The path home felt longer tonight.
Her bare feet carried her through the darkening street, mud drying on her calves, the yellow skirt clinging damp and twisted around her thighs. The swelling in her belly had gone down but not disappeared—a soft roundness pressing against the fabric, a weight she couldn't ignore. Each step made her thighs brush together, and every time they touched, a warm pulse flickered between her legs.
The house appeared through the trees, windows dark, no lights on yet. Her mother wouldn't be home for another hour.
Ashley pushed through the front door, leaving it ajar behind her. The familiar smell of home—wood, dust, the faint lavender sachet her mother kept in the hallway—didn't settle her the way it used to. She climbed the stairs without turning on any lights, her hand trailing along the wall, guiding herself by memory.
Her bedroom door was open. Moonlight fell through the single grimy window, painting a pale rectangle on the floorboards. The room smelled of earth and something metallic, like the air had followed her inside.
She stepped into the light.
Her teddy bear sat on the bed where she'd left it this morning, propped against the pillow, its glass eyes reflecting the moon. Brown fur. A red bow. Familiar and soft and safe.
Ashley stood at the edge of her bed, her breath coming shallow. Her hand went to her throat, then down to her chest, then lower, pressing against the damp ache between her legs through the ruined skirt.
"I want it again," she whispered, and the words hung in the dark room like a confession.
She crawled onto the bed, her knees sinking into the thin mattress. The teddy bear stared up at her, unblinking. She reached for it, pulling it into her lap, positioning it between her thighs. The soft fur brushed against her skin, and a shudder ran through her entire body.
Ashley began to move. A slow, tentative rock, pressing the stuffed animal against the heat that throbbed at the center of her. The friction was wrong, too soft, too dry—but it was there, and that was enough to make her hips chase it.
Her breathing quickened. She gripped the bear tighter, grinding harder, the repetitive motion building a pressure that spread from her groin up through her stomach, her chest, her throat.
She bit her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of her own blood.
Her memory flashed—the tentacle thick inside her, stretching her, the pulse of hot liquid flooding her belly. She moaned, a thin, broken sound that she didn't recognize. Her hips moved faster, humping the toy, chasing that impossible fullness again.
The pressure built, an ache that sharpened and swelled in her small body, a coil tightening deep in her pelvis. She pressed harder, grinded faster, until her limbs trembled and her breath came in ragged gasps.
And then it crested—a wave of heat so intense it made her gasp, her eyes rolling back, her fingers twisting in the bear's fur as her body clenched and released, a shuddering spasm that left her limp and wet against the stuffed animal.
She lay there, panting, the bear still between her thighs, damp now with her own slickness. The moon had moved, the rectangle of light shifted across the floor.
Ashley's hand reached down and pressed against her belly, still round, still holding the ghost of that intrusion.
She wanted it again.