Chapter Text
It was quiet at Heelshire manor, days passed since Greta moved here. At times, she could hear the house groan in pain due to the decades it stood ground, her ears picking up creaks that she would explain as the house trying to keep itself from collapsing. This was not a comforting house, and sometimes she would feel paranoid, staring at the end of a corridor as if she saw something move just outside her line of vision. She would shake her head and reject those thoughts from plaguing her mind, instead she would make herself a cup of tea and sit by the kitchen counter. The very odd thing about this house however, wasn’t the noises it made or how it brought chills down her spine if she were to stare too long into the walls thinking that someone was living inside them, no it was the rules she had to follow for this... doll, the owners deemed as their son.
She did what they had instructed, well some of what they wrote.
- No Guests
- Never Leave Brahms Alone
- Save Meals in Freezer
- Never Cover Brahms Face
- Read a Bedtime Story
- Play Music Loud
- Clean the Traps
- Only Malcolm Brings Deliveries
- Brahms is Never to Leave
- Kiss Goodnight
Honestly, she half assed most of these and with good reason, I mean who would follow a set of rules for an inanimate object especially when the owners weren’t there to see it? She laughed when she read the word “guests” on the list, that was a funny way of the owners to say that she shouldn’t bring her hookups here. Not that she was that outgoing, to meet someone and be eager enough to fuck them especially after her first relationship. Well, an ex now, which is why she was here, trying to escape from that person. So, as unsettling as this house was, it brought her the comfort that she could at least have the luxury of hiding herself away from him.
Never leave Brahms alone, she followed that rule. She began to see that doll like a mascot, so she would carry it around and leave it in places she would be in which would mostly be the living room where she would read and the kitchen where she would daydream about the kind of life she could have had if she wasn’t hiding. The music that the owners had was only classical, not the kind that she would find interesting but at least it beats the dead silence that would make her ears ring. “Brahms is never to leave” she never really got that one, the doll is not supposed to leave the house, why? Would it turn to dust? All sorts of questions piled up in her mind the more she stayed but one day, those questions were answered.
It had been almost two weeks since she had moved now, and she wasn’t that diligent in the “duties” that the owners burdened her with, and as she got up from her bed, her eyes fell on her bedside table with a note on it. She furrowed her eyebrows in a mix of confusion and slight fear, and upon reading what it entailed, her heart dropped.
FOLLOW THE RULES
She had never felt fear this way before, but then she tried to rationalize it and thought of the only possible explanation; Malcolm. She smiled and then laughed to herself a bit. This must have been a prank by him, to stir her up , she thought to herself. However, the handwriting in the note was peculiar. It looked as if a child had written those bold capital letters, the lines were too shaky, the O’s were too deformed and overall, it seemed too real to be a fake note coming from a man who delivered groceries once a week. She heard the house creak again, and she got up. Superstition might be a false conception of causation but when you are alone – as alone as she was – you start to reconsider a lot of things. She would start being serious about the rules, steadily getting them more and more into her daily routine.
She thought of what she would do when Malcolm came by next week. He must have had another set of keys, but he was too bold to come into her room at night, while she was sleeping, maybe even rude at that. How did she not hear him come in or walk around her bed? She shivered at the thought, was she that much of a heavy sleeper?
The house was a living entity, its walls were its flesh, its windows were its eyes and Brahms Heelshire was the blood that poisoned this house, making it rot from the inside out. He was watching her, standing behind a wall with a small slit that barely allowed him view of Greta who was immersed in a book she held against her thighs. She would constantly shift position, and at times Brahms could see the slightest bit of skin revealed when her shirt would lift as she moved. He would support himself against the wooden surface and try to minimize how loudly he was breathing behind his mask. She was so enthralling, everything about her behavior, everything about her made her look so inviting and Brahms wanted to take advantage of that.
No, he wouldn’t. Not yet at least. He savors this part, the observing part, the stalking part. He gets to know her in her most vulnerable intimate moments and sees how she really is when she’s not putting a facade to other people. It was riveting to watch her go on about her day, not knowing that he was there, looking at her. There were times when Brahms was tempted to watch her bathe, he wanted to see what her body looked like completely bare, but he refrained from indulging. He felt too unstable to withstand the urge to break the wall and take her then and there, if he were to see her naked, well...
He thought it best not to.
That doesn’t mean he wasn’t inside the walls of Greta’s bedroom, listening to how she whimpered when she touched herself. Oh, he was there but he wasn’t looking through the slit, he was kneeled with his head pressed against the wall, holding his breath so the only thing he heard was her voice. Brahms was not inexperienced, after all Greta was not his first nanny. The reason why he didn’t want to look at her and see her lying in bed with her legs wide open and her hands travelling down her body was because he knew that he wouldn’t be able to control himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he had gone rogue but this time, he wanted to do things right because he wanted to keep her here. Forever.
Her voice was so mesmerizing, he could hear her change position and then her moans get muffled. He pictured her burying her face into her pillow, gripping it tightly the more she felt good. Would she do the same with him? Would she moan this way, would she try to muffle her voice and grip the sheets as the pleasure rushed through her body, the same way that pleasure was rushing through Brahms at this moment? His hand slithered under his pants, and he exhaled ever so slowly to forbid his presence from being known and began jerking himself off. He heard her getting louder and louder, and Brahms felt incapable holding himself back any longer and got up to his feet at last, his hand still jerking himself off and finally laid eyes upon her. She was... Oh, she was divine. Her eyebrows were furrowed, one hand gripping the pillow behind her head and the other was... she was fingering herself.
Two fingers were penetrating her, and Brahms couldn’t stop imagining that they were his instead. He felt lost for a second, his eyes stayed focused on her, watching her body arch and her mouth hang open. It was the first time he had felt this amount of obsession with someone, and Greta was eliciting so many things out of him. He tightened his fist around his cock, making the friction more intense, a tiny whimper escaped him, but he was able to hide it between Greta’s moaning. Fuck ... He wanted her, desperately. He wanted to touch her, feel the warmth of her skin against his, make her feel good, be a good boy for her. His gaze never fell from her, watching her orgasm and finally relax, her chest heaving up and down as she tried to come down from the height of her climax.
Brahms came into his hand, his fingers coated with cum, and he placed his hand on the wall smearing it on the wooden surface as if it had been Greta’s face. He had decided that tonight he would enter her room while she was asleep, and he would try not to alert her. Can you be naughty if you’re never discovered?