Chapter Text
No one's ever understood me like you, Tom. I’m so glad I've got this diary to confide in…It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket.
There’s a girl in Ginny’s dream. She’s maybe about Percy’s age, with a prefect badge to match. Older than Ginny, anyway. Old enough that Ginny feels her heart beat-beating at the thought of approaching her.
Ginny’s only a firstie, and the girl is so…grown-up and cool. Way too cool to be bothered with the silly concerns of a first-year. Her robes are perfectly pressed and tailored, jet-black and hanging off her body in a flattering way that Ginny’s third-hand school clothes could never manage, even if Ginny had a body like that: lean and lithe, but still evidently filled out into the shape of a woman.
The girl is gorgeous, in a way Ginny hadn’t realized real people could be. Perfect skin, pale as porcelain. Blood-red lips; neat, dark brows. Her hair is dark too, pulled back into an artful bun at the nape of her neck. One perfect wave has escaped to rest against a high, sharp cheekbone, framing that beautiful, aristocratic face. Ginny is possessed by a desire to brush back that curl, to touch that smooth cheek…
She flushes, feeling small and clumsy and ugly and poor, and curls her fists into her pockets instead.
They’re at Hogwarts, on the grounds outside the castle. There are other students around, enjoying the sunshine, but they’re hazy and indistinct in the way dream-people often are.The girl is seated on a low stone wall that’s half built into the hill, casually leaning back, one leg dangling over the wall, the other tucked beneath her.
She’s writing in a familiar black diary, her white quill scratch-scratching against the page.
Ginny frowns. “Tom?” she asks, incredulous. Her voice cracks a bit on the name.
The older girl looks up. Her eyes are a deep, dark brown, and intensely sharp, even as they crinkle in a pleasant and welcoming smile. Ginny feels like she’s the only person in the world, the way Tom looks look at her.
“Ginny,” says the girl. Her voice is low and throaty, the invitation in it clear. “Come sit.” She puts down the diary and holds out a slender hand to guide Ginny into the grass next to her.
Ginny goes, stumbling a bit, but manages not to embarrass herself too badly as she sinks to the ground. Tom’s hand feels like smooth parchment on her fingertips. “H-hi,” she says. “Um, it is you, isn’t it?”
It’s just…she’d thought Tom would be more, well, tomboyish. They’d talked about it, a bit. The way Tom had been mercilessly teased for her masculine name, having been named after her deadbeat father, apparently. The way Ginny felt both stifled and coddled with her six older brothers, sometimes lumped in as ‘just one of the boys’ and sometimes put on this horribly restrictive pedestal as both the baby and the girl.
“This is a dream,” says Tom. “So it’s not really me. But, yes, I am Tom. Hello, Ginny.”
“Hi, Tom,” Ginny squeaks.
Tom fusses a bit at Ginny’s robe, straightening the lapels, brushing her hair limp ginger hair behind her ears. Ginny flushes with embarrassment. It’s the kind of babying her mom does, or Percy sometimes. Like she’s a little kid who can’t even dress herself properly. She doesn’t want Tom to think she’s a baby.
Ginny pulls back a bit, scowling. She pats her own hair down into place.
Tom raises her hands in easy surrender, chuckling. “Alright, alright. You’re a big girl; you can do it yourself.”
Ginny scowls harder. “I’m not a baby,” she says.
“I never thought you were,” says Tom. “I just…I’ve been trapped in that diary for so long. I wanted to—I haven’t touched anybody in fifty years.” She blushes, shoulders slumping, her long lashes shading her eyes as she looks down, miserable.
“Oh,” says Ginny, feeling horribly guilty. “You can touch—I don’t mind.”
“Really?” Tom asks, bright and breathless.
“Really really,” says Ginny.
“Oh,” says Tom, a wicked grin playing across her lips. “You’re going to regret that.”
Before Ginny has a chance to react, the older girl has wrapped her hands around Ginny’s waist and hoisted her onto her lap, arms encircling her in a tight hug.
Ginny shrieks and flails, laughing all the while. “Tom!” she protests. “Let me go!”
“Mmmm,” says Tom, pretending to consider it. “I think not.” She rests her chin on the top of Ginny’s head and holds her even closer. “I think I shall keep you.”
Ginny’s a bit grateful now that the way they’re sitting means that Tom can’t see how flamingly red her face grows at that pronouncement. She squirms into a comfier position on Tom’s lap and buries her face in the older girl’s shoulder to hide her mortification and pleasure. There’s a weird swooping feeling in her stomach that she’s never felt before.
Tom strokes her hair, humming contentedly. “Talk to me, Ginny,” she says. “Tell me about your day.”
“Okay,” says Ginny. It’s a bit awkward at first, actually talking out loud, but Ginny’s used to spilling all her secrets and troubles to Tom and eventually it all just comes pouring out. Every time she tries to stop, Tom tells her to keep going, or asks another question, and before she knows it, it feels like hours have passed in this strange dream.
Over the course of their conversation, Tom moves down from petting her hair, to caressing her face, to steadily stroking a thumb up and down her neck, dipping just below the collar of her robes, then tracing back up to her ear. Her palm rests softly against Ginny’s throat, the pads of her long, slender fingers light on Ginny’s pulse point.
Her other hand is splayed across Ginny’s hip, making sure she doesn’t fall. Her fingers dig into the outside of Ginny’s thigh, over the robe; her thumb brushes back and forth over Ginny’s belly, bunching worn fabric beneath it as it goes.
Ginny’s heartbeat is racing, in her throat and in her stomach and in her ears. Tom must be able to feel it beneath her fingers, which now feel blazingly hot against Ginny’s skin.
“Um,” she says, shifting a bit. Her face must be flaming red.
“Yes?” murmurs Tom. Her lips are close enough to Ginny’s ear that she can feel the warm flutter of air with every breathed out word. “You were telling me about Colin’s latest photograph of Harry Potter.”
“R-right,” says Ginny. She is warm all over. The world is going in and out of focus. She feels terrified. She doesn’t know why.
Tom doesn’t stop petting her.
It…it would be rude to ask Tom to stop, right? Tom has been trapped in a diary for fifty years. And it’s not like Tom is hurting her. She’s just—Ginny doesn’t even know what it is she’s feeling. It’s…nice? But also so, so scary, for no reason at all that Ginny can point to. She feels tingly and terrified low in her gut, like she wants to run away but also like she wants to hold Tom closer, and it’s confusing and scary and Ginny doesn’t know what to do.
It can’t just be the cuddling that’s making her feel like this. Ginny snuggles with Luna all the time, or she used to. She hasn’t really seen Luna much since school started. She’s just been so busy, with classes and getting to know the castle and Tom.
“Ginny,” says Tom, low and commanding in her ear. “Tell me more.”
The older girl nips lightly at the top of her ear, so fast and light Ginny thinks she must have imagined it.
“Um, Colin, right,” says Ginny. “Well…” She continues on her story.
As time goes on and nothing horrible happens, Ginny finds herself relaxing. It’s nice, even, having someone close like this. Comforting. Having someone pay her this much attention, for hours and hours, just listening, truly listening to her. Taking Ginny’s concerns seriously. Offering murmurs of sympathy and the occasional piece of soft-spoken advice.
Ginny loves her family, but she doesn’t think anyone has ever spent this much time just focused on her. There’s seven of them; of course her parents and siblings don’t have the time to listen to her whine and stumble through her thoughts. And even if they did, they all think she’s just a little kid. Silly and stupid and delicate. They don’t respect her.
But Tom does.
And Tom cares. Isn’t the proof of it in how tight she is holding Ginny, how close she clings to Ginny’s every word?
It’s nice, Ginny decides. It’s nice and comforting and a little bit thrilling, talking with Tom. She’s just not used to having someone like that, so that’s why it feels a bit weird.
By the time the dream fades into the nothingness of dreamless sleep, Ginny has completely dismissed her earlier, irrational terror.
By the time she wakes up, she can scarcely remember it existed.
Even the memory of Tom—of what they talked about for hours and hours under the warm and dizzying light of the sun—even that is fading.
But she can still feel the echo of Tom’s arms around her, comforting and confining.
The diary is under her pillow, along with a self-inking quill, and Ginny is writing before she even realizes it. She always writes to Tom in the mornings.
I dreamed of you last night, she writes, still too sleep-fuzzy to be embarrassed at the frank confession.
Really?
Yeah. Was it really yoDid you also dream?
I can’t dream. It’s part of the curse that stuck me here.
Oh.
Was it a nice dream, at least?
I think so, yeah. Yes.
Good. I’m glad. What happened?
I can’t really remember now. I think we just talked. And you were holding me.
That sounds like a wonderful dream.
Yeah.
I wish I could hold you for real, Ginny. You deserve someone nice treasuring you.
Thanks, Tom. I wish you could hold me too.
Alas. We will have to make do with what we have.
I suppose.
Say, Ginny?
Yes, Tom?
Will you hug yourself for me?
What?
Give yourself a hug, and pretend it’s me.
Um, ok. Now?
Yes, now.
Feeling very silly, Ginny kneels up on her mattress, wraps her arms around herself, and squeezes. Her pajamas—one of her brother Charlie’s old and worn shirts that reached all the way down to her knees—bunch up under her fingers.
She imagines the dream-Tom that her mind had made up: those slender, perfectly manicured hands and that honey-sweet voice. The red curtains of Ginny’s four-poster bed are drawn closed, but her stomach still squirms with embarrassment at the idea of any of her roommates seeing her doing something so ridiculous.
But Tom had asked her, so she does it anyway. She even strokes her thumbs up and down, gentle-like, just the way Tom had in her dream. Though…she hadn’t stroked Ginny’s arms, had she?
It’s hard to remember.
Shaking her head, she bends back down to write:
I did it.
Good girl.
The Tom-dreams continue. She gets used to Tom cuddling her, holding her close, trailing her fingers up and down Ginny’s body.
Real Tom—Diary Tom—always asks her to describe these dreams after. To tell her what it felt like, to be touched. Tom, Ginny thinks, must be very lonely.
She wishes she could give the older girl a real hug, not just imagined ones in her dreams. Dreams that the real Tom can’t even actually feel or experience. She only can get the secondhand experience through whatever Ginny writes in the diary.
So Ginny dutifully recounts how it feels in greater and greater detail, even as she grows embarrassed and uncomfortable with just how much Tom wants to talk about this.
She doesn’t always remember the details of the dreams, so she finds herself making it up sometimes just to satiate the diary. Imagining what Tom would do. New ways the older girl might touch her, or she might touch Tom.
I’m dreaming vicariously through you, Tom writes. And if you share them with me, it’s like I was really there.
So Ginny shares her dreams. At Tom’s prodding, she even shares the bits that make her feel embarrassed, or uncomfortable, or weird.
These are all normal parts of life.You have nothing to be ashamed of.
I just felt dirty in last night’s dream, and small. You were so put together, and perfect, and I was just…me.
Everyone feels awkward at your age. You’re going through puberty; your body is changing. It’s completely normal, I promise, that you feel worthless in my presence.
Oh. Okay.
You’re not worthless, though. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to experience anything.
Thanks, Tom.
Of course. I am flattered that you think of me as perfect. What do I look like, in your dreams?
Beautiful.
Oh, really? Tell me more.
“You think I’m beautiful,” Tom murmurs to her in her dreams that night. They’re on the grass, on the hill beneath Hogwarts. Tom has once again pulled Ginny into her lap, though this time they’re facing each other, Ginny straddled over Tom’s legs, her robes hiked up around her.
Ginny turns beetroot red. It’s one thing to write it to Tom, and a whole other to confess it to the older girl’s face. Even if it is just a dream.
“No, no, don’t look away.” Tom nuzzles Ginny’s head out from where she’s hidden it in Tom’s collar. She runs a thumb down Ginny’s jaw, grips her chin firmly and tilts Ginny’s face up to stare into her own.
Ginny swallows. Everywhere that Tom has touched tonight is flaring with icy-hot echoes. Her cheek, her jaw, her neck, her chin. Her lower back where Tom’s other hand holds her fast. Her face is on fire. She can’t tear her gaze away from Tom’s deep, dark eyes.
“You think I’m beautiful,” Tom whispers again, ducking down to breathe the words in Ginny’s ear, and Ginny feels her head nod. She’s not sure if she’s moving it of her own volition, or if Tom’s firm grip is puppetting it up and down.
“Say it,” orders Tom.
“You’re beautiful,” Ginny says. It barely comes out above a whisper, her voice cracking on the words.
“Mmm.” Tom grins, slowly, pleased, and pulls back just the tiniest amount. “And what about me, Ginny Weasley, do you find so beautiful?”
“Your—your hair,” says Ginny. Her heart is beating in her throat.
“My hair?” says Tom. She pulls her hair out of its bun, leans forward over Ginny’s face so that those long, dark, wavy curtains brush against Ginny’s shoulders. “You like my hair, Ginny?”
“Ye—yeah,” says Ginny. She can smell Tom’s shampoo all around her, a sharp, mint-and-vellum scent that makes her almost dizzy with its intensity.
Tom smiles. “What else do you like about me?” she asks.
“Your eyes?” Ginny tries, because she can’t look away from them, dark and intense and hungry in a way she’s never seen anyone look before.
“My eyes,” echoes Tom, and her lashes sweep down as she studies Ginny’s body beneath her. “You like when I look at you?”
Ginny feels pinned in place, small and scared, when Tom looks at her like that. She feels like her diaphragm has been transfigured into butterflies, and those butterflies are trapped in the cage of her skin. But, “yeah,” she says, because obviously that’s the right answer, and she doesn’t want to hurt Tom’s feelings, and also she also feels important, when Tom looks at her like that, and that’s basically the same thing as good, and she’d already said she liked Tom’s eyes, and isn’t that the same thing as liking it when Tom looks at her?
“Tell me how much,” says Tom.
“How much?” Ginny asks, confused. She tries to squirm away a bit, but Tom’s hand on her back holds her firmly in place, so instead she just kind of grinds herself into Tom’s lap. The butterflies seem to have flown down, down to where her legs are straddled around Tom’s, and her heart is vibrating like a rabbit’s. She still can’t turn her face away from the older girl, chin held tight in Tom’s fingers, but she can close her eyes against the unfamiliar onslaught of feelings in her body.
“How much you like me looking at you,” clarifies Tom. “Though I can feel how much you enjoy it, you naughty girl, humping me like a bitch in heat.”
“What?!” Ginny’s eyes fly open, and all she can see is—Tom. Tom’s fathomless eyes on hers. Tom’s red lips turned up in an amused smile. Tom’s dark hair in blinkering, dizzying curtains around her.
She doesn’t—she doesn’t quite know what those words Tom was saying meant, put together like that, except that they make her feel dirty, and dizzy, and wrong.
She wants to—she wants to wake up. She wants this dream to be over now.
She tries to get up, but Tom presses her robed hips down into Tom’s own, pulls her face right up to Tom’s until their lips are almost touching. “Tell me how much you like it,” Tom breathes, and the warm, moist air from her words puffs straight into Ginny’s mouth. She feels a tingling, low in private parts, which feel dreadfully exposed and open, spread over Tom’s legs, even though Ginny is wearing underwear and her robes—though the robes provide no protection from Tom, hiked up as they are around her.
“I—I like it,” Ginny says. She doesn’t understand how this happened so fast. She doesn’t even really understand what exactly it is that’s happening—except it’s, maybe, is this…sex stuff? She thinks it might be, even if they haven’t done, like, kissing or anything. Kissing is supposed to come first, right? And can it even be…that between two girls? Ginny’s mind reels, unmoored and unnerved.
Tom continues to push Ginny’s hips down into Tom’s lap, in a steady, rhythmic grinding. Ginny feels herself take over the motion, almost on instinct. It’s better, slightly, now that she’s controlling it and Tom’s hand is only a steady weight at her back. She doesn’t dare stop, scared that Tom will push her even farther if she lets up for even a second.
“How much do you like it?” Tom asks. Her eyes are curious and cold.
“A lot,” says Ginny, praying that it’s the right answer, that it’s the answer that will let her leave. Her head is spinning. “I like it a lot.”
“And what is it exactly that you like a lot?”
“The—um.” Ginny struggles to remember. Because she doesn’t like this, whatever it is. She doesn’t like it at all. She wants to cry. “Looking at me! I like it a lot when you look at me.”
“Good girl, telling me how you feel.”
Ginny blushes in mortification. Her abs are beginning to tremble with the effort of rocking herself up and down. She feels like she’s going to pee herself.
“Since you like it so much when I look at you,” murmurs Tom, “I guess I’ll just have to do it some more.”
Her nimble fingers slide down Ginny’s throat to unbutton the collar of her robe.
“Um, Tom?”
“Yesss,” whispers Tom. “Say my name. Just like that.” The first button pops open. Her other hand, still low on Ginny’s back, dips even lower. It curls itself around Ginny’s butt and squeezes, tight. Tom doesn’t let go.
Ginny whimpers. She didn’t—she just wants Tom to stop. But she doesn’t want to say Tom’s name again, not if…if that.
It scares her.
Tom scares her.
The next button slides open, and Tom moves her fingers down.
The older girl isn’t holding her in place anymore, but Ginny can’t seem to pull away. She can’t seem to move at all.
“I said,” says Tom, in a low, sultry hiss, digging her nails into Ginny’s butt cheek and pinching, hard enough to hurt, as she pops another button open, “say my name.”
“Tom!” Ginny squeals and bucks away from the pain, rocking her whole self into Tom’s body.
Tom laughs, low, and does it again.
“Tom! Stop, please. You’re—you’re scaring me.”
“Am I?” asks Tom. She’s undone the buttons all the way to Ginny’s belly button now. She pushes Ginny’s robe back, first over one shoulder, and then the other. The fabric pools down behind Ginny, falling over Tom’s hand, over Tom’s lap.
Ginny’s own hands are still stuck in her sleeves, at her sides. Her whole chest is completely bare and flushed under Tom’s gaze. She knows other girls her age, some of the other girls in her dorm, have started wearing stays—or, for the muggle-borns, bras—but Ginny doesn’t really have a reason to yet, her chest still painfully flat.
Tom leans back on her elbows, just looking. Her legs fall apart, just a bit, as she shifts back, and Ginny’s legs are spread even more open with them. Tom’s hands settle softly on Ginny’s fabric-covered wrists.
Ginny squirms, uncomfortable. The tingly feeling low in her gut is back. Tom’s eyes are dark on her body.
“How am I scaring you?” asks Tom, a faint hint of amusement in her voice.
“I want to stop now,” Ginny whispers. She can’t meet Tom’s eyes.
“I’m just looking,” says Tom. She seems genuinely confused. “You said you liked me looking.”
“Yes, but—“
“Did you lie to me?” Tom’s eyes tear up at the idea. Her lips tremble.
“No!” Ginny hastens to reassure her. “But—“
“So you do like it,” Tom says, breaking out into a relieved smile. “You’re just playing coy.”
“I…yes?” says Ginny. She feels so, so exposed. “I mean, no. I mean—I don’t know.”
Tom cocks her head, her perfectly groomed eyebrows furrowing as she studies Ginny intently.
Ginny flushes from the crown of her head all the way down to her underwear, all of that skin exposed to Tom’s gaze. Her heart is beat-beat-beating between where her legs meet, where they’re splayed out over Tom’s.
“Oh, I think I understand,” says Tom, eyes following the splotchy red blush from Ginny’s face, down to her shoulders, to her chest, her nipples, her belly button, and then even further down to where Ginny’s robe is pooled upon their laps. “You don’t know what you’re feeling.” Her eyes return to Ginny’s own, crinkling into a kind a smile. “You’ve never felt this way before.”
“I—no,” Ginny confesses, “I haven’t.” She feels…relieved? that Tom seems to know what’s going on. That she seems to understand, even if Ginny doesn’t.
“That’s alright,” says Tom. “I know what you’re feeling.”
“Great,” says Ginny. “Can we stop now?”
“Hmm,” says Tom. “Let’s see if you can figure it out. I’ll give you some clues. Alright?”
“Al-alright,” Ginny agrees. A guessing game sounds better than—than whatever was happening before.
“First clue,” says Tom. Her gaze remains soft on Ginny’s eyes. “Your face is flushed.” She brushes the back of her knuckles against Ginny’s cheek, and Ginny can feel the heat follow the older girl’s fingers.
“Any guesses?”
Ginny bites her lip, shakes her head.
“You’re biting your lip,” says Tom. Her fingers travel down to rest on Ginny’s lower lip, then dip between her teeth as she pulls Ginny’s mouth open. “You’re practically drooling. That’s clue number two.”
“Haaa,” says Ginny, because she can’t say anything else. She can feel the wet muscle of her tongue, the tip of it trapped under Tom’s two fingers. Saliva pools behind her teeth, but she can’t swallow, not with Tom’s fingers holding her mouth open.
Tom’s gaze is on her mouth now. Tom is looking inside her, and there’s nothing Ginny can do to stop it. Ginny is naked, practically, her mouth held open on Tom’s fingers, her legs held open on Tom’s lap, her robes in complete disarray around her. Tom’s hair is down, but it falls in perfect waves around her face and she’s otherwise perfectly dressed and collected, leaning back as she studies Ginny’s naked body. Drool overflows and spills down Ginny’s chin, and Ginny feels so, so small and disgusting.
Her eyes water then, and hot tears and snot start flowing silently down her face to mix with the drool. She tries to wipe her face off with the hand Tom’s not holding down, but Tom’s other arm—the one with its fingers still in her mouth—is in the way.
Ginny sniffs. It doesn’t help.
“You’re leaking,” says Tom. She raises her free hand to follow the gross line of snot and drool and tears from her chin down to Ginny’s bare chest. “Here,” she says, her fingers curling behind Ginny’s teeth and sending out a fresh wave of drool, which her other hand then smears into Ginny’s sternum, then down into her belly button. Ginny’s stomach instinctively curls in, her body tries to buck away, and a hot pulse of something spasms between her legs.
Tom seems to know exactly what just happened, because the fingers at her stomach dip quickly down under the drawstring of Ginny’s thin underwear and stroke where that burning pulse just flared. “And here,” Tom says, still stroking. Her thumb rests on that throbbing pulse point, rubbing intense, burning circles that spiral up into her stomach, and her first two fingers dip even lower. Ginny rocks away, legs jerking, but she doesn’t get far with Tom’s fingers hooked in her mouth at one end and hooked into something else at the junction of her legs.
Ginny feels like a fish, speared through on both ends.
“You’re so wet for me,” Tom says, and it’s true. Ginny’s mouth is a mess of drool; she’s leaking from from her nose, from her eyes. And there’s more wetness gushing around Tom’s other hand, from where Ginny’s legs are splayed open on her fingers.
Ginny doesn’t know—she doesn’t think she’s peed herself, but it’s so wet down there, and she can hear all these embarrassing squelching noises coming from her, and the more and faster Tom rubs at that pulse point, the more Ginny feels like she really, really needs to pee.
Ginny is rocking again, her already sore abs working herself back and forth and up and down, trying to escape—or trying to get more? It feels like lightning, like magic, like the spark that traveled through her when she was able to pick out her own wand, except more, except too much, and Ginny can’t do anything except squirm on Tom’s fingers and stupidly drool, and she’s breathing so heavy, panting like a dog—
Like a bitch in heat, Tom had said, and Ginny still doesn’t know entirely what that means, but it feels true.
Tom, she tries to say, stop, but it comes out more like, “Haaam.” She doesn’t even get the second word out at all. Her lips close around Tom’s fingers. The older girl’s skin tastes salty and slightly metallic. A bit like ink; a bit like blood. Ginny finds herself sucking almost automatically as the fingers spear deeper into her mouth.
“Good girl,” says Tom, and Ginny’s crying but she feels so warm in her stomach when Tom praises her like that, so she sucks harder and she squirms, and she feels so disgusting, and stupid, but she can’t stop.
There’s a pressure building up in her belly, and a fiery jolt every time Tom’s fingers curl up inside her somewhere she didn’t even know existed. She’s going to burst.
“Oh, does that feel good, pet? Writhing like a desperate worm on my fingers?”
“Mmmm,” Ginny whines, high and frantic, around Tom’s fingers. She doesn’t know if she means yes or no.
“You’re pathetic, aren’t you? Covered in your own mucus and filthy slick, begging me to get you off because you don’t even know how to do it yourself.”
“Hhhhnnn,” Ginny tries to protest, but, like she’s a puppet, Tom’s two fingers hooked into her throat and the rest of her hand clenched tight around Ginny’s jaw, Tom nods Ginny’s head for her.
Ginny quickly starts to nod her own head, bobbing it up and down, so she doesn’t choke around the fingers stuffed down almost to her tonsils, or worse, throw up all over herself. It’s true anyway, what Tom is saying. She is pathetic.
She’s gross, and pathetic, and sobbing, and still that desperate, aching, burning feeling is growing inside her, higher and more intense than Ginny could ever have imagined anything feeling. Tom’s fingers pound into her from the inside, bruising, and her thumb rubs out waves of fire that ripple up through Ginny’s tummy and down through her trembling thighs.
She’s going to pee herself. She can’t help it. It’s too much. She’s already disgusting, but if she pees herself, she’ll also be peeing in front of Tom, on Tom, like a baby still in diapers, and the shame and humiliation makes her sob.
“Come for me,” Tom commands, pressing in everywhere all at once, and Ginny—breaks open. She feels herself gush around Tom’s hand in her underwear, tries to scream and buck her head away from Tom’s fingers in her mouth.
Ginny falls forward onto Tom’s perfectly-ironed robes, shaking and sniffling. She sobs, broken and so, so ashamed. Because not only had she just—done that, but it had felt good. For a blistering moment, she had just felt alive, and it was the most wonderful thing she’d ever felt.
Tom removes her fingers from Ginny’s mouth. The other fingers inside her are still there, stroking much more slowly now, almost absently, gently, but still wringing out a few jolting spasms from Ginny’s worn-out body.
Tom pushes Ginny back off her robes and wipes her drool-covered hand clean against Ginny’s chest, first down and across one nipple, and then the back of her hand across the other. Ginny can’t even bear to look at the older girl, instead hanging her head in mortification.
Tom’s fingers are still moving lazily inside her, sending the echoes of sparks to twitch through her every few seconds.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Ginny nods, miserable. “I’m sorry,” she sniffs out.
Tom tuts and cups her face, tilting it up so that Ginny’s forced to meet her eyes. “Why are you sorry?” she asks.
“I—I peed myself,” Ginny whispers.
Tom chuckles softly. Her eyes are so, so calm and understanding. “No, you didn’t,” she says.
“I did,” Ginny cries. “I felt it.”
“Hmm.” Tom withdraws her hand from Ginny’s soaked-through pants, leaving with a final pet over the fabric. She holds her dripping fingers to Ginny’s lips. “Taste,” she says.
Despairing and deserving of whatever she gets, Ginny opens her mouth to suck these new fingers in.
It tastes—sweet, kind of. Like flowers. And also a little bit salty. Gooey, rather than wet. It’s…not horrible. And it’s definitely not pee.
“Good girl,” says Tom, as she sucks. “Cleaning me up so well. You see? It’s not pee.”
Ginny nods around Tom’s fingers. She’s mostly not crying anymore.
Tom brings her fingers out of Ginny’s mouth. These ones, she wipes in Ginny’s hair.
“What is it?” Ginny asks. Her voice is kind of sore in her throat. “If it’s not pee?”
“Arousal,” Tom answers patiently. “Wetness, slick. There’s all kinds of names for it. But it means you’re enjoying yourself, that you wanted me inside you. And then, when I made you come, when you orgasmed, it gushed out even more because you were enjoying yourself even more.”
“Oh,” says Ginny, blushing.
“Do you know what you were feeling now?” Tom asks.
“Um…arousal?” Ginny guesses. She’s not sure if that’s a feeling name, or just what the, um, stuff is called.
“Exactly,” says Tom. “And now you know what arousal feels like, for the future. You know what it feels like when you get turned on.”
Ginny ducks her head and nods. She can feel the…arousal drying in sticky clumps in her hair.
“And how does it feel for you?” Tom is—petting her again, running a hand up and down her side. It’s normal Tom petting, though, like she always does, except this time Ginny’s whole top half is bare and shivering in the air.
“Um—hot,” Ginny says. She tries not to squirm under Tom’s gaze. “A bit tingly? In my tummy. A bit terrifying.”
“Mm.” Tom smiles, pleased. “That sounds about right. And to think, the first time you ever got turned on was just from me looking at you.”
“Y-yeah,” says Ginny.
“Tell me how it felt,” Tom orders, “to have been so turned on that you begged me to strip you and finger you until you came.”
Ginny rears back a bit, shocked. “I didn’t…”
“One look from me and you were debasing yourself like a proper little slut.”
“I’m not—!”
“No? You didn’t crawl onto my lap? You didn’t grind your dripping, dirty cunt on my legs because you’re an insatiable little whore?”
“Tom!” she protests, growing red again. Her stomach sinks inside her, and she doesn’t know if it’s shame, or, or—arousal.
“You didn’t tell me just how much you liked it as you begged me to take your clothes off?”
“That’s not what happened,” Ginny says, uncertain. Because she had—she had told Tom she liked it, hadn’t she?
Had she begged? Surely not. But Tom seems so certain…
“You didn’t moan my name around my fingers as you got yourself off?”
Well, yes. Sort of. Ginny squirms on Tom’s lap.
“You’re not getting turned on again just by hearing the filthy, slutty things you’ve done?” Tom whispers in her ear. A single finger swipes through her—her arousal, then holds the proof to her lips.
“Tell the truth, Ginny.”
Ginny sucks in a sharp breath, breathing in the scent of her shame as she does. “Yes,” she says.
“Yes what?” Tom prompts. She tweaks one of Ginny’s nipples, and Ginny squeaks at the shock.
“Yes, I’m, um, turned on.” Ginny’s face is on fire.
“Why?” Tom asks. Her thumb is running just beneath the drawstring waistband of Ginny’s pants, back and forth across her lower stomach, but refuses to dip any lower. Ginny just wants—she wants this over with.
“I…because I, um, you were telling me the—um, what I did.”
“And what did you do, Ginny, that made you so horny?”
“Horny?”
Tom tweaks her other nipple.
“Ah!” She jumps up a bit and then comes down hard, landing on her opening, where Tom had been fondling her before. She feels empty now, without Tom’s fingers there.
“Turned on,” Tom defines it for her. “Aroused. Lustful. Horny.”
She pinches Ginny’s buttcheek this time, the one she hadn’t touched before, and Ginny once again rocks away from the pain and straight into Tom.
“What did you do, Ginny, that made you so horny?” Another pinch, on her stomach this time.
Ginny squeals and shifts back, falls forward. “I…um, I, you were looking at me?”
“And that turned you on?” Pinch, on her thigh.
“Yes!” Ginny presses herself as close to Tom as she can, starts trying to free her hands from where they’re still tangled in her sleeves.
“Why?”
“Why?” Ginny asks, somewhat frantic as she tries to escape the constant tweaking and pinching from every direction. All she’s succeeding in doing is rocking herself once more on Tom’s lap, pressing down on that point Tom had circled so strongly, getting herself more and more worked up, more and more aroused. “Because…” She tries to remember what Tom said. “Because I’m a slut!”
Her voice cracks and she immediately goes flamingly red all over.
“Yes,” says Tom, running a gentle hand down Ginny’s flank, soothing the sharp points of pain she’d littered there. “You are. And what kind of slutty, whorish things did you do?”
“I, uh, I begged you to, um…”
“To what?” Tom is toying with the waistline of her panties again.
“To, to take my clothes off.”
“Oh?” says Tom. “You want these to come off?” She twists a handful of the thin fabric in her hand and hoists it up, giving Ginny a wedgie, except it’s in the front. And in the back. It’s an all-over wedgie, and it hurts.
Ginny whimpers, swallows, nods.
“If you want something from me, you have to ask for it,” Tom says. “I’m not a mind reader.”
“Please, Tom.”
“Please what?” She hoists the wedgie even higher, and Ginny rocks up onto her knees.
“Please take my pants off,” Ginny forces out.
“That’s a bit of an odd request,” says Tom. “Why?”
“Please,” says Ginny. “It hurts.”
“Wearing pants hurts?”
“Yes.”
“You’re that much of a slag?”
“Yes! Please, Tom, please.” She casts around desperately to try and figure out what Tom wants her to say. “I’m a slag; I’m a slut. I need my pants off because I want you to look at me because it turns me on. It makes me horny because I’m such a slut. Please.”
“Very well,” says Tom. “If you insist. Stand up.”
Standing puts Ginny’s crotch at exactly the same height as Tom’s head. She lets her robe fall completely to the ground as she stands, tries to pinch herself to wake up, but nothing happens. She’s stuck in the dream.
Tom takes her time pulling Ginny’s plain cotton underwear down. She toys with the string that ties them to Ginny’s waist, only pulls them down a little bit at a time, pulls them back up, then down, then up again until Ginny begs her again to take them off.
Then, she just stares at Ginny’s most private, intimate parts, smirking and way too close. Her breath is hot on Ginny’s folds. But she doesn’t do anything until Ginny begs for that too.
In the morning, when she wakes, Ginny is covered in sweat and her pants have been kicked off onto the ground. Her sleep shirt has been pulled up and over her neck to land somewhere behind her bedframe. She’s completely naked, and the space between her thighs is soaking wet.
She can hear her dorm mates getting ready for the day. She doesn’t dare join them in the state that she’s in. She’ll just have to skip breakfast, and maybe be late to class.
Last night’s dreams are already fading into a muddled impression of sex and fear and pride and shame. Ginny can barely remember any details, any specifics of what was said or done.
But she remembers begging for it, and she feels with bone-deep certainty that she’s dirty, that she’s ruined, and that she’s a worthless, filthy slut.