as forbidding as the forest outside the walls. They passed a fountain, the statue at the top of it wrapped in black ivy.

  Then, after what felt like an eternity, the car stopped in front of the front gates of the Mansion, and the passenger’s door opened without a sound.

  Gathering her courage, Annabelle picked her suitcase, and got out of the car.

  The mansion was a mountain of black stone and pointed rooftops, curtained windows staring out through iron bars. Annabelle climbed the short ramp of steps that led to the main door, and before she could touch the clapper, the door swung open.

  She took a deep breath and walked in.

  The door closed behind her.

  She found herself in a cavern-like entrance hall, the floor a pattern of black and white tiles, the ceiling so high it disappeared into the darkness. The lights were out, except for a small lamp on a side table. Annabelle got closer, and found a silver tray, with a card on it.

  Miss Annabelle

  Make yourself at home.

  This is the only key to your room: second floor, third door to the left. Never lose this key, and always carry it with you.

  Will meet presently.

  B.

  She picked up the card. Under it was a gold key.

  She looked around. The house gave her that unspeakable vibe that deserted and abandoned places have.

  She took the key, and started up the stairs, under the severe glare of a number of dark paintings, portraying grim men and sultry, richly-dressed women.

  She glanced with curiosity at that parade of medal-encrusted chests, sparkling jewels and aggressive cleavages. She ran her hand over the staircase rail, finding no dust on it.

  The place looked abandoned, but it was clean and ordered.

  On the second floor, she turned left and counted three doors along the wide corridor. Tall windows let in the grey light of the winter morning, and gave her a full view of the parkland surrounding the house.

  She tried her key, opened the door, and entered in her room.

  The chandeliers on the walls were on, bathing the room in a soft amber glow. She stood for a moment, stunned. Then she gently put the suitcase down and walked into the room.

  To the left of the door was a small alcove, with two stuffed chairs and a low table, and a reading lamp. Next to it, a tall mirror surrounded by a gilded frame, and then the sliding doors of a walk-in closet. Annabelle chuckled at the idea of hanging in there the three blouses and the spare skirt she had brought along.

  The bed was huge, a colossal four poster as big as her bedroom back home, all shades of red and purple, and black. She sat on the mattress, finding it hard under the down cover.

  A chest of drawers sat by the side of the en suite bathroom, that she found immense and a little intimidating. More mirrors, and a big pool-like bath-tub in the floor.

  There were paintings, hanging on the walls, mostly courtly scenes, and a big, life-size portrait of a woman in a daring golden dress, her red hair piled high on top of her head, and a look on her face that gave Annabelle a shiver. Green eyes looked down at her.

  On the nightstand, she found another note.

  Welcome.

  Lunch will be served at the striking of noon, in the small dining room, first floor left.

  I will join you later.

  B.

  She took some time to observe the handwriting.

  Clear, smooth, clearly masculine.

  The Master of the Mansion was shy, but obviously well cultured.

  She picked up her suitcase, and started trying to make herself home.

  The small dining room on the first floor was large enough to seat twenty people. A nice smell welcomed Annabelle as she walked in, and she found a single place prepared, at the head of the long table. Silver covers revealed a nice serving of vegetable soup with fried bread croutons, a serving of braised veal with potatoes, and a slice of blueberry pie. Both w
ine and water were available in fine glass bottles.

  Annabelle ate slowly, enjoying the food, and wondering if this was the prelude to some fairy-tale development. After all, nobody knew exactly what went on in the Mansion, and the scandalous stories were just that, stories, based on nothing more than wicked fantasies on the part of the villagers.

  She looked around, appreciating the baroque furniture and the paintings at the walls, a selection of brightly-colored scenes featuring people eating and having fun, in various stages of dishabille.

  She was finishing the pie when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside. She froze, the fork halfway to her mouth, as the door opened.

  The creature that passed through the door had to bow his head as he came in. He was over seven feet tall.

  “Miss Annabelle, I hope you enjoyed your meal,” he said.

  His voice thrummed like a motor in low gear, like the restrained roar of a big beast of the savanna. And that was the way he looked.

  Annabelle’s fork slipped her fingers, and rattled in her plate.

  The thing standing in front of her had arms and legs, and a head, but there all human semblance ended. Wide-shouldered and deep-chested, the creature had arms as thick as Annabelle’s waist, and hands big in proportion. He was wearing a fine velvet jacket, a deep blue, that stretched over his muscles and rippled as he moved. Narrow of waist, he stood on massive legs, sheathed in black pants that looked painted on.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked with a grin.

  It was his head, though, that had completely curdled the young woman’s blood. It sat on a thick, muscular neck, and it was far wider and longer than a man’s. His face was half-way between a great ape and a bison, with a wide nose with large nostrils, and a large, full-lipped mouth filled with white, sharp teeth. A big mane of brown and copper hair fell over his shoulders, brushing the tips of his pointed ears. He had large, penetrating eyes, and a pair of curved horns, like a ram’s, grew out of his forehead and curled back, to fade into his hair.

  “You seem surprised,” he said.

  His tail swished as he sat by her side, and served himself a glass of wine. His hands were hairy and his fingernails were long, and sharp, and black.

  Annabelle lowered her gaze, and forced herself to speak.

  “I did not mean to offend you, sir,” she said. “By staring, that is.”

  The creature laughed, a deep rumble in his chest. He threw his head back and the laugh turned into a sort of howl. His eyes sparkled as he took a sip of wine. “You have not offended me. You are strong. I like that.” He put his glass down. “I was just surprised by your surprise, so to speak. It worries that the good people of the village did not give you a full description of myself, so that you could be prepared. Maybe a plague decimated the population, carrying the scandalmongers all to hell?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “Everybody is fine and hardy, sir,” she whispered. “It’s just me. I do not put much stock in rumors.”

  The creature clicked his tongue. “Thus wasting the love and craft those purveyors of outrage put in their nicely manufactured stories. A pity.”

  She glanced at it… at him.

  “My guests,” he said, finishing his wine, “often react in a much more extravagant manner, miss Annabelle.”

  “You are,” she tried, “somewhat extravagant yourself, sir.”

  Again he bellowed his howl-like laugh.

  “But you will see that I am not dangerous,” he replied. “As long as you do as you are told.”

  He stood, towering above her. “Ready to see where you will be working?”

  She nodded, and stood in turn.

  “I am sure you will like what I am about to show you,” he said, motioning for her to follow him.

  It was the largest library Annabelle had ever seen, and it was in chaos.

  “I’m afraid I have overlooked the care of my collection,” the Master said, walking into the room. Bookshelves rose in rows like ancient monoliths, overloaded with books of every shape and size and age. Annabelle followed the Master, her eyes wide in wonder, her mouth open. More books were piled on the floor, in tottering towers. They rested on couches and stuffed chairs, they were stacked on tables.

  “I am aware of the fact that we share a love for books,” the Master said. “And you are an experienced librarian.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, unable to take her eyes from the treasures surrounding them.

  “Then I will ask you to put my collection in order. Catalog and arrange the books as you see fit based on your experience.”

  “It will be a lengthy work.”

  “This is of no consequence to me. You will take the time you think proper. You will be my guest. I will pay you for your work, and I will provide your father with a cheque, so that his needs are provided for while you are away.”

  “And will this be all?” she asked.

  “This will be all. We will meet occasionally, share some food and conversation. But I will keep away from you, because I realize my presence can be—disquieting.”

  Annabelle blushed. “I assure you, sir—”

  “Don’t. You are a model of elegance and restraint, and I appreciate that too. I appreciate it very much.”

  “I will start my work straight away, if you—”

  “No,” the Master said. “Not tonight.”

  She stared at him, arching her eyebrows.

  “My house has its rules, and these rules can’t be broken.” He pointed at a clock, resting on its shelf. “In about half an hour the clocks will chime. The rules require that by that time you are in your room. You are to lock yourself in—you have the only key, remember—and keep to your quarters until the morning, when your breakfast will be served. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “I must insist,” the Master said, “that you take this single rule at heart, and observe it. Do I have your promise, miss Annabelle?”

  Annabelle glanced at the clock. “You have my promise,” she said. “And therefore, if you will excuse me—”

  “Of course,” the creature nodded, courtly. “You are free to retire. Once again I remind you to lock your door, and remain in your quarters until the sun rises again.”

  “This I will do,” she said.

  “Fine. I wish you good night, then.”

  He bent his broad back in a courtesy, and watched her go.

  Annabelle locked the door as she had been instructed. She tested the door to make sure it was fast, and then went to sit on her bed, trying to put some order in her thoughts.

  The Master was all the city gossips had said he was, and more. She had never seen a creature like that, and for all the time she had spent reading about far off lands, and strange places, and wild, seldom visited parts, she had never caught a reference to such sort of monster.

  She paused on that word.

  Monster.

  The Master was horrible to behold, a beast unheard of, and yet he had been courteous, and affable, and quite gentlemanly. She had felt his deep voice reverberate in her chest, and yet he had been kind.

  And the library!

  She couldn’t wait for the morning to come, so that she could start working on that wealth of books.

  She heard the clocks in the house chime, a distant chorus of bells and gongs and carillons, that rose through the halls and corridors and filled the air with a discordant din for a good minute.

  Then the great house was silent.

  Annabelle sighed, and went to the en-suite bathroom to prepare herself a bubble bath. If she was to be locked up in these apartments from dusk until dawn, she might as well take advantage of the comforts provided.

  She ran a warm bath, and then checked the walk-in wardrobe, to see if she could find a length of ribbon to keep her key on.

  She was surprised to find the racks loaded with dresses, in a kaleidoscope of colors and designs. Her poor three pieces of clothing hung, sad and forlorn in a corner. She pulled the drawers o
pen, and they erupted in a variety of laces and frills.

  This was unexpected.

  She ran back to the bathroom and stopped the bathtub from flooding the floor. She peeled off her travel clothes, and she sunk in the hot water. From a crystal bottle she poured a few drops of thick, golden soap, and then she relaxed, allowing the suds to cocoon her.

  She lazed in the bath until the water became cooled to the point of being uncomfortable, then she got out of the bathtub, she wrapped herself in a soft white bathrobe, and she tiptoed back in her bedroom.

  The woman in the golden dress was still staring down at her with her burning green eyes. Annabelle curtsied, and then stretched on the bed. It had been along day.

  She was stretching and curling her toes when she had the impression of a sound coming from beyond the door.

  She held her breath, and listened.

  There was clearly someone beyond her door. She could hear feet clicking on the marble floor, and the rustling of clothes. It seemed to her that the Master of the house had come to check that she had followed his instructions.

  That reminded her of the key. She went back into the closet, and from a drawer full of fine lingerie she extracted a blue silk ribbon, that she tied in a hoop, so that she could wear the golden key on her neck. The metal was cold on her skin, but now she was sure she would not lose it.

  She put on the nightgown she had brought from home, and she went to bed. She spent about half an hour filling in her diary, and then she turned off the lights, and went to sleep.

  Steps still sounded in the corridor outside, but she did not care.

  The following morning she found a simple breakfast waiting for her, in line with her habits. Milk and coffee, a croissant with apricot jam, a glass of orange juice. She ate quickly, anxious to go back to the library and begin her work.

  The Master’s library contained, Annabelle was sure of this, the largest and most varied and extensive collection of erotica and pornography in the world.