Wet Dreams
Bridget Corey, Valesport, 1 year before present
Bridget Corey, Valesport, 1 year before present
She sat on a bed with silk sheets in a dark room. She was dressed comfortably, like she was going out for a run, loose tank and shorts. She could feel the silk--or maybe satin? What was the difference?--against her bare legs and rubbed them along it and each other.
She felt hands along her shoulders, but didn't start. Didn't scream, or yell, or hit. It was comfortable. She was safe. They rubbed in little circles, an attempt at a massage, but she couldn't really feel it. It just felt like a warm, weak sort of glow.
The hands shifted, moving forward so arms could embrace her from behind.
“You are so beautiful,” a voice murmured in her ear, and she believed it and smiled. “I love you. Beautiful girl. Wonderful girl.” She basked in it, warmth like the sunlight sinking into her skin.
She felt a hand in her hair, stroking the top of her head, between her ears. This, she could feel vividly. It felt so good, so warm. She knew it had to be what love felt like, the warmest acceptance. Someone willing to touch her, wanting to touch her. Unlike the sensations before, it felt absolute and real, like the sharpest memory.
And that was when she realized it was a memory. Her great-grandfather, when she was so young that she barely qualified as a child and not a toddler. She'd brought him something, a drawing she'd done... macaroni glued to paper. He'd smiled and run a fond hand into her hair, petting her affectionately. And then her great-grandmother had come in, all in a fury, yelling at him for being condescending, treating her like a dog. She hadn't understood what she meant, but felt terrible for doing something that got her Pops into trouble. Worse still for enjoying something bad.
Yes, a memory... The only time in her memory someone had touched her like that, pet her. That was why, why she could feel it so well. Because this...
“It is a dream, jeune fille stupide,” came the voice from behind her. Loving hands turned into a cruel grip on one of her furry ears. It twisted, and she howled in pain. “Who could love a wretched thing like this? Who could stand to touch it?” The hand yanked her forward by the ear, bending her onto the bed, then released her ear to push on the back of her head, pushing her face into the sheets.
“An idle fantasy, the dreams of a beast. The only place you will ever be touched like this.” She twisted her head as he ground her into the sheets, peering back over her shoulder to see white-blue eyes and teeth like a shark.
“Why give me that look, you pathetic little thing?” he laughed. “Of course it was me.” She felt nails, sharp as claws, against her skin. “Who else do you know who could stomach that kind of lie?” She could feel his breath in her ear. “Adorable,” he mocked. “Have you not been spoiled, and told always what a joy you are to behold?”
“Please,” she sobbed, voice choked against the sheets.
“Ah, now that is what I like to see from a dog. Beg.”
She awoke with a start. Not bolt upright like in stories, but eyes suddenly wide open. She could still feel the ghost of a hand in her hair.
Her cheeks were wet with tears.
Cheeks... crying. She was human. It was morning. She must have fallen asleep on her bed.
She rarely slept. Rarely needed to... or rather, rarely suffered any ill effects from refusing to.
The dreams she had made her glad for that smallest of benefits to her curse.
She shifted to be lying more like a human and not like a dog who'd grown into one overnight. She found a pillow and dragged it under her head. She let herself cry into it for a little bit, pretending it didn't count.
She hated crying, because it felt so weak.
She hated crying when Lestrange was involved even more, because she knew he'd love it.
She wished she could stop dreaming.
Later, she'd wish she hadn't fallen back asleep.
“Sit.” The voice was firm, uncompromising. She brought herself to the ground, because she knew it was her only option. “Speak.”
“Please--”
A tsk of derision. “Useless thing cannot even do something so simple. Listen, you inbred little cur. Parler.”
Weakly, stammering, she let out a scared little bark. It felt bizarre out of human lips. Her cheeks were burning red with humiliation.
“Better. Now roll over.” She got halfway, onto her back. “Stop,” the voice said sharply. “Play dead.” She froze.
A cane hit her side. She winced, but didn't flinch, didn't move. It withdrew, then came down right next to her face. She didn't know what force compelled her to be so still, but she was, completely unmoving.
“Much better. Perhaps you deserve a treat after all.” She felt a hand along her stomach--her BARE stomach! How had she not noticed how little she was wearing? The hand traced down across her abs, to the waistline of her pants, then in. A warm, large hand cupped between her legs.
“Beg,” he whispered, shark teeth glinting in the shadows.
“Please--”
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chided. “Like the bitch you are. Mendier pour moi.”
So humiliated she was tearing up, cheeks aflame, she let out a weak little whimper, then a whine.
“Good girl,” he said, mockingly, and then his hand moved in and up and--
She awoke for a second time, and sincerely wished it was still just the cheeks of her face that were wet.
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