Chapter 9: So Gentle
The cold silicone touched her. Not pressed. Not forced. Touched. A feather-light brush against the swollen, violated flesh Ken had left slick and aching. Wanda braced for the brutal shove, the tearing invasion Christie had promised. Her muscles locked, a silent scream trapped behind clenched teeth. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the rip.
It didn’t come.
Instead, the pressure remained… gentle. Insistent, but impossibly soft. The rounded tip nudged, explored the tender rim with a horrifying delicacy. It slid against her, slick with her own unwanted wetness and Ken’s residue, gathering it, using it. A low, involuntary whimper escaped Wanda’s throat. This… this wasn’t force. This was something else. Worse.
“Shhh,” Christie murmured above her, her voice disturbingly calm, almost soothing. Her other hand rested flat on Wanda’s bruised belly, pinning her hips down without apparent effort. “Relax.” A command, laced with mock concern.
The tip pressed inward. Just beyond the entrance. Slowly. Unbearably slowly. An inch. Then stopped. Held there. Wanda gasped, the sensation alien, intrusive, yet… not painful. Not in the way Ken had been. Her traitorous body clenched reflexively around the cool intrusion, sending a jolt of something utterly unwanted, something terrifyingly close to relief, through her core. The deep, relentless ache deep in her pelvis seemed to pulse in counterpoint. She felt herself yielding, opening further under the maddening, gentle pressure. Why wasn't she fighting? Why was her body welcoming this?
Christie watched her face, those cool, pale eyes missing nothing – the tremor in Wanda’s lips, the flutter of her eyelids, the involuntary hitch in her breath. A faint, knowing curve touched Christie’s mouth. She began to move. Not thrusting. Gliding. An agonizingly shallow slide, barely retreating before advancing again, fractionally deeper each time. The smooth silicone dragged against over-sensitized flesh with exquisite, torturous slowness. It filled her, stretched her, but with a precision Ken’s brutal rutting had lacked. It found places that sparked sharp, bright shivers, completely divorced from the grinding throb in her hip or the sting of her bruises. This was intimate. Calculated. Personal.
Wanda’s head thrashed side to side on the patchwork quilt. “Stop… please… Christie…” The plea was ragged, weak. She sounded broken. She felt broken. Her fists clenched uselessly at her sides.
“Why?” Christie asked, her tone light, conversational, as if discussing homework. Her hand on Wanda’s belly remained firm, anchoring her. The rhythmic, shallow glide continued, relentless in its softness. “Does it hurt?” She tilted her head, genuinely curious. “Ken hurt you. I saw it. Felt it.” Her fingers traced a fingerprint bruise on Wanda’s ribs. “This isn’t hurting you.”
It wasn’t. That was the horror. The physical violation was undeniable, yet the sensation… the deliberate, controlled friction… It was coaxing responses Wanda couldn't suppress. A slick, rhythmic sound filled the small space beneath the posters, a sound of violation that felt perversely intimate. Heat pooled low in her belly, a treacherous warmth spreading despite the cold dread icing her veins. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary lift, seeking more of the maddening pressure. She bit down hard on her already swollen lip, tasting fresh copper, desperate to stifle the moan threatening to bubble up. Shame scalded her cheeks hotter than any slap.
Christie saw it. The tiny lift. The desperate clench of her jaw. The flush. “See?” Christie whispered, leaning closer. Her breath was warm against Wanda’s ear. “He didn’t know how. Just brute force. All that grunting effort…” She gave a small, dismissive snort. “Wasted.” The glide deepened slightly, hitting a spot that made Wanda gasp, her back arching off the bed despite the scream from her hip. Christie held her there, suspended in that shocking flash of sensation. “He left you hanging, didn’t he? All that mess… and nothing." Her pale eyes bored into Wanda's. "Just… tension.”
The words, coupled with the unbearable, gentle movement, were unravelling her. The carefully constructed persona of Wanda Dallas-Delaware – the sharp wit, the brittle control, the dominant force – was cracking apart under the pressure of this terrifyingly precise assault. The secret hunger she’d buried, the one Christie had discovered and exploited earlier in the study with her hand, now roared back with terrifying force, twisted and entangled with violation and pain. She needed… something. Release? Oblivion? This slow torture to stop? She didn’t know anymore. Her mind was fragmenting.
Christie’s rhythm changed. Not faster, but deeper. Still slow. Still deliberate. Each withdrawal was almost complete, the cool air shocking her exposed flesh before the smooth, slick pressure filled her again, deeper than before, lingering. It was an exploration, a mapping of her ruined body’s treacherous responses. Wanda couldn’t hold back the choked sounds now – whimpers, hitched breaths, a low groan she viciously strangled. Her legs trembled uncontrollably. The patchwork quilt felt abrasive against her scraped hip, a counterpoint to the impossible sensations blooming inside her.
“He keeps it clean,” Christie murmured, her gaze distant for a second, almost thoughtful. “Wipes it down. Puts it back in the box. Very… orderly.” Her eyes snapped back to Wanda’s face, sharp and cruel. “Guess he needs it. Sometimes.” A pause, letting the implications sink in, twisting the knife. “Or maybe he just knows you do.”
The revelation landed like a physical blow. Steven. Her Steven. Using this… thing. Maybe imagining her when he did. While she lay here now, under the gaze of his daughter, being slowly, expertly violated with it. The cognitive dissonance shattered something vital inside her. A sob tore loose, raw and ugly.
The movement inside her intensified subtly, finding a rhythm designed purely to unravel. Christie watched her dispassionately, a scientist observing a specimen break. Wanda’s body betrayed her utterly. The heat became a furnace. The tension coiled unbearably tight, a spring wound past its limit. The agonizing slowness, the unbearable gentleness, was pushing her towards the edge of a precipice she didn’t want to see. Her hips lifted again, shamelessly now, chasing the sensation, tears streaming down her temples and into her hair. She was panting, whimpering Christie’s name, a broken litany of sound.
Christie leaned close, her lips brushing the shell of Wanda’s ear. “Go on,” she whispered, her voice devoid of any inflection except cold command. Her hand tightened minutely on Wanda’s belly, holding her down even as the relentless glide pushed her higher. “Let go. Show me.” A pause. The next words slithered into Wanda’s shattering mind. “Show me who you really are.”
The command, the unbearable pressure, the horrifying intimacy of it all, broke her. Wanda’s body convulsed. A strangled cry ripped from her throat, half-sob, half-scream, muffled only by the sheer force of her terror. Pleasure, sharp and shocking and utterly unwanted, detonated through her core, obliterating thought, shame, pain for one catastrophic second. It was violent in its intensity, a wave of pure physical release crashing through the wreckage of her control. She arched violently off the bed, Christie’s hand the only anchor, her vision whiting out.
Then it crashed down. The pleasure dissolved instantly, leaving a raw, hollowed-out void filled only with crushing shame and the renewed, shrieking agony from her hip. She collapsed back onto the quilt, gasping, trembling violently, tears flooding her eyes. Christie held the dildo buried deep within her for one lingering moment, then withdrew it with the same agonizing slowness. The slick sound of its exit was obscenely loud in the sudden stillness.
Christie stood up, looking down at the shattered woman. She turned the dildo over in her hand, examining it dispassionately. It glistened wetly. “Messy,” she observed, her voice flat. She walked back to the desk, picked up a wad of tissues from a half-used box beside the paints, and meticulously wiped the toy clean. The casualness was devastating. She dropped it back into the open drawer and shoved it closed with her hip. The sound echoed like a tomb sealing.
She turned back to the bed. Wanda lay utterly still, staring at the ceiling, tears silently carving paths through the grime on her face. The smell of sex and turpentine hung thick in the purple room. Christie smoothed her t-shirt, then picked up her phone from the desk, checking the screen. Her movements were unnervingly normal.
“Dad’s still in the den,” she announced, her voice regaining its previous, almost light tone. “Finishing his scotch. Probably wondering where his perfect wife is.” She tucked her phone into her pocket. “Migraine must be a real whopper.” She walked to the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. She glanced back at Wanda, a flicker of something cold and satisfied in her pale eyes. “Clean yourself up. Eventually. Wouldn’t want stains on Christie’s quilt.”
The purple door clicked shut softly. Wanda was alone. Utterly broken. The rhythmic tick of Christie’s small bedside clock was the only sound now, counting the seconds in the silence. The wetness between her legs felt cold. Alien. A final, humiliating testament to her annihilation. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. The posters screamed silently overhead. The only thing louder was the slow, dripping sound she could feel, but couldn’t stop.
The only thing louder was the slow, dripping sound she could feel, but couldn’t stop. It echoed the beat of Christie's retreating footsteps, a wet punctuation mark on her humiliation. Each tiny plink inside her felt like a fresh betrayal by her own broken body. The purple walls seemed to press in, the band posters leering down at her sprawled, ruined form. Numbness washed over her, a cold tide threatening to pull her under, away from the sticky shame between her legs and the deeper ache in her bones. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as stone, the vibrant purple blurring into darkness. Finally, mercifully, oblivion dragged her down.
She dreamt. Fragmented, violent sensations. The sharp, rhythmic crack of palm meeting flesh – not Christie’s precise strikes, but heavier, clumsier. Ken’s grunts filled her ears, hot breath on her neck. The brutal, jarring thrusts, deep and punishing, each one a fresh agony that vibrated through her bruised pelvis and up her spine. Her dream-body arched, not in pleasure but in raw protest against the invasion, the tearing stretch. Yet, amidst the pain, a treacherous flicker ignited deep within her core. The relentless hammering built a terrible pressure, an internal earthquake shaking loose her carefully buried secret. A shudder ripped through her dream self, violent and involuntary. Orgasm tore through the pain, a brutal wave of release that felt like her very soul was being ripped out. The feeling of overwhelming fullness surged, a drowning sensation, followed instantly by the hot, wet gush of Ken’s release deep inside her. Life created? Or just another violation? It felt like both, a sickening paradox.
Then, the scene shifted, dissolved. The harshness receded, replaced by something infinitely more terrifying. Slowness. That agonizing, deliberate gentleness. Christie’s phantom touch, cold fingers tracing bruises, probing tender flesh without force, exploring the ruin Ken had made. The cool, slick glide of silicone returned, not forcing entry but insinuating, filling her with unbearable, intimate pressure. It moved with infuriating precision, seeking hidden weaknesses, coaxing responses she couldn’t control. The gentleness wasn’t kindness; it was a scalpel dissecting her resistance. A low moan escaped her dream lips. Her own voice, thick and unrecognizable, began to chant, a broken whisper echoing in the void: "Theirs, hers. Theirs, hers. Theirs, hers." Possession. Complete. Undeniable.
Wanda gasped, choking on the stale air thick with turpentine and sex. Consciousness slammed back into her like a physical blow. She was still on Christie’s quilt, the vibrant purple walls confirming her nightmare was real. The wetness between her thighs was cold now, tacky. The slow drip had stopped, but the echo of it resonated in her hollowed-out core. Every muscle screamed – her hip a white-hot brand, her ribs a cage of dull agony, the deep internal throb a constant reminder. Shame, hot and acidic, flooded her cheeks. "Theirs, hers," her dream-voice still whispered in her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish it, but the words clung like cobwebs.
The door clicked open. Christie stood there, leaning casually against the frame, holding a glass of water. She looked utterly composed, her blonde curls neat, her expression bland. She surveyed the wreck on her bed with detached interest. "Oh. You're awake." She took a small sip of water. "Figured you might want this. Dehydration headache on top of a migraine? Brutal." Her tone was light, almost helpful, but the pale eyes held no warmth.
Wanda couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. She just stared, a tremor starting in her hands.
Christie stepped into the room, placing the glass with deliberate care on the cluttered desk, avoiding the half-finished painting. She glanced back at the bed, her gaze lingering on the damp patch darkening the quilt near Wanda’s thigh. "You should probably rinse off before Dad sees you. He finished his scotch ages ago. Started watching the news." She wrinkled her nose slightly. "And you kinda… spilled. On my quilt." She paused, letting the implication hang, her eyes drifting meaningfully towards the closed drawer where the dildo resided. "Wouldn’t want Steven’s girl getting stained."
Christie took a deep breath, the kind one take while breathing in freshly dried clothes. "But, damn, you smell oh so good."
Then Christie made one long lick up Wanda's damp folds.