Twisted Tale

Spelling Beautiful

I blubbered while you zipped up your 501s, covering your pussy-smeared cock.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all.

Me. I bloody am. My beauty is beyond compare. I can have anyone I want, but first, I want you.

I will never forget when we met at Uni two years ago. I fell for you immediately. Couldn’t believe that someone so popular would be interested in me. I was a bit of a wall flower, I suppose. We had been dating for a year and I was the happiest I’d ever been until one afternoon I popped over to your flat unexpectedly and you were in bed with Debs, I think she was studying History. Anyhow, that is precisely what I became to you that day — History. But not before Debs started running around your room picking up her smalls muttering,

“Oh, the shame of it, I am so embarrassed. Call me…Laters.”

And disappeared out the door. I sat on the edge of your bed and could smell the sex you’d been having. The tears streamed down my face and my heart split in two. The pain ricocheted down my left arm. Of course, someone like you won’t understand that when a heart is broken the pain is also physical.

I blubbered while you zipped up your 501s, covering your pussy-smeared cock, then I asked,

“Why would you do this to me? We have plenty of sex. I thought I gave you what you wanted?”

And you replied, “Yeah, Paula. But you ain’t really much to look at are yer? I mean your bod’s nice enough but as far as your ‘boat race’ is concerned, well — could do better. So I did. Let's just say, beauty-wise Debs is a nine, whereas you’re only a six, on a good day. Understand?”

I hate cockney accents, but I thought I was in love with you so didn’t hear how common you sounded.

I think I stayed in my room for a week. Missed all my classes. Then out of desperation I googled:

how to get what you want.

One of the top answers was to study people who have what you want·

Well that was Debs. She had you and was beautiful. Then I knew — I would have to be more beautiful than her. Hmm, needing a miracle then. Or… if I was a witch…

So I started reading up on spells.

After much research I found myself in the woods at midnight, under a full hunter’s moon holding a mirror while dripping three drops of blood from my pinpricked thumb onto the glass and chanting… well — I won’t tell you what I was chanting, or you’ll think I’m mad.

On the third repetition a fierce gust of wind blew through the trees whipping at my face. I thought that must be a sign the spell had worked and somehow I’d wake up the next day and be beautiful. Simple as that.

The following morning I jumped out of bed in anticipation and rushed to the bathroom mirror. No, I looked the same. Thin lips, slightly crooked nose and eyes too close together.

I wondered if I had got the spell’s antipathy and sympathy in the wrong measures. There was nothing for it — I’d have to go into town and buy a tub of salted caramel ice cream to console myself.

And, that’s when it happened.

Driving to the retail park a lorry skipped a set of traffic lights propelling my little metro up into the air and across the street, landing on some crash barriers.

The last thing I remember was glancing left,

seeing the monster vehicle coming straight for me,

hearing the skid of breaks,

smelling burning rubber as the lorry braked —

and thinking of you.

I woke three days later, coming out of a coma. The weird thing was I hadn’t broken anything — except my face was disfigured so badly even my own parents didn’t recognise me. It was then I thought my spell had backfired. I was ugly as sin.

However, magic moves in mysterious ways. Once I had retreated back to my family home, many miles away from you and the Uni, my father contacted the car insurers. The legal situation was assessed and we were told I was entitled to a completely new face. Cosmetic surgery — totally free. Any face I wanted. Thinking of you, of course, I asked to be beautiful.

After the operation it took some time for the swelling to go down, but when I finally looked in the mirror and set eyes on myself, I cried. Never… had I seen such beauty.

Without telling you who I was we began messaging online — so easy to do. When you saw my face for the first time, I could tell it took your breath away. I was getting used to having that effect on people.

After you watched me fuck myself with a dildo, while you jerked off — via webcam — you told me I was gorgeous. In fact you couldn’t wait to meet me and paid out for a swanky hotel break for us both. We’d spent hours dating online, but you hadn’t recognised my body. Whereas, I think I could have picked your cock out of a line-up.

At the hotel, when you heard my voice in person you said, “gawd your voice reminds me of this mousy gal I used to date.”

And you sound like a cockney dick-head,

I mouthed under my breath.

At that moment, it came to me in a flash. Why would someone like me, with my breathtaking beauty, be involved with someone like you?

I had you in the palm of my hand. That night I let you fuck me just for the sake of it, by the hotel dressing table mirror. You pummelled me from behind, and I watched my tits juggling around in my reflection, noticing you couldn’t take your eyes off my face. As you climaxed, falling on my back, you declared I was the most beautiful “gal” in the world. More beautiful than Debs then!

I’d achieved my goal.

In fact I was so appealing that within half an hour you were hard again. Roughly, you pushed me to my knees, wanting to feel my generous ripe mouth on your shaft. I stared up at you with my perfect almond shaped eyes and at the last minute you pulled out and milked yourself over my face, rubbing your sticky mess into my cheeks. I didn’t mind. I was beautiful and could wash you off in a moment.

I ran a hot bath while you got into bed and fell asleep. After cleansing myself thoroughly, I knew what had to be done. Thinking back on how you treated me in the past. The humiliation. Now I was a ten you were merely an eight. I didn’t worry about the consequences, why would I? Beauty can get away with murder. So, I stabbed you in the heart, just as you had me. Except I used scissors, whereas you’d killed my spirit with your words and deeds.

No one saw me arrive. And even if they did I wasn’t worried — beauty doesn’t need a conscience. As I said, she can get away with murder, and that’s exactly what I did.

The idea for this tale came to me when I saw Liz Black’s draft — Surprised by the Plastic Surgeon — pop into the Ttales area. The title evoked a memory of a story my partner told me about a beautiful girl he had met as a young man. He said her face was perfect and that she’d been involved in a disfiguring car crash, but after had been fixed up to be beautiful…

More from May…

Another Tantalizing Twisted Tale…

My story is linked to Erotic Fiction Deluxe meme, which is run by one of our editors — Liz Black.

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