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Images of Greta were relentlessly invading Brahms's mind. Sure, he thought about her a lot. That was a given, considering they were the only two living in the house.
Today, Greta had captivated him more than usual. From the looks of it, nothing had changed. Her attire was the same. She hadn't gotten a haircut. (Other than the one strand of hair Brahms had cut and taken for himself.) But that blended in with the rest of it. She just looked fucking stunning. Through the cracks in the walls, his green eyes were glued to her, practically observing every move she made.
Perhaps his fixation stemmed from Greta's actions. She was finally getting comfortable, following the rules after he “confronted her”. The feeling of acceptance and normalcy likely sent him reeling. She was finally giving him what he wanted.
On the other hand, it was a Tuesday. Brahms wasn't stupid. He witnessed how Greta beamed when Malcolm was around. The way that she spent longer sitting at the vanity and getting dressed when he delivered groceries on Wednesdays. Now that she was devoted to Brahms, she refused to leave the house. Brahms was delighted at this until he realized Malcolm would show up randomly throughout the week. Just to visit her and “keep her company”.
Therefore, Greta's appearance change was because she was primping herself for the grocery boy. The thought irritated Brahms. He cursed his parents for choosing Malcolm. He may have been the best fit for the job; he didn't ask questions, and he'd been around for a while, but Brahms hated him. Every time he weaseled his way into the Heelshire House, he became bolder, more flirtatious, and Greta reciprocated it.
They couldn't see that Brahms should be taking care of her, just like she took care of him. Malcolm wasn't supposed to be part of the picture.
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At one point, Greta sat in his childhood bedroom, lounging and reading a book. Her arm was around the doll, holding him close to her. They were positioned together as if he could read the book with her. Mostly, what Brahms was fixated on, was the way the doll was nestled against her breast.
He yearned to be that close to her. To feel her body heat pressed against him, graze her soft body with his strong hands. The desire for touch wasn't even inherently sexual. If he laid with her, they could read books. He would adore turning on the gramophone in the study room and dancing with her. Truly, he would take anything he could get. As long as their bodies were together.
Would he prefer it if he could get handsy with her? Well… yes. It was something that he often imagined. If they were to dance together, he could lead her by the small of her back. Maybe even let his hands wander further down. He would dance with her until they were tired, to hear her panting breaths close to his face and see her chest heave. They could kiss like they were in a fairy tale. He would press his lips to hers, and she would return it with a kiss to his forehead, or his cheek, possibly even dip her face in his neck and make him shudder.
He wanted her legs wrapped around his torso, her arms clinging around his head and shoulders, fingers digging in his curls as he carried her across the house. Her breasts would be pressed against him, and he wouldn't let go of her until they stood in a bedroom. There, they could start living happily ever after. He would love, care for, and take her every way he could imagine. He could lose himself in her love, passion, and devotion. Or, he could take it easy. It would be fine either way. He was patient. Greta was the only one in his heart, other than his parents, and they'd left him with her.
Malcolm was in the way, taking her away from their happily ever after, but it was okay. Brahms would come up with something soon. Some way to reveal the real him to Greta soon. Without scaring her away.
Whether it be his thoughts, the heat trapped in the walls, or a mixture of both, Brahms felt flushed. Under the porcelain mask, his breathing was abnormal. A familiar ache in his lower stomach was present, driving him crazy as the warmth flooded between his legs.
Softly, he stood up straight and pressed a hand against the wall, keeping himself steady. The other slid across his body, over his chest hair, and down, down, down. It didn't stop until it was tucked under his waistband, fingers curling around the base of his cock. He couldn’t help himself. Meticulously, stroked himself, working his way around it.
With a slow, controlled breath, he slid his pants down his hip bones and pulled it out. This gave him more room. Using the newfound space to his advantage, he began rubbing himself from the base to the tip. The heat in his stomach became a fire, roaring inside of him and spreading across his whole body.
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It only took a few minutes for his self-control to start stripping away. That was a dangerous line to walk. She'd be alerted that he was there if he was too loud. But he was flooded with temptations that he couldn't ignore. He hated being so close, yet so far from her. Always watching from the sidelines, unable to experience anything himself.
Greta treated the doll so tenderly that he couldn’t help but feel jealous. It should be him lying and reading with her. Her dainty hands should be caressing him as she whispered those sweet affirmations.
Soon, he was panting, leaning his hips forward until his pelvis was in contact with the wall. He thrust his hips into his hand, practically fucking himself against it. Brahms couldn't control the moan that sounded deep in his throat. He was afraid that the walls of his mouth would let it slip through his lips and give away his secret, but it didn't. He let his eyes close, rolling back in his head.
He was too far gone, too out of control to stop himself. He kept grinding his hips, thrusting and thrusting. His breathing accelerated and soon, his heart was beating a million miles a minute. The sound of movement from beyond the wall pulled Brahms out of his fantasies. His stomach dropped, eyes jolting open.
“It’s time for dinner now, Brahms.” Greta's muffled voice echoed in his ears. The sound of his name on her lips made his entire body tingle. He peeked through the hole in the wall, watching her. Little Brahms was under her arm as she placed the book on the shelf. Then, she turned on her heel, striding out of the room. No, he cursed silently. Need to see her. Fuck.
She closed the door behind her, unaware of the thud as Brahms's fist slammed angrily against the wall. He stood there in distress while his whole body buzzed. The feel of his hot breath was all he could feel behind the mask. It was wet and uncomfortable; his breath had created condensation against the porcelain. An inkling inside of him wanted to take it off. No one was around to see him, but it was also the only thing that made him feel secure. He was misbehaving, being a bad boy. The mask was the only sense of normalcy in this situation. He didn't like change, and everything was different. So, the mask stayed on.
Painfully, he tucked his cock back into his pants, taking deep breaths in an attempt to ease the heaving of his chest. He thought about his options, deciding to take care of himself somewhere else instead of following her down to the kitchen.
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The inside of the walls was a familiar maze. Brahms followed them, twisting and turning until he made his way up to his hideout on the third floor. When he got there, his green cardigan was promptly slipped off of his shoulders. It slumped to the ground with a muted thud. Still, his hands worked quickly, unclipping his suspenders. He pushed his sagging pants down, stepped out of them, and climbed onto his bed.
One leg was thrown haphazardly over the doll, which took up most of the space on his bed. He straddled it, pausing for a moment to think. What would he do, if it really was Greta under his weight? He pushed a handful of shaggy curls out of his eyesight, pulling the mask up— only enough to expose the bottom half of his face. His vision was quite obscured this way, but it could benefit his imagination. Brahms leaned down, pressing his lips against the fabric.
All over, he pressed kisses to it, his hands roaming, groping the stuffed rag doll. The dress it wore smelled heavenly. He buried his nose in it, inhaling her perfume. With a slight angle of his hips, Brahms had his bulge pressed against it.
A heavy breath escaped his lips. The underwear he was wearing was discarded and tossed across the room in an instant. The head of his cock was grazing Greta's dress, already threatening to leak pre-cum from earlier.
It gave him a quick pause, snapping him back into reality for a second. This would defile her dress and disrespect his homage to her. Though, when he lifted the doll’s skirt and tried to rub against its exposed stomach, the burlap scratched at his sensitive skin. It was nowhere near as pleasant as the soft fabric of her dress.
Once again, he pressed his dick against the coral fabric to test the friction. It'd have to work. His body stirred, and he began to move, rubbing himself against it. Hands made their way to either side of her, holding himself steady as he got off. Brahms let his eyes close, trying to picture her in his mind. Imagine what it could be like to thrust himself inside of her, or even rub his cock against her warm thigh instead of what was essentially a pillow wearing her clothes. He bit his lip, leaning in and letting the perfume tickle his nose again. It fueled his fantasies, causing him to thrust faster, building up more friction against his throbbing cock.
Back and forth, his hips slid, absolutely reveling in how the fabric felt. A whimper was pulled from his throat, making his breath hitch. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from crying out. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the sensation. The way it felt to press something against the mattress, to have his full weight leaning on his arms. He wanted it to be her. For her to be able to hear how desperate she made him. Brahms could be good, better than Malcolm. He was taller, stronger. He would give her what she wanted, make her feel sublime, and love her in a way that he'd never loved anyone in his life.
Ragged breaths and heavy pants filled the room, consumed by the walls. Brahms's eyes opened to the sight of porcelain. Irritated, he pushed the mask to the very top of his head. At this point, the only thing it keeping it steady was his curls. Without them to keep the string intact, his mask would've fallen right off. His white tank top was stripped off, which left him exposed in the darkness.
Brahms's fingers gripped at the rag doll, roaming across her chest and arms. Then, he held the back of its head, his other hand slipping under its back, holding it close to him in an embrace. They were practically laid flat against his bed, chest-to-chest now. He held it tight, its wig brushing against his bare arm. With the new position, his cock was pressed between the doll and his own stomach. When he brought his hips forward, the friction was heavenly. It sent ripples of pleasure down his spine and throughout his entire body. He'd found the right amount of pressure he'd been yearning for. Along with a soft sense of intimacy, only dulled why the fact that the object of his affection couldn't wrap her arms around him, too. His hips jerked forward, hitting the fabric over and over, more intensely. Faster, harder, and more desperately as he teetered on the edge of release, swiftly drawing closer.
If the feel of his own stomach was anything to go off of, grinding against the real Greta would probably put him in his grave. He knew the feel of his own body, but the touch of another-- especially a woman, was an untouched territory. He didn't know what he should expect. This felt good, fuck, but he was sure that it would be better.
Before he could even prepare for it, he was coming. A breathless groan escaped his lips, a sound of raw desire as sparks of pleasure shot through his body. The waves crashed over him, taking him away. As his cock pulsed and released, warm liquid shot up his stomach and against the doll. His shoulder muscles tightened with apprehension. So, he quickly rolled off of the doll and collapsed back onto the bed. Tissues sat merely an arm's reach away, on the nightstand. He reached for them, alarm rising over the pleasure from his orgasm.
His cock twitched, still dripping from the tip. He wiped himself off with a tissue, dreading the idea of getting cum on Greta's dress. The release was explosive, his orgasm leaving him weak in the knees and gasping for air. It would take him a few moments to catch his breath before he could check.
If the dress was stained, he'd be upset. Since Greta moved in, laundry was impossible to do. There was a bathtub in his room, back behind the walls, but he was too nervous to use it. The plumbing in the house was already audible enough, at least from where he stood, so it wasn't too much of a stretch to assume that she would hear the running water. There was no way he'd be able to run the washing machine and dryer, and still have time to get his clothes from it without detection.
For a moment, he stayed there; limp, spent, and worried. Then, he blinked his eyes, hard. His breathing had calmed, and his muscles were no longer rigid. The air was cool against his bare skin, even without proper circulation in the room. He gathered the nerves to sit up and trail his eyes over the doll, garnering the damage he'd done.
Where he'd been laying, the dress was spattered with cum. In the grand scheme of things, it was only a few dark spots, but he frowned. He'd fucked up. She was tainted. He'd made her dirty like him. That was bad. That was really, really bad.
His heart sank, and he slumped forward, burying his head in his hands. “Fuck,” he breathed.
Feeling worn out, Brahms got dressed and laid back on the bed with the doll. It took up practically the whole twin-sized bed, yet he refused to move it. She, Greta, was his main priority. Even over himself. He just… wasn’t able to show it to her.
So, instead, he cuddled up next to it. The rumbling in his stomach wasn’t enough to keep him awake; he was fatigued. He’d just have to sneak downstairs and eat after Greta went to bed. He pulled the blanket up over the both of them, and soon, the room fell into darkness.