Belle's Hell

It was strange that such a horrid bargain could evolve into such a pleasant experience, but the days since Belle’s father had given her to the Beast in repayment for saving his life had become more and more enjoyable. Her captor/host, once you managed to get past the horns and fangs, possessed an alluring charm far beyond physical appearance. He could be rough or brutal, but a gentle soul seemed to hide behind the gruffness, and Belle had made significant progress in bringing it out. Someday, he might even be a beast in appearance only; with a new personality and spirit to match he might find a way to regain his outward humanity as well. Though he rarely showed his appreciation, she was nevertheless rewarded for her efforts by his servants, despite the staff of his sprawling mansion having been reduced by the same curse that afflicted him to spending their days as household utensils. They did everything they could to treat her like a queen. She was always given ample light to read her favorite books by the Candelabra, and the wonderful, matronly Teapot always got her preferred blends just right. The Pots and Pans prepared the most sumptuous meals, complemented by the wine sent up from the cellar by the stoic Casks, and on certain occasions the Forks and Knives and Spoons would feed her themselves, literally not allowing her to lift a finger. In fact, all the items of the household, from the Coat Rack to the Brooms and Dustpans, worked day and night to express their heartfelt wish that she “Be Their Guest”. All, that is, except one. It was something Belle never talked about, and never would, but there was one cursed item in the house that seemed to hate her– a jealous, bitter soul that took pleasure in torturing and teasing her. There was just one that would be her undoing if she were forced to spend her life in that mansion and the curse was never lifted. That worry became particularly acute one snowy, wintry night. Belle had fallen into an exhausted, fitful sleep in her bed, bundled in old but elaborate blankets and sheets. Still the cold of the night seeped in to touch her, as the Fireplace in her room had gone out, taking a well–deserved rest from a day of providing sufficient warmth. Her dreams were plagued by images of coursing rapids, rushing streams, spouting geysers and pounding falls, and she woke in the middle of the night with a gasp. She was curled up in the bed, unable to lay still. She squirmed and twisted around, trapping herself in the sheets. Tears were beginning to form in her big, blue eyes, and with a sad, desperate whimper she resolved that she had do something about her situation. It seemed to take her forever to untangle from the folds of silk in which she’d encased herself. With each second Belle felt as if she’d faint from the strain, but finally she was free, lying in the bed protected by nothing but her nightgown. She instantly regretted getting out of the covers as the cold hit her, acting on the sensations in her lower torso and making them ten times worse. Her thighs rubbed together so hard they burned and she couldn’t help but slide her rear back and forth across the edge of the bed. She couldn’t sit still long enough to light the non–cursed candle sitting by her bed, so she had to strain her eyes in the dark to find what she was looking for. In the dark, she managed to make out the shape of the object. She’d seen it in the light, and knew that it was the same large bowl– white porcelain trimmed with gold, that had become the bane of her existence. It sat unmoving on the mantle above the Fireplace. Belle didn’t have time to move slowly, though her predicament was a double–edged sword. Move too quickly or too slowly and she wouldn’t be able to contain herself. She chose to move quickly, standing as fast and erect as she could. She was barely upright, crouched over with her knees slightly bent. Walking with quick, shuffling steps, thighs pressing each other all the way, Belle raced to the mantle and reached for the chamber pot. It skittered to the other end of the mantle on small, silent feet. Belle moaned and shuffled to that end, still reaching. The chamber pot leapt off and into the darkness. Belle was so distracted by the movement and the need to redouble her efforts to keep in her piss that she lost sight of the annoying container. “No!!” She wailed as she crossed her legs. She pressed down hard on her thighs with one hand and reached around to press them from behind with the other. Her bottom bobbed up and down repeatedly, and she shook her long brown hair out of her eyes as she hunted for where the ‘pot might have gone. “Marguerite, Please!” she said, plaintively. “I’ve tried to hold my water, I’ve kept it in all day, but I simply can’t anymore! I’ve got to pass it! Please, please let me use you!” “Not if you were holding molten gold!” came the haughty reply, the formal voice of Marguerite cutting through the darkness. Belle paid close attention. It seemed to be coming from under the bed. She managed to uncross her legs long enough to shuffle to the foot of the bed and crouch down, still pressing herself from the front and back. Her rear bounced up and down all the harder, making her bosoms shake within the confines of the gown. “Marguerite, are you under there?” She asked, a hopeful note in her voice. “Oh, please come out! If I don’t use you soon I’ll pass it all in my gown!” “Use me to hold your waste!” Marguerite hissed. “Use me to do your toilet in! Treat me as nothing more than a receptacle for your slop!” For a moment, Belle was just as exasperated as she was desperate. “Marguerite, I understand your reluctance, but you must face the reality of the situation: It’s what you’re made for!!” “Continue to take that tone with me, young miss, and you’ll hold it for a fortnight if I have anything to say about it.” “Oh, God…how can I make you understand?” Belle said. Her thighs trembled and her bottom squirmed and none of it helped. “Haven’t you ever been so desperate to micturate that you’d do anything for the opportunity to do so?” “Yes, I have been,” Marguerite replied, “anything but sit on the face of a loyal servant and pour it down her throat.” “Oooh!” A sudden tremor in her sex forced Belle to stand as tall as she could. She had almost let go, and she could feel liquid seeping toward freedom. In moments nothing would stop it, and her hands rubbed all over her ass, thighs and lower abdomen, wanting frantically to grab and squeeze shut her sex but too shy and embarrassed to resort to such coarse means. Her legs jiggled as she crossed them again, and her bottom swung back and forth like a pendulum. “It’s coming out, Marguerite. I have to let it go before the decision is out of my hands!” “Then go sit in the outhouse.” Marguerite sniped. “I hear he’s into that sort of thing.” “Oh, you’re impossible!” Belle growled. Even if she wanted to use the ragged outhouse in the rear yard, it was buried under four feet of snow and inaccessible. Belle softened her tone as she felt her water come ever closer to escaping. “It’s got to be you!” She pleaded. “I can’t get into Jean–Luc soon enough! Please, I’ll give you whatever you desire! I’ll sing to you– read any book to you that you wish! I’ll fill you with fresh flowers, perfumes, wash you myself by hand every day! Just let me make water in you, just this once, and I’ll be your servant!” Before Maguerite could respond, it seemed the commotion had woken the Fireplace. He snorted with fatigue, but did his duty. A massive fire erupted from him with a roar, one that, unfortunately, startled Belle. Marguerite, from her position under the bed, looked on as the fire lit Belle from behind. The staid white nightgown hid a wonderfully curvy form, one that the ‘pot could now see, shivering in silhouette. The girl gasped, and suddenly there was the sound of raindrops in the room. As Belle wiggled, drops of glittery urine sparkled in the firelight as they fell from the back of the nightgown in arcs to the floor. Belle began to sob as she squeezed her thighs together, uselessly trying to stop the flow. The piss just kept coming, and she felt the warm rush of it as it flowed down the back of her gown and made the cloth of it stick to her legs. And somewhere, deep in Marguerite’s conscience, a little voice sounded off. The ‘pot skittered out from under the bed and positioned herself behind Belle. “Hop on.” She said in resignation. Belle looked around, and Marguerite couldn’t help but love the look of gratitude on her face. The girl pulled up her gown and opened her legs, revealing her naked bottom and crotch. Pissing freely, she descended on Marguerite. The sigh that escaped Belle’s smiling lips was melodious. She had passed so much but had so much more still in her, and it felt good to just let it go. Marguerite felt it get heavier and heavier as it flowed into her, but decided it wasn’t so bad, especially as she felt the girl’s pretty rear settle on top of her. By the time Belle had stopped she had felt the level of piss touch her skin. She’d filled Marguerite to the brim and more, with urine sloshing over the ‘pot’s brim. She collapsed in exhaustion, falling forward to lean on a bedpost. Her ass was still exposed, and she was crouched down on her haunches, the remnants of what she contained dripping ever so slightly out of her. The carpet around her was soaked, but she didn’t care as she started to drift off to sleep. She almost didn’t notice Marguerite trudging away, carrying off her heavy, wet burden. “I meant every word!” Belle said sleepily. “I’m your slave now, Marguerite. Thank you so much…” Marguerite said nothing as she left the room. Of course, soon the curse was lifted. The mansion became beautiful again, and the servants were all back to their normal selves. Best of all, the Beast had become the handsome prince he had been and deep down always was, and everyone prepared to live happily ever after. On the day of celebration, Belle looked at herself in the mirror wearing her flowing, golden gown. She smiled at the finery in which she was decked, a far cry from the humble girl who was brought here so long ago. As she primped a servant walked in. It was the chamber maid, a tall, slender woman with china–white skin and golden hair. “You look lovely, Madame.” She said, her voice haughty but kind. “Thank you, Marguerite.” Belle said. “May I?” Marguerite asked. Belle nodded and the maid approached. She reached up and fiddled a little with Belle’s hair. She took the opportunity to whisper in the new princess’s ear. “I apologize for what I did to you the other night. You needn’t have suffered so.” Belle nodded, remembering the change of heart and that from that night on Marguerite had never denied her. “It was a pleasure to have you on me, emptying yourself into me.” She said in a husky whisper, and Belle’s eyes went wide. “Should you ever find yourself cold and desperate again, come to my quarters, and I will be happy to ‘help’ you as I did before. I only ask that you repay me as you promised. I believe the lady said she would wash me by hand every day?” Belle blushed and smiled a secret smile as Marguerite withdrew. To this day it remained a part of the story that was never told.
Fox