#lesbian writing

[that-butch-archivist]

"Femme correspondents connected with me in a different way. Many were grateful for my past work and for the opportunity to announce their identities in their own voices. Their statements reflected one bitter irony: if, in the straight world, butches bear the brunt of the physical and verbal abuse for their difference, in the lesbian-feminist world, femmes have had to endure a deeper attack on their sense of self-worth. Leather and denim, flannels and vests--butch women could easily adapt these prevailing signs of feminist gender resistance into superficial passports to acceptance, but the femme woman, in her lace and silk, high heels, and lipstick, had no place to hide. Many learned to pass as a "dyke" in public while in their homes and in their beds, they flew their flags of color and sensuality. The femme voice is underrepresented in historical records, though markings of her presence abound. Often, she is the security behind the butch display, the one who makes the public bravado possible. Lady Una Troubridge's words to Radclyffe Hall, while spoken by a white, upper-class, Christian woman, capture some of the enduring aspects of femme power: "I told her to write what was in her heart, that so far as any effect upon myself was concerned, I was sick to death of ambiguities ..." Yet to others, the femme woman has been the most ambiguous figure in lesbian history; she is often described as the nonlesbian lesbian, the duped wife of the passing woman, the lesbian who marries. Because I am a femme myself, I know the complexity of our identity; I also know how important it is for all women to hear our voices. If the butch deconstructs gender, the femme constructs gender. She puts together her own special ingredients for what it is to be a "woman," an identity with which she can live and love."

- An excerpt from "Flamboyance and fortitude: An introduction," written by Joan Nestle, the introduction essay for The Persistent Desire: A Butch-Femme Reader. (Emphasis in bold my own.)

[lesbionicandiconic]

Stacy’s mom… is a butch?

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Contains: Fingering, strapon sex, risk of getting caught, cheating, age gap, breeding kink, daddy kink, possessive kink, rough sex. Most notably, mention of a character topping despite not really liking it, but in the end all stone related boundaries are respected within the action of this story. Enjoy!

———————————————————————

Wren had been dating Stacy for 6 months when she decided it was time to meet the family. Things has gotten pretty serious, after all. They saw each other multiple times a week, their friends had met, they had a beautiful candlelit 6 month anniversary dinner, it was the natural next step. And Wren Loved Stacy. Probably.

She hadn’t said it yet but it had to be true, right? It didn’t matter that she never quite felt that spark that people talked about, but that’s more a myth and a turn of phrase… right? Stacy was easy, comfortable, like a best friend. And the sex was… pretty good! All things considered. Wren had never been easy to please or quick to orgasm, not like Stacy. And she was sure that guilty twinge she got when she topped was just a little leftover perfectionism, because she wanted to please her girlfriend so badly.

Everything was going perfectly. Or as close to perfect as could possibly be expected.

Nothing could have prepared her for meeting Stacy’s mom.

She had been warned that Stacy’s mother was an old fashioned butch dyke, and not to be intimidated by them. Apparently they had gotten pregnant as a teen and came out a few years later, raising Stacy with a revolving door of girlfriends her whole life. When Wren saw them herself, she understood why they never seemed to be lacking for a woman.

Tall, short hair, thick arms undoubtedly filled with muscle and broad shoulders filled the doorway as Wrem stumbled her way through introducing herself. How could she not stutter and blush? The perfect image of a butch, dominant and suave was staring down at her with piercing eyes and a 50’s greaser aesthetic. For a moment she forgot she was standing with their daughter’s hand on her arm.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Thank you for welcoming me into your home.” She managed, sticking a hand out awkwardly.

They laughed, mouth twitching into a smirk, and shook her hand firmly. “Please, call me Sir, not ma’am.”

“Y-yes sir. Of course”

Wren tried not to think about how large their hand was, tried not to look like she was getting wet from a handshake.

Stacy just rolled her eyes and grabbed Wren’s arm, pulling her away from the butch’s strong grasp and inside the house towards the stairs.

“Ignore them,” she said, “They like to fuck with people, they think it’s fun. Let me show you my room, babe!”

Wren let herself be pulled away from the doorstep, but allowed just the quickest glance back. Her breath caught when her eyes met theirs, watching her go with the smirking expression of a predator who just spotted their next prey.

——

Wren tried to convince herself she was fucking crazy. Her girlfriend’s mom? Really? What kind of lesbian lunacy was she on now?

And of course Sir wouldn’t be interested in her, a femme half their age who was dating their daughter. The thought alone was insane. The way they had looked at her in the doorway was just her brain playing tricks after the long drive over. No, it was definitely all in her head.

She kept telling herself that the entire first week of the stay.

She imagined them staring at her while she sunbathed in the back yard in only a bikini.

She made up the time they grazed a hand over the small of her back while passing her in the kitchen.

She dreamt of a time when they complimented her dress before her and Stacy went out to the club, and the way their gaze dragged down her body with unconcealed lust.

She hallucinated when she found herself almost pinned against the wall of the hallway, hot breath ghosting over her lips as they wiped some chocolate from the corner of her mouth, large thumb nearly slipping between her lips before they walked away without another glance.

Eventually though, some things get impossible to deny.

Like the day they watched a movie together. The three of them, squished like sardines on the small couch facing the TV. Wren was in the middle, Stacy fast asleep next to her, and Sir on the other side, wide awake. A blanket draped over all three, keeping it cozy as period action clanged out from the television.

The movie was good, but not entertaining enough to make Wren not notice the brush of fingertips against her bare thigh. Not her girlfriend’s fingers, theirs.

She tried not to change her breathing, pretend like she didn’t notice. It could just be a innocent graze.

Those rogue fingertips drifted up the outside of her thigh, calloused and rough against her soft skin, then dragged down between her legs.

Not innocent.

Her breath caught. She could feel their gaze on her but she tried to keep her eyes glued to the screen, terrified that any acknowledgment of what was happening would make it stop. Their fingers pressed against her clit through the fabric of her shorts and underwear. She gasped, her eyes flicking to her sleeping girlfriend.

“She won’t wake up.” They whispered, barely audible over the TV’s noise.

Wren didn’t respond, she couldn’t fathom how to gather a single coherent sentence. Instead, she slowly opened her legs as wide as she could without disturbing Stacy. They got the message and chuckled softly, dragging their hand up to her stomach then diving underneath her clothes. The track of their fingertips felt burned into her skin. Even though they touched her lightly, she wondered if it would bruise and give away her filthy new secret.

Their fingers pushed past her clit and dipped into the wetness gathered below. She was dripping, sitting next to them for an hour with their shoulder against hers had already been tantalizing enough to get her desperate. They massaged over her folds and clit, exploring, drawing shuddering breaths from her lips.

“Do you want more?” They breathed against her ear. She burned with guilt and pleasure as she nodded.

One thick finger slowly pushed inside her. So much larger and somehow warmer than Stacy’s fingers. She slid down in her seat to help the angle as they start to shallowly thrust inside her. They soon added a second finger that stretches her deliciously, her eyes fluttering closed as ripples of pleasure spread through her body. She still can’t look at them, but she can feel their hot breath on her ear and face and her neck. She wonders if they’ll kiss her.

They push a third finger inside her and she can’t help but let out a squeaky moan. Stacy shifts, and the fingers in her pussy stop moving immediately.

Stacy rubs her eyes and groggily asks if the movie is still going on. Sir answers.

“Yeah it’s got like an hour left, why don’t you go to bed honey? We’ll finish it then head up after you.”

Wren nods, unable to speak and hyper aware of how her girlfriend’s mom’s fingers were stretching out her pussy beneath their shared blanket. So deep inside and just barely grazing her g-spot with how they curled.

“Yeah, okay that sounds good.” Stacy says, detangling herself from the blanket while barely opening her eyes. She leans down and kisses Wren on the mouth, Wren clenches involuntarily on the thick fingers inside her. “Goodnight babe.”

“Goodnight.” Wren Squeaks, trying and failing to keep the tension out of her voice. Luckily, Stacy is too tired to notice. She slowly stumbles up the stairs and moments later the door to her bedroom clicks shut.

Wren lets loose a ragged sigh of relief that turns into a low moan as the butch’s fingers start to move at a brutal pace. Faster than before, and curling deep inside her each time.

“That was close.” They growl, then hot lips connect to Wren’s neck and she feels herself ramping up to the quickest orgasm she’d ever had in her life. She bucks her hips into the palm of their hand and tilts her head so they can access more of her neck. With each thrust the base of their hand grinds against her clit until sparks fill her vision. The orgasm hits her like a truck. She clenches around their fingers, own hands twisted in the soft blanket.

In the aftershocks they pull the blanket back and extract their dripping wet fingers from her pussy. She gasps in ragged breaths, not sure what would happen next, only certain that she just experienced the best orgasm of her life with the last person in the world she should have.

“Clean them up for me.” Sir purrs in her ear, touching the wet fingertips against Wren’s open mouth. She obeys. She opens her mouth wide and sucks greedily on each finger as it’s presented to her, tasting herself. Stacy hated when she sucked on her fingers, but they let out soft groans as they watch her head bob while she meticulously licks her own cum off. Their clear arousal at her enthusiasm gives her a rush of courage. She takes all three fingers in her mouth at once, almost gagging on the length, and she makes eye contact for the first time that night.

It flips a switch in them. Only a moment after those piercing eyes meet hers, she’s straddling their lap with those rough hands moving all over her body, pulling off her flimsy pyjama shirt and leaving her breasts exposed to the cool air. They grope her chest roughly, pinching and twisting her nipples as she squirms against them. With a shock she realizes they’re hard packing. Stacy never used a strap. No matter how much Wren begged and pleaded, she didn’t like the way it brought men into the bedroom. But grinding her hips down on the hard plastic in their pants now, Stacy knew there was nothing man about this. This was all Butch. This was what she wanted.

She decides to own it, to take advantage of this butch and everything they were offering her. She wants it. She wants it all. So she digs her sharp nails into their back as they take a nipple into their mouth and suck. She drags her nails through their short hair as they leave hickeys all over her chest. Fuck it.

They grab her hips and lift her to her feet, then pull down her shorts and panties so she is left standing completely bare in front of them. The way they look at her body sets her on fire. Utter desire. Complete dominance.

She sinks to her knees between their legs and unzips their fly, peeling back the rough denim until a long, thick strap pops out. Her hands then travel up their torso, slipping beneath the white T-shirt and just barely grazing warm skin before their large hands stop her. She looks up with concern, worried that reality had sunk in and they had decided this was too much, too wrong. But instead they put her hands back on their waist, on the outside of their shirt.

“I don’t like to be touched on the first time. I need to know a girl better. And even then, I don’t bottom.” They explain, a twinge of pain in their eyes. They’d had this conversation before and it had not gone well.

But Wren didn’t feel disappointed, she felt warm tingles spread through her body. Comfort. Freedom to not do anything she wasn’t fully comfortable with. To fuck and be fucked without guilt.

“Do you kiss?” She breathes, completely captured by their eyes and messy hair and warmth radiating through their clothes.

“Yes. Do you suck strap?”

“I’ve never tried, but I want to.” She says, shifting her gaze down to the long silicone cock only inches from her face.

“Give it a go, pretty girl. I’ll reward you with a kiss.”

She nods, feeling her wetness dripping on the hardwood floor. Never in her life had she experienced arousal like this. With one hand she takes the strap, slowly pumping it like she’d seen people do in porn. Leaning in, she licks up the underside, then swirls her tongue around the head. Her eyes flick up to see their reaction, pleased to find their mouth hanging open and chest heaving. Without breaking eye contact, she takes the strap deep into her mouth until she gags. Then again, and again, taking it a little bit deeper each time. Their hand tangled in her hair, pushing her further onto their cock. Her hands grip their thighs through denim as she gags continually and tears run down her cheeks. They use her hair to pull her off and smile at the sight of her watery eyes and the drool connecting her mouth to the strapon. Wren smiles back. This is what she wanted.

They lean down and grab her hips, easily tossing her onto the couch next to them. Crawling on top of her, they spread her legs apart and slot themself between so the strap pokes at her entrance but doesn’t quite slip in. Wren moves her hips, needing something.

They kiss her.

Her world melts away. The perfect kiss, so teased and anticipated, bruising, dominant, attentive. She arches her back and wraps her arms around their neck. Almost twenty more years of experience kissing makes a master, their tongue slipping in and out of her mouth, they read her like kissing girls is their first language.

After an infinity or maybe just a few minutes she breaks away, “Please fuck me. Please Sir, I need it.”

They chuckle, “As you wish, baby.”

Strong hands grip the backs of her thighs, pushing them up to her chest, she grabs them and holds them there instinctually. They line up the strap with with her pussy, dragging it through her wetness.

“So fucking wet for me. Who knew my daughter’s girlfriend was such a slut.”

Wren whined, guilt and pleasure and desperation mixing to create a headrush. They laughed at her pathetic expression, and push deep inside.

She had never felt a stretch like that. Never been so impossibly full. She could suddenly understand what people meant when they described sex as rearranging their guts. With the strap fully seated inside her and the masculine weight looming over her, she knew she would never be able to fuck a femme again.

They hooked her legs over their shoulders, and grabbed her face with both hands. This position is a mating press, she knew that much. Her poorly repressed breeding kink raged to life just thinking about it. She melted when their eyes caught hers and she saw that they were just as affected by all this as she was, the hunger in their eyes vivid.

“Are you ready for this? I’m going to knock you up, pretty girl.”

She nearly came on the spot. “Yes yes yes please Sir, knock me up please.”

They responded by driving their hips forward.

Wren held on for dear life as waves of pleasure ripped through her body. She forgot about her girlfriend upstairs and moaned with each impact of their hips against hers. The base of the harness rubbing against her clit sent extra zaps of pleasure shooting up her stomach and down her legs. She had never felt pleasure like this. Never been fucked like this. They knew exactly what pace to keep and how to flick their hips to hit spots inside she had never known existed. The pressure kept mounting so she bit hard into their shoulder and dragged her nails down their back, claiming them, pushing down her screams of pleasure. They moaned loudly and fucked her harder, moving one hand from her face to her neck.

Putting pressure, they pulled back to look her in the eyes. “You’re with my daughter, and I’m about to get you pregnant. You should really start calling me daddy.”

Shame and guilt and extreme arousal brought tears to her eyes. “Yes daddy.” She moaned, her whole body burning in every way possible.

They kissed her hard then looked at her with that crooked cocky smile, the same way that they had looked at her in the hallway that first day. Like she was theirs.

“That’s my good girl.”

Wren came so hard she thought she might die. Her vision went black and every muscle in her body tensed and released all at once. Wave after wave crashed into her until she felt like she was floating outside of her body, but they kept fucking her at a brutal pace, drawing it out even further.

“Say my name.” They growled, their face flushed and thrusts getting sloppier, her pussy squelching obscenely with each movement.

She could barely think but managed to whine “D-daddyyyy!”

They thrust deep one last time and stayed there as they convulsed on top of her, ragged breaths hitting her neck.

They both stilled for a few minutes, catching their breath in silence. Eventually, they moved her legs off their shoulders, instead looping loosely around their hips. They didn’t pull out. Wren could feel her used pussy throbbing and clenching around the strap as they buried their head in her chest. Little kisses and bites trailing between her nipples, making her twitch and sometimes whimper. She traced imaginary patterns along their scalp, down their neck to the collar of their T-shirt, then back up again.

The movie was over, credits rolling by to a cinematic score. Reality started to sink back in. She had just fucked her girlfriends mom. On her girlfriend's childhood couch. With her girlfriend right upstairs, hopefully still asleep despite how noisy they had gotten.

In fact, her girlfriend's mom's strap was still inside her treacherous pussy.

She lifted their head from her chest and looked them in the eyes, “What now?”

They didn’t answer, simply leaning forward and claiming her mouth. Every thought and feeling of guilt melting away with the sensation of their tongue sliding over hers.

Everything was perfect.

They started thrusting again, slow and languid, sending aching pleasure rippling through her tired body.

“You’re mine now.” They breathed against her lips.

“Yes daddy.”

[androgynealienfemme]

"I was born thirty eight years ago and raised to be a nice Chinese girl. But nice Chinese girls don't grow up to be dykes and rebels. And I turned out to be both.

I grew up on silence. Though I was part of a large extended family, we ate in silence. There was no conversation or laughter, just the sound of soup spoons and chopsticks against rice bowls. I was not encouraged to talk, express emotions, or ask questions. I grew up with a heritage of silence.

I was a girl child, the first born in a traditional Chinese family, raised to be seen but not heard, raised to excel in school but not be curious, raised to be someone's wife but not to be a person of my own. When I was growing up in England, Hong Kong, and San Francisco, I read everything I could get my hands on, but none of the books spoke of my own experience. I started writing when I was eleven years old to fill the silence and to turn the years of rejection into affirmation.

You're probably wondering what the hell any of this h as to do with sex. The answer is- plenty. What I write is shaped by my history and experience as both a Chinese woman and as a lesbian.

Chinese is my first language. But I was fluent only in the words my parents deemed it necessary for me to know. I was certainly not taught the words for breast, cunt, ass, or orgasm. There were no words for sex; therefore, sex did not exist.

I came out as a lesbian when I was twenty-one, but I didn't start writing about sex until almost a decade later. Sure, I wrote love poems, but I never wrote about sex. I was, after all, a nice Chinese girl and we didn't''t talk about things like that. --

I have always loved women passionately. I love the way a femme moves across a dance floor, knowing all eyes are focused on her. I love the hard eye-to-eye look from another butch as she sizes me up as competition- or her next conquest. I love the fluid seduction in a femmes eyes. I love the long line of her neck, her delicate earlobes and soft lips, painted some shade of red or unpainted but deeply flushed from having been kissed long and hard. Many times. I love the curve of her breast, the hardness of her nipples, the softness of her stomach, the fullness of her ass, her legs with a faint covering of hair or long and sleek in black silk stockings. I love the strength of her in her thighs, the firmness of her biceps, the feel of her forearms as she takes me. I love the smell of her heat and the place of pleasure between her legs. I love her ankles and her delicate toes and her soft instep where I run my tongue until my teeth are gripping her Achilles tendon. I love the smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of her, the sight of her. I love women passionately.

--

Some women do not attend my theater or literary events for fear of supporting my sexual politics. I have been accused of recruiting. Never mind that I have a long history of writing, community organizing, and activism. Now I am judged solely for my leather sexuality. It's never been easy being different, but I have always survived. I will continue to speak out, write truths, and make waves. My countryman Mao Zedong wrote, "Dare to struggle, dare to win." I say, dare to write. Dare to be different. And who says nice Chinese girls don't talk about sex?"

"Who Says we Don't Talk About Sex?" Kitty Tsui, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

[thuesdaynightdykelife]

A love letter to my flamboyant butches,

Those of you who talk like a melody, accompanied by the dance of your hands. The theatrics in the way you converse, a show anyone would be lucky to see.

Your exuberance isn't at odds with your masculinity. Your flamboyance doesn't soften your butchness.

A peacock ruffling it's feathers, train-rattling, carabiner, chain-rattling. The elaborate adornments you cover yourself in, cloth, ink, metal.

Taking full advantage of the range of expression that queer masculinity offers. You blow me away, you send stars to my eyes, you show me all that could be.

You are unmissable, you are unforgettable, and you add so much vibrancy to this beautiful community.

[its-a-femmes-thoughts]

golden retriever butch x cryptid creature who lives in the forest femme

[ohwrite]

Heroine grasps the attacking Villainess’ arm, she makes eye contact with her nemesis and, in a flurry of movements, restrains her with only her arms. Villainess squeaks, looking up at the heroine who caught her with rose tinted cheeks.

“Holy shit…” She whispers, daring not to breathe.

Heroine laughs, smiling down at her, satisfied. “‘Bout time someone put you in your place huh?”

Villainess’ face lights up even brighter. She stammers, attempting to get a sentence out before her nemesis places a finger to her lips, shushing her.

“You’re much cuter flustered out of words, so be a dear and be quiet~”

The villain nods, and Heroine giggles. Dragging her away to her home rather than The Agency.

[aphrodites-serenade]

Look at me.. not for too long

Her eyes are the most beautiful gems on this earth

She's loved by the moon and sun, with the way they glow and shine in any light

They dart all over the place, not able to stay on one thing for too time

Look at this... Oh no, look at this

She's a spark of joy, but the light becomes dimmer the farther her figure walks away from me

A dreadful thought overcomes me,

I'm fading into the background, into one of the many normalities in her life

My body moves faster than my mind, and once again, I'm near

I have to hold onto her, make sure she doesn't forget me

She swings around abruptly, her locks falling into place as she searches for the reason of this sudden action in my eyes

There's heat rising to my cheeks, I must surely seem pathetic and ridiculous

I wanted her to look at me, and yet…

I look at my feet before she notices any signs of the fear that has overtaken my body

Her eyes are still on me, looking at these imperfections, all of them

I'm a child again, apologizing to my parents for being so needy

It's her touch that now makes me search in her eyes

Her fingers draw circles into my skin, dotted with blemishes

They trace my cracked lips and overgrown brows

The longer she touches me, the more I barrage myself for not hiding my dark eye bags, for letting my face get round, for not taming my hair

The thought that she would stop loving me because of all this makes me want to sob

Don't look at me any longer, please

Comfort envelopes me as her lips press against mine

It's her softness that makes me forget what I was even saying

I've never felt so beautiful as when I am with her

[the-sappho-of-lesbos]

Source: The Exploding Frangipani ; Lesbian Writing From Australia and New Zealand -edited by Cathie Dunsford and Susan Hawthorne

[rosebudprincess]

imagine mamma mia, where donna still falls in love with harry, bill and sam. except sam is a butch lesbian she falls in love with in her youth.

yes, bill is sophie’s bioligical dad. but deep inside, donna’s heart is with sam. a woman she loved, didn’t want to leave but because of multiple circumstances she had to.

instead of discovering that sam had a fiance, donna instead chose the life of hiding her sexuality and looking for the stability in raising her baby on her own and left sam to her own devices. sam who was so free and comfortable in her own sexuality and expression.

so when sophie finally gets engaged and discovers the diary, she finds sam, bill and harry. except she assumes that sam is a man. so when the invitations are sent, sophie is shocked to see an older butch woman.

obviously, to her own terror, so is donna. finally seeing the woman she left years ago, right in front of her.

^ this retelling is brought to you by my daydreamy haze listening to “the winner takes it all” from the mamma mia soundtrack earlier today and imagining an older femme/butch couple reminiscing on their relationship in their youth that eventually went sour due to many complications and in revisiting their relationship now find that the pain of leaving one another is still there. but it’s in the past and the likelihood of changing their reality is slim.

additionally, here are the lyrics that inspired this:

| the winner takes it all by ABBA

• “I don’t wanna talk about things we’ve gone through. Though it’s hurting me, now it’s history.”

• “I was in your arms thinking I belonged there.”

• “But tell me does she kiss like I used to kiss you? Does it feel the same when she calls your name?”

| SOS by ABBA

• “Whatever happened to our love, I wish I understood. It used to be so nice. It used to be so good.”

• “You seem so far away though you are standing near. You made me feel alive, but something died, I fear.”

[reliablegal]

Do not put two neurodivergent transfems who are writing in the same room. We’ll will come up with the most heinous tragic comedy this side of the planet.

Yes my story has some brand new ideas and a million more are on the way. Are they any good?

What are you a cop?

[toxins-private-collection]

At fourteen, I dedicated my life to a girl.

She spoke with life and loved like fresh bruises.

I found she was the only other person who'd stand up for me,

And in return, I'd be anyone she needed.

A friend, a warrior, a wishful dreamer, a devoted follower.

I could never touch her hand, for I was a better friend than lover.

But never will I forget, the girl whose name rhymed with mine.

[bookmothic-dyke]

I’m a monster fucker.

[geminicorrects]

the other day

[androgynealienfemme]

"I know what I am when I look at old pictures long, wavy hair, eyeliner, mascara demure and mysterious. I know what I am when I wander on my lunch hour to sample new fragrances and linger near lace lingerie. I know what I am when I paw through these old letters still warm with old passions held firmly in wide rubber bands. I know what I am when the sight of old white t-shirts and the smell of Old Space can still make me shiver and smile I know what I am in the dark when you fill me your hands and your mouth in the head of the heart of my center I know what I am." "Old femme", Madeline Davis, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

[thuesdaynightdykelife]

If I'm unfortunate enough to see you die before my time has come, I'll be tattooing your ashes into my skin, have you always by my side.

[wren-l-winter]

Thanks for the continuation!! i’m glad i could give some motivation!!

If you’re down for more (no pressure at all) i also loved this one and would love to see where you take it! https://www.tumblr.com/wren-l-winter/766608155460452352/you-want-to-be-free-whumper-looked-down-at?source=share

this definitely took a different direction than i had thought it would but i'm really proud of this one. thank you anon for asking me to continue it! writing this was really therapeutic

Mud squelched beneath Whumpee’s feet. Every step brought her closer to the forest, to the smell of pine and the earthiness of decaying foliage. Autumn rains had enriched the hues of vibrant leaves, their tips heavy with droplets. Whumpee stood behind the line of the gates, looking down the worn path she’d once been dragged across. Did she dare try?

Whumper stood as a statue, her cold, stoney eyes never moving off of Whumpee. The mutts waited in the woods, maws salivating with the anticipation of the chase—the only meal they’d ever known were the runaways. 

Whumpee stood there, encased by the weight of what could be. She could be free, start a new life, somewhere quiet and warm. She’d have a garden, something to tend to. There would be a stream nearby, always bubbling away, drowning out her thoughts when she couldn’t keep them at bay. She’d have seeds for the singing birds. Perhaps she’d let her favorites inside to keep her company. And her clothes would be soft and loose, never again would she have to wear corsets or itchy lace. She wouldn’t be a doll anymore. 

The clap of a dog’s bark struck through the delusion. Whumpee would never make it. She couldn’t outrun Whumper’s hounders. She turned away from her dream to the surety of her imprisonment. 

“Nothing’s ever good enough for you.” Whumper’s disapproving gaze darkened as Whumpee stopped in front of her, head bowed and hands neatly folded in front. She grabbed Whumpee’s chin, her nails threatening to break skin. Whumpee knew better than to wince. “One more word about wanting your freedom, and I’ll hang you up by your dainty little wrists and let the dogs gnaw away at you. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” 

Whumper straightened, running her hands over her embroidered skirt as if she could dust off the moment. “Good. Get dressed. We have guests coming for dinner and you’re expected to entertain.” She turned, walking up the steps and disappearing into the estate. 

A shrill whistle cut through the air and the handlers emerged from the woods, their dogs muzzled and pulling at their leashes. Whumpee looked past them, imagining what their crazed eyes would have looked like when they’d hunted her down.

She traded starving dogs for the gluttonous boredom of the elite.