As the days passed, life fell into a familiar rhythm. The Beast would cook for her and tend to the house’s grounds, while she gradually transformed its interior through the determined application of a soapy cloth. In the afternoons, their reading lessons progressed, and Rose soon began to make her way through Little Goody Two Shoes at a much brisker pace. Their conversations at dinner became less awkward, and sometimes they would walk through the garden together to admire its kaleidoscopic blooms and verdant foliage. Rose became accustomed to The Beast’s turns of anger, and although they always scared her a little, they no longer bothered her so much afterwards. He never quite apologised, but he always seemed rueful once he had calmed, making a point of keeping a respectful distance until she was no longer afraid.
Often when he regarded her, his gaze would once again betray the barely restrained hunger she had detected in him on her first night in his company. It could surface along with any of his other moods, whether he was being stern and fatherly or friendly and conversational. What disturbed Rose more than the attention itself was the growing realisation that a part of her liked it. At dinner, when she noticed The Beast’s covetous appraisal, she would keep her eyes focused on her plate, allowing him to look for as long as he wished. When she played this game a shiver would run though her, and she could not tell whether it was the anticipation of a maiden awaiting her paramour, or the terror of a mouse about to be plucked from the ground by an owl’s talons.
During one of Rose’s reading lessons, she and The Beast were laughing at the earnest moralising of Little Goody Two Shoes when Rose accidentally moved her quill too quickly and spilled droplets of ink across the book. Catching her slim wrist in his gnarled fist, The Beast lent down so that his hellish face was only inches from hers.
“What did I tell you?” he asked, not raising his voice, but emphasising each word.
Rose looked into the slit pupils of his eyes and did not blink. He was angry, but she also recognised his hunger. He was fighting to control himself. “You told me to be careful with my quill and not to spill ink on the book,” she recited, struggling to keep her voice from trembling. “I’m sorry.”
And without knowing why, she added. “I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.”
“Punishment?” asked The Beast, standing up and looking down on her, “What punishment do you imagine I shall meet out for this crime? Shall I have you stand in the corner? Shall I bend you over my knee and tan your hide?” His grip on her wrist was painfully tight.
Rose’s heart was a series of distant explosions in her chest. Between her legs was a heat she had never felt before. She was more afraid than she had ever been, but as she answered she also felt a recklessness she could not explain. Maintaining steady eye contact, she spoke in a meek voice: “Whatever you think is most appropriate… sir.”
“Are you taunting me now?” roared The Beast. “Is this a joke to you?” For a moment she thought he was going to lose control, but then he drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his self-discipline had reasserted itself. “Fine,” he said. “Clearly I have been mistaken to treat you like an adult when you are nothing but a little girl. You shall have your punishment. I will eat in the kitchen this evening while you take a supper of bread and water, and then you must be in bed by eight. It is not for silly children to be drinking wine with their elders and betters.”
He stormed from the room, leaving Rose both relieved and – for some reason – disappointed.
The supper that was waiting for her when she came to the dining room was indeed meagre fare. The bread The Beast baked was usually a delicacy unto itself, but for this occasion it seemed he had gone out of his way to find the stalest crust in his cupboard. She eked it out slowly, sipping her water to make herself feel as full as possible, but it was gone all too soon. Not having anything better to do, she retired to her room even earlier than commanded. She had long since washed and aired her bedding, and hung a bunch of lavender to scent the room, but those scant comforts could numb neither her hunger nor her loneliness.
As the light outside died, she stared upwards until the canopy of her bed was lost in darkness. There was no clear line to mark the border between her vigil and her sleep, and in her dreams there was no more light than there was in her room. The rustles and chirps from the forest beyond the garden grew closer and louder, and she was walking cold and naked through dirt and pine needles. She began to see glimmers of starlight through the crisscrossed tree branches above her. At first their far-off glister served only to make the darkness around her more complete, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she was able to discern the shadows and shapes of the wild woodland.
A low, continuous growl joined the sounds of the forest, beginning in a patch of undergrowth and spreading until it came from every direction. Then it was behind her. She turned just in time to see the black dog pouncing towards her before it knocked her tumbling backwards. She put her hands behind her to break her fall, her palms meeting the clammy ground and her elbows bending with the impact, dropping her onto her back so that she ended up lying in the grit, twigs snapping beneath her. The dog landed with its front paws on her shoulders above her breasts, pinning her to the ground, its hind legs between her thighs. It was a match for her in size, and it held her down with an unnatural, immovable weight.
Something fleshy and hard pressed against her cunny. “Oh God no,” she whispered, in horrified realisation. The dog bared its fangs above her, pressing itself ever more insistently against her girlhood. A strand of spittle slipped from its jaw, landing on her cheek with a hot splash and mingling with her tears.
“Oh God no,” she repeated, her voice rising to a plaintive wail. “Oh please God no!”
Looking directly into her eyes with complete, deliberate purpose, the dog thrust forward – and Rose awoke. Under her bedclothes, her shift was pulled up around her waist and two of her fingers were pushed into her cunny up to the first knuckle. Disgusted with herself, she withdrew them to find them coated in a slick moisture she did not recognise. Sitting up in bed, she discovered her shift was so soaked with sweat that it clung to her form, revealing a girlish body ornamented by hard, swollen nipples. Peeling off the sodden garment, she retrieved another from her clothing chest and donned it after drying herself as best she could. Then she returned to bed and waited for sleep to reclaim her, all the while pretending to herself that she wasn’t tempted to slip her fingers back into the wet fire between her legs.