Chapter 5: The Morning After
The smell hit her first: Enid’s sugary perfume, sweat, and the lingering musk of sex. Wednesday’s eyes opened to the aggressive pink of their dorm ceiling, the LED strips dark but the dawn filtering in through dirty windows casting the whole room in a garish, rose-tinted haze. Every part of her ached with a deep, proprietary soreness.
She was on her side, nude, the velvet duvet tangled around her legs. Enid’s arm was a dead weight across her waist, her hand splayed possessively over the lower curve of Wednesday’s stomach. Enid’s breath was warm and even against the back of her neck.
Then, movement. A single finger, tracing the ridge of her hip bone, sliding up the sensitive dip of her waist.
“You’re awake,” Enid murmured, her voice sleep-roughened and satisfied. “I was just thinking about last night.”
Wednesday said nothing. Her tail, trapped between her own thighs, gave a feeble twitch.
Enid’s hand drifted higher, over her ribcage, and found the underswell of her lowest left breast. She cupped it, her thumb stroking the peak until the nipple hardened painfully. “You were so fucking good, Wens. The way you came on my tongue with everyone watching… I’ve never been so proud.” She nuzzled the nape of Wednesday’s neck, scraping teeth over the delicate vertebrae. “My perfect little exhibitionist.”
The words were like acid. Wednesday stared at the wall, at a poster for a band called ‘Kitten Kaboodle’ that seemed to leer back at her. Her purr started, a low, traitorous vibration in her chest she couldn’t suppress. Enid interpreted it as pleasure.
“See? Your body remembers,” Enid whispered. Her other hand came around, skimming over Wednesday’s belly, and found her other lower breast, kneading both in a rhythm that was both tender and unbearably clinical. “It knows who makes it feel good.”
Enid’s touch grew more insistent. She rolled Wednesday onto her back with surprising strength. The morning light fell directly on her altered body, highlighting every curve, every mark from the night before—the faint bruise on her hip, the love bite on her inner thigh. Enid loomed over her, pink hair messy, eyes dark with renewed hunger.
“I need you again,” Enid breathed, not asking. She ducked her head and took a nipple into her mouth, not the top one, but from the second row, sucking hard while her fingers pinched and rolled its counterpart.
A sharp gasp was torn from Wednesday. Her back arched off the mattress, a purely physical response that felt like a betrayal. Her hands fluttered, then gripped the sheets.
“That’s it,” Enid moaned against her skin. She moved between Wednesday’s legs, pushing them apart with her knees. She was still wearing her silky shorts and a thin tank top. “God, you’re still so wet. I can smell you.”
Wednesday turned her head to the side, eyes squeezing shut. The plan. The office. The portrait. The lock. She recited it like a grim rosary in her mind.
Enid positioned herself, then sank down onto Wednesday in one slow, excruciating slide. There was no preparation, no gentleness—just the overwhelming, intimate stretch of being filled. Enid was so wet, so ready, her body accepting Wednesday’s with obscene ease.
“Fuck,” Enid choked out, her head falling back. She began to move, a steady, rolling grind of her hips. “You fit me so perfectly. Like you were made for me.”
The friction was brutal, devastating. Each drag inside her sent jolts of unwanted pleasure radiating outwards. Wednesday’s purr became a ragged, humming stutter. Her own hips began to meet Enid’s thrusts, a synchronized dance her body knew by rote. One of Enid’s hands remained on her breast, squeezing and tugging, while the other braced against the headboard.
“Look at me,” Enid demanded, her rhythm becoming harder, faster. “Look at me while I fuck you.”
Wednesday’s eyes opened. Enid’s face was a mask of blissful concentration, a bead of sweat tracing from her temple to her jaw. The room smelled of sex and sleep and cheap fabric softener.
“Say it,” Enid gasped, driving into her with a force that shook the bed. “Say you’re mine.”
The words clogged in Wednesday’s throat. The programming pushed. Her mouth opened. “I’m…” she tried, but it emerged as a broken whimper.
Enid’s climax hit suddenly. She cried out, a sharp, almost angry sound, and her body clenched around Wednesday, milking her, pulling her over the edge with it. Wednesday’s orgasm was a silent, violent seizure. Her vision whited out. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the pulse and the warmth and the crushing weight of Enid collapsing on top of her.
They lay there, sticky and breathless. Enid peppered her shoulder with soft, idle kisses. “So good to me,” she mumbled, already drifting back toward sleep.
Wednesday waited. She waited until Enid’s breathing evened out, until the arm around her went slack. Then, with immense, careful effort, she extracted herself. The loss of contact was both a relief and a new kind of chill.
She stood on trembling legs. The floor was cold. Her reflection in the full-length mirror was a scandal: pale skin marked with red, six breasts swaying heavily, dark hair matted. A used thing.
Dressing was a fresh hell. The simple act of putting on underwear required negotiation with a body that wasn’t built for standard human clothing. She unearthed a black bralette from a drawer—a garment designed with multiple, cupless openings. Slipping it on was an exercise in humiliation. She had to guide each breast through its own individual hole, the soft flesh spilling out the sides. The material was a feeble suggestion of coverage.
Pants were worse. The tail. She had to find the tailored slit in the back of her leather leggings and thread the appendage through it, a process that felt both absurd and deeply invasive. The tail flicked irritably, resisting. By the time she pulled a tight black longsleeve over her head, she was sweating, her purr a low, angry hum of frustration.
Enid stirred in bed, blinking sleepily. “Going somewhere?”
“Air,” Wednesday said, her voice flat. “The room is… cloying.”
Enid smiled, stretching like a satisfied cat. “Bring me back a coffee? Extra sweet.” She turned over, burying her face in the pillow.
Wednesday stood by the door, watching her roommate for a long moment. The key. Sybil’s office key was on Enid’s nightstand, dangling from a garish pink paw-print keychain. It would be so easy.
But not yet. Stealing it in daylight was reckless. She needed the cover of routine, of expectation.
She slipped out into the hall. The Academy’s corridors were quiet, Sunday-morning still. Her body moved with a new, hated awareness—the sway of extra weight on her chest, the constant, subconscious need to adjust for the balance of the tail. Each step was a reminder.
She didn’t head for the courtyard. She turned instead toward the older, administrative wing. She walked past closed office doors, her footsteps silent on the ancient runner. She stopped before a heavy, oak door with a tarnished brass plaque: Headmistress Sybil V. Thorn, Curator of Anomalies.
She didn’t touch it. She just stared. The lock was a heavy, old-fashioned tumbler. The key Enid possessed would fit it.
Behind that door was a portrait. Behind that portrait, a lock. And behind that lock… what? A way home? A deeper prison? It didn’t matter. It was a purpose. A objective her mind could fixate on, a cold, hard plan in a world of suffocating softness.
From down the hall, she heard a door open and close. She didn’t turn. She let her posture soften, her hand rise to subtly cup one of her breasts through her top, a gesture of idle, sensual boredom. A performance for whoever might be watching.
She heard a low, familiar chuckle. Bianca, leaning against the wall further down, holding two steaming mugs. “Couldn’t sleep either, Addams? Or are you just scoping out the scene of your next project?”
Wednesday let a slow, catlike smile touch her lips. It felt like cracking ice. “Just admiring the architecture,” she said, her purr smoothing the edges of the lie into something resembling warmth. She turned and walked toward Bianca, her hips moving with a confidence she didn’t feel, each step a calculated part of the long, humiliating game.