Surrender Dorothy, pt. 6
Disclaimer: i'd like to reiterate that my Dorothy is 16!
Yes, there it was, the streak that ran gold through the unremarkable grey rock. She’d seen it hidden behind the fear and uncertainty. The girl had backbone, she had bite, and wouldn’t go down without a fight. Good. There was a residual fear, for sure, but it added piquancy to the whole encounter. Fear smelled different on everyone; on some it was an overpowering musk that made the witch queasy with its neediness, on others it built progressively and changed in tone and colour, like wine left to breathe and then rolled around the mouth. The girl’s fear was something altogether different: it was delicate as blossom, earthy as turned over soil in the sun, fresh as a rain storm that drips from the leaves and cleans the air around everything. Her fear gave her true nature away far more than tears and brave words.
She was elemental, and glittered brighter than a hoard hidden underwater. It clung to her in the fine down of her cheeks; the witch wanted to run her tongue over the girl’s skin and taste it. The thought brought the wet to the witch’s mouth, and she swallowed convulsively. Itching to track her nails down the line of the girl’s jaw, she contented herself with clacking the tips together knowing the sound was the keratin equivalent of a cackle. She knew it sounded wicked and she needed to regain the high ground, needed to remember amidst the excitement why the girl was here. The slippers.
Even in the half light, the slippers twinkled at her, taunting her, reminding her that prettiness wasn’t her natural born right; it was something she had to covet, fight and kill for. Her sister’s legacy: beauty and power at a price. One day the price would be too high, she thought, as she looked at the girl’s deep, dark eyes, the fox-red hair that fought to escape its constraints, the body language that sent out messages so mixed they might never be deciphered. One day it would be more than the witch was prepared to pay.
So soft, the girl’s skin was so soft. She didn’t need to touch it to know. On the girl’s arm, the witch could discern the definite line of a farmer’s tan; the borderline between the public and the private. After that was uncharted territory: the understated strength of upper arms and shoulders, the heart breaking vulnerability of collar bones before gently curving breasts. Beyond that, the secret sweep of belly down to hair, fox-red and unruly, unrestrained and relishing the forbidden. It was a body already more than half aware of itself, waiting for the girl’s mind and morals to catch up with it. She didn’t have the knowing look of someone who has already given themselves to another, but she was on the cusp of it: on the edge of awareness. The witch’s mouth, unbidden, flooded.
My pretty. The pulse was leaping at the base of the girl’s throat, vitality pumping through her body; she was the most alive thing the witch had ever seen: young, beautiful and vibrant. She wanted to put her mouth to the pulse point and suck, feel that life force against tongue and teeth. She licked her suddenly dry lips and watched the girl’s eyelids flutter in unspoken capitulation.
You know you have to die for me to have the slippers? The heavy lidded eyes shuttered down as the girl nodded. It doesn’t have to be that way. Eyes, suddenly big, wide with surprise and a hint of hope, met hers. If you were to be by my side, there’s nothing we couldn’t do. The girl frowned. I don’t understand.
The witch stepped closer and ran the tip of a finger down the girl’s cheek, feeling her shiver. There’s a restlessness in you, my pretty, a power you don’t even know you have. Join with me, and all of Oz could be ours.
(to be continued)
Yes, there it was, the streak that ran gold through the unremarkable grey rock. She’d seen it hidden behind the fear and uncertainty. The girl had backbone, she had bite, and wouldn’t go down without a fight. Good. There was a residual fear, for sure, but it added piquancy to the whole encounter. Fear smelled different on everyone; on some it was an overpowering musk that made the witch queasy with its neediness, on others it built progressively and changed in tone and colour, like wine left to breathe and then rolled around the mouth. The girl’s fear was something altogether different: it was delicate as blossom, earthy as turned over soil in the sun, fresh as a rain storm that drips from the leaves and cleans the air around everything. Her fear gave her true nature away far more than tears and brave words.
She was elemental, and glittered brighter than a hoard hidden underwater. It clung to her in the fine down of her cheeks; the witch wanted to run her tongue over the girl’s skin and taste it. The thought brought the wet to the witch’s mouth, and she swallowed convulsively. Itching to track her nails down the line of the girl’s jaw, she contented herself with clacking the tips together knowing the sound was the keratin equivalent of a cackle. She knew it sounded wicked and she needed to regain the high ground, needed to remember amidst the excitement why the girl was here. The slippers.
Even in the half light, the slippers twinkled at her, taunting her, reminding her that prettiness wasn’t her natural born right; it was something she had to covet, fight and kill for. Her sister’s legacy: beauty and power at a price. One day the price would be too high, she thought, as she looked at the girl’s deep, dark eyes, the fox-red hair that fought to escape its constraints, the body language that sent out messages so mixed they might never be deciphered. One day it would be more than the witch was prepared to pay.
So soft, the girl’s skin was so soft. She didn’t need to touch it to know. On the girl’s arm, the witch could discern the definite line of a farmer’s tan; the borderline between the public and the private. After that was uncharted territory: the understated strength of upper arms and shoulders, the heart breaking vulnerability of collar bones before gently curving breasts. Beyond that, the secret sweep of belly down to hair, fox-red and unruly, unrestrained and relishing the forbidden. It was a body already more than half aware of itself, waiting for the girl’s mind and morals to catch up with it. She didn’t have the knowing look of someone who has already given themselves to another, but she was on the cusp of it: on the edge of awareness. The witch’s mouth, unbidden, flooded.
My pretty. The pulse was leaping at the base of the girl’s throat, vitality pumping through her body; she was the most alive thing the witch had ever seen: young, beautiful and vibrant. She wanted to put her mouth to the pulse point and suck, feel that life force against tongue and teeth. She licked her suddenly dry lips and watched the girl’s eyelids flutter in unspoken capitulation.
You know you have to die for me to have the slippers? The heavy lidded eyes shuttered down as the girl nodded. It doesn’t have to be that way. Eyes, suddenly big, wide with surprise and a hint of hope, met hers. If you were to be by my side, there’s nothing we couldn’t do. The girl frowned. I don’t understand.
The witch stepped closer and ran the tip of a finger down the girl’s cheek, feeling her shiver. There’s a restlessness in you, my pretty, a power you don’t even know you have. Join with me, and all of Oz could be ours.
(to be continued)