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Shadows From The PastChapter 17 free porn video
Cassie stands just past the veil and does not know what to do.
What had been the limitless vista of her mother's mind is now a pale gray wall. She senses no substance to it, yet it appears as solid as lead. She reaches her hand towards it and feels nothing, yet it does not yield. Or perhaps she is looking at it wrong. Perhaps this is simply a void, a buffer between the dreamverse and her mother's mind.
Cassie steps forward, and her entire world becomes a disorienting gray pall. Up is the same as down, left the same as right. She panics when she can no longer see or sense the veil itself. The thought of wandering forever lost in the corridors of her mother's mind only exacerbates her fear.
"Hello?"
Cassie nearly jumps at the sound of the little girl's voice. She spins in place, eyes darting everywhere but seeing nothing but featureless gray.
"Hello?"
Cassie turns again, staring in the direction of the voice, but she still discerns nothing.
"I know you're there!"
Cassie trembles as she recognizes the voice as that of the little girl in her vision of the ballroom.
"Show yourself! Stop hiding from me!"
Cassie's ethereal heart pounds. The voice is louder but no closer. Ahead, faint patterns solidify in the gray until she strains to see them clearer, then they fade back into the void.
She hears a tiny sigh. "I'm sorry I yelled at you," says the voice of little Cassie in a more contrite but still indignant tone. "But I didn't like what you made me--"
"Cassandra!"
Cassie gasps at her mother's sharp voice, and now Dorothy's silhouette appears in faint contrast to the gray. A much smaller figure trots up to her mother. Cassie sees the outline of her curls around her neck and shoulders.
"Yes, mother?" little Cassie answers in a meek voice.
The figure of Dorothy pauses, and Cassie takes a cautious step forward. The pall slowly withdraws from the tableau, but its edges roil as if the slightest disturbance would call them forth and obliterate this precious bit of memory.
Her mother is wearing a long robe, her hair down. Dorothy glances past little Cassie, her eyes searching and worried. Her face briefly betrays trepidation before she turns it to one of admonishment when she gazes at her daughter. "Why are you out of bed, young lady?"
Little Cassie folds her hands behind her back and turns one leg on the ball of her foot. She is wearing the same nightgown from Cassie's vision. Is this is the same night? Did this take place right after little Cassie left the ballroom?
"Well?" Dorothy says, folding her arms and casting an imperious gaze. "I'm waiting."
" ... made me do it."
Cassie blinks and shakes her head. For a moment, everything around her had shimmered, as if about to wink out of existence and leave her floating in utter nothingness. What did little Cassie say just now? She wills the scene to play again, something she can do with her normal Dream Gift, but the memory forges ahead despite her.
"We have spoken about this before," Dorothy says in a haughty voice, but Cassie senses her mother's true emotions, as they are indelibly stamped into the memory. Her mother is being careful with her words.
Little Cassie suddenly stamps her foot. "He IS real! He's the one who's making me--!"
"Cassandra, stop it."
Cassie's eyes widen. Her mother's fear just escalated, spiking hard when little Cassie frowns up at her.
Dorothy utters a slow sigh. "All right. Why did he make you get up at this hour?"
Little Cassie pauses, her eyes darting from side to side. Cassie cannot sense her younger self's emotions, as this is her mother's memory, but Cassie has the distinct impression she is witnessing a little girl caught in a lie.
"Well ... um..." little Cassie murmurs.
"He did not make you get up, did he?" Dorothy says, her fear giving way to confidence.
"No," little Cassie says in a tiny voice, her head low.
Cassie breathes a sigh of relief. The last thing she wants to see is evidence that she had been under someone's control as a child. Yet where is her mother's fear coming from? Why would an imaginary friend cause her such distress?
Little Cassie's head whips up, her face once more indignant. "But he did make me do those other things! He does!"
Another pause. Dorothy looks and feels hesitant, as if weighing how far she can push her luck. "Cassandra," Dorothy says in a voice of surprising calm and tenderness. She crouches next to little Cassie and teases the girl's curls. "You have to remember and keep in your mind at ALL times that you do only what you want to do."
Little Cassie looks about to protest, but she pouts instead and shakes her head, her curls swatting her cheeks.
"Yes, Cassandra. You cannot be coerced into anything." She pauses. "And it is very bad to coerce anyone or anything else."
Cassie gasps. "What?! I never did anything like that! I never had that sort of--!"
"I didn't mean to," little Cassie says in a tiny voice, her eyes downcast.
Cassie pales. Dorothy utters a long sigh, and relief comes off her in waves. Cassie is too frantic to understand the implication, that this may be the first time Dorothy managed to get her daughter to admit fault in some wrongdoing.
"I know you didn't," Dorothy says in a low voice, stroking Cassandra's cheek. "Perhaps ... perhaps you will tell me now where this friend of yours came from?"
Little Cassie shakes her head. "I promised I wouldn't."
Cassie swallows. The fear is back. When Dorothy strokes little Cassie's cheek again, her hand is trembling. "Cassandra..."
Little Cassie jumps back. "You want to send him back!"
Dorothy shakes her head, but her emotions say the exact opposite. "No, I wouldn't do anything like that to something ... someone so dear to you. But if he is causing you such distress, why do you want him around?"
Little Cassie remains silent, her eyes darting to the side. A nervous shimmer clouds Dorothy's eyes, and she turns her gaze briefly in that direction as if expecting to see something. "He just ... he tells me interesting stuff."
"What kind of 'stuff?'"
Little Cassie is quiet for a long moment, her eyes clouded with internal debate. "Stuff he thinks I can do."
(No, it's stupid. I can't do something like that!)
"And what would that be?" Dorothy asks in a quavering voice.
(I can't get into people's dreams)
Little Cassie shakes her head. "Stupid stuff."
"Like ... like what's been happening to--"
Little Cassie shakes her head until her curls fly. "No."
"Then what, Cassandra?"
Cassie feels the desperation from her mother even if Dorothy manages to keep it out of her voice. Little Cassie becomes indignant once more. "No, it's stupid, and it's something I wouldn't want to do anyway. He got all mad at me when I told him that, and he ran off." Her eyes suddenly mist. "And now he hates me and I-I'll never see him again, a-and..."
Little Cassie bursts into tears, and she buries her face in Dorothy's shoulder. Suddenly Dorothy's fear vanishes, sympathy and tenderness radiating like the sun. She takes little Cassie's hand and leads her to a chair, where she pulls the girl into her lap. "Shh, it's okay," Dorothy whispers as she hugs her daughter. "It's going to be okay now."
Cassie wants to know more, but already the figures are retreating into the pall of gray. They are little more than vague outlines, their voices distant and muffled, and then they are gone. She floats in the void for a few seconds before it once more becomes a wall, and the shimmering veil appears behind her.
More questions spin in Cassie's head. She advances into the pall once more, but it remains a barrier. She waits, but nothing beckons to her. It is as if something allowed her to see this memory rather than her obtaining it for herself.
Cassie is confused. Her mother has no such elaborate mental defenses. She must be encountering something new and has to puzzle her way around it. Seeking memories which did not come spontaneously is something she started doing only recently, and she only needs to refine the technique.
So she hopes, as the alternatives are nothing she wishes to explore.
The Woodrows were always early risers, and Sunday was no exception. While others were about to head off to church, they had already attended the early morning service and were finishing up breakfast. Diane's mother Janet collected her daughter's plate and paused when she peered down at it. "Are you done, honey?"
Diane nodded, too distracted to bother with words.
"Are you sure? You've hardly touched your breakfast."
Diane was forced to break out of her reverie, just barely suppressing a sigh. "I'm fine, mother. I just wasn't that hungry. Here, I'll help you clean up."
Janet nodded, but kept a wary eye on her daughter as Diane stood up and followed her into the kitchen. "Something you need to tell me?" she asked as she scraped off the remains of Diane's meal into the garbage.
Diane was not sure how to answer, as it was not straight in her own head. She felt the urge to leave the house, but not for the sake of going outside. It had come over her the moment she had awoken that morning, and going to church had failed to ease it.
"Diane?"
"I'm not sure," Diane replied in all honesty as she placed some cutlery into the dishwasher.
Janet handed Diane the now empty plate. "Is this about Heather again?"
"I'm not sure."
Janet straightened and put her hands on her hips. "I wish you wouldn't be so cryptic about these things."
"Mother, if I really knew what was wrong, I would tell you," Diane said, an exasperated edge to her voice as she set the plate in the dishwasher.
"I had a feeling something was going on. You were rather subdued all morning."
"I don't talk a lot when we go to church."
"I mean more so than usual." Janet kicked the dishwasher door up and closed it. "Is there anything I can do? Especially if it would help Heather in some way."
"I don't ... I mean, I suppose it could, yes."
Janet tilted her head, giving her daughter a dubious look.
"Mother, all I need right now is to go take a walk. It will help me think."
"It will have to wait until this afternoon, as your cousin Jill may be coming over."
"When is she supposed to get here?" Diane said, trying to hide the impatience in her voice.
"She didn't say when. It also depends on--"
"Mother, I see Jill all the time. I think I can stand to miss her once."
Janet looked askance at Diane. "I really wish you would tell me what's going on in your head lately."
Diane realized it would make no sense to her mother even if she did try to explain it. She saw herself taking a very specific path when she left the house. If it were going to lead her to where she thought, she was going to force a diversion. "I have to get it straight in my own head first."
"All right. You can go for your walk, but I expect to hear what's on your mind once you do get it straight. I hate to pry like this, Diane, but ... well, I'm a little worried for you."
Diane gave her mother a surprised look. "Worried? Me? Why?"
Janet hesitated, her eyes anxious.
"Is this about my relationship with Heather?"
"You could say that, yes."
Diane noticed the uncertainty in her mother's voice and understood. She had inadvertently backed her mother into a corner, forcing her into a situation where she could not explain her feelings, either. By mentioning Heather, Diane had given her an escape.
"I'm being careful," Diane said in a low voice. "And not just my relationship with her. I'm being really careful about everything."
Janet's eyes shimmered as she nodded. "All right, dear. Please, try to be back by early afternoon."
Diane was surprised. That was a lot more leeway than she thought her mother would give her. "Of course, Mother. Thanks." She gave her mother a quick hug and fled.
She dashed to the hall closet and grabbed her coat. She was still putting it on when she barreled out the front door and trotted down the steps. At the end of the walk, she paused and looked down the street.
She saw the path she was prompted to take. She still could not trust it was all her own doing. Even if it were, she did not want to go through it alone again. She sprinted across the street and down the other way.
Melinda stared at herself in the mirror and frowned. Her mother had done nothing to update her wardrobe in the past month, and each Sunday it became ever more apparent. Every intake of breath made her chest feel tight, her blouse stretching across more cleavage than it had been designed to handle. The dress was also tight around the hips, clinging to her new curves. She felt more like she was going to be prostituted rather than attend church.
"Like I haven't already?" she muttered under her breath.
She would not have the recourse of covering up with a coat despite the subfreezing chill. The church was always overheated to the point where it felt like the middle of August despite the actual season. Considering what she knew of the church's pastor and his involvement with her mother and the Inn, she suspected he did it on purpose just for the unobstructed view of his female parishioners.
"Melinda, come down here if you're ready," came her mother's voice. "I don't want to be late."
Melinda rolled her eyes and yelled back, "We've got another ten minutes before we have to leave, Mom!"
"Your Aunt Jo wants a look at you before we go. Get down here now, young lady."
Melinda shuddered. She had heard Aunt Jo arrive just as she finished her shower. Fuck, if she wanted to go all perv on me, why didn't she do it then? Why in hell am I being made to wear white?
Melinda stepped out of the bathroom. Her bra felt too tight as well, as she had to opt for a smaller one to hold her breasts in check, or the blouse would never have contained them. The white lace of her panties felt uncomfortable. The pair matched to her Sunday finery were designed for modesty, and such a thing was becoming an alien concept.
She slipped her white-stocking clad feet into her shoes, took a deep breath to steel herself, and marched out of the room and down the stairs. Her mother and Aunt Jo were seated on the sofa, talking softly to one another. One of the stairs creaked under Melinda's foot, and both looked up.
Melinda clenched her jaw and tried to ignore their gaze. She set in her mind the idea she was wearing nothing the least provocative. Nevertheless, her aunt's eyes glittered with excitement and roamed over Melinda's body as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Her mother smiled faintly in approval, her eyes sweeping her daughter once from feet to bosom.
"Why, you look so pretty all dressed up for church, my dear," Jo said.
Melinda shivered. Beneath the facade of a respectable comment she heard an undertone of lust, becoming more apparent in her aunt's dark and sultry eyes as Melinda drew near. She wanted to pause to reestablish some resistance, but her feet drew her forward anyway.
"Here, stand in front of me so I can get a better look at you."
Melinda briefly clenched a hand into a fist as her pussy buzzed at the prospect of an older woman's scrutiny. She stepped before her aunt and was subjected to Jo's now openly lascivious gaze.
"Turn around once slowly," Jo said.
Melinda swallowed and obeyed, her skin flushing with delight.
"My, you fill out that dress quite well."
Melinda let out a ragged sigh of both exasperation and desire.
"Melinda, what do you say?" Penny said.
Melinda finished her turn and faced her aunt again, gazing at the woman's lustful eyes and struggling not to stare at the rest of her. "Um, thank you, Aunt Jo."
Jo smiled. "And so well-mannered. Come here."
Melinda's heart pounded as she took a shaky step forward. She gasped and nearly flinched when Jo lay her hands along the outside of Melinda's calves. Her hands slid slowly up the white stockings, gathering and pushing up the dress. Melinda shivered, her nipples tingling as her body flushed hot.
"Mmm, such pretty stockings and wonderfully sexy legs," Jo purred.
Melinda bit her lip to suppress a moan. Her hips swayed as the slow slide of her aunt's fingertips continued past her knees and up her thighs. Jo reached the top of Melinda's stockings and spread her fingers over bare skin, eliciting a husky sigh and squirming hips. Jo lifted the dress until she exposed Melinda's panties, which swayed as her pussy buzzed with warm arousal.
"That just completes the picture," Jo said. "Such modest panties. But we know the truth, don't we?"
Jo let the dress drop. Melinda swallowed and stepped back. She saw her aunt's gaze linger on her bosom, and she leaned forward as if in unconscious desire to bring attention to the raised bumps of her erect nipples. She whimpered and shivered when Jo brushed her fingertips once against each.
"We better get to church, Jo," she heard her mother suddenly declare in a loud voice behind her.
Jo stood. Melinda's gaze lingered on her breasts as they bounced. "Of course. Oh, and Melinda, when we get home, don't get undressed yourself. I would like the honor myself."
"Yes, Aunt Jo," Melinda said in a husky voice. She followed the others to the car, her pussy already warm and damp, her panties confining and uncomfortable. Her mind's eye conjured the image despite her best efforts, and she saw herself squirming in escalating sexual heat as her Sunday clothes were slowly stripped from her.
She quelled the growing desire as much as she could, or she would be a complete wet mess by the time church was over. She seized the link and held onto it like a drowning person to a rope. If any energy was to be had, she was going to get it and at least stop her from being humiliated through the Mass.
It would be a small victory, but she could use even that, for otherwise she was a step away from sinking into a total despair out of which she feared she would never climb again.
Richie spent no more time in front of the mirror than it took to give his hair a few cursory swipes of the comb. He glared at himself just before turning away, jamming the comb into his pocket.
He glanced at the clothes hamper as he exited the bathroom. He was tempted to rummage through it and wear the dirtiest clothing he could find. "Sunday finery" in the Gardner household was defined as anything reasonably clean with no obvious holes. That was the rule for Richie at least, arrived at years ago after much stubbornness and yelling on his part.
Her mother still gussied herself up for Sunday, wearing slinky dresses better suited for a bar or a downtown street corner. Her Aura spun and churned as if in anticipation of seducing more men for an afternoon of quick-and-dirty sex. Sandra usually sent him out of the house for that, and he was more than happy to oblige, but wondered now if the game plan had changed.
He left his bedroom and peered over the railing. Cathy was seated on the sofa, looking all soft and demure in her white blouse and gray skirt, hands folded in her lap. She occasionally leaned forward, bosom bulging against the blouse, her hips writhing.
Richie heard banging in the kitchen as her mother finished cleaning up after breakfast. Sandra had wanted to pick up Cathy on the way to church, but Richie had no intention of going anywhere near the Inn, thus forcing the change of plans. The volume at which she rattled items suggested she was still angry with him. Yeah, hope you stay fucking pissed at me all day, Richie thought.
Richie bounded down the stairs. Cathy raised her eyes and smiled as Richie approached. "Hello, Richie, it's so good to see you again," she gushed as she stood.
The blouse was tight around her bosom, and from the peek of bare cleavage Richie spied between the stretched buttons, she was bra-less. Her pleated skirt covered only the upper half of her thighs. Her legs were bare, save for short white stockings and five-inch heels.
Her Aura was still ever-present, and Richie did not dwell too much on her body. "Yeah, fine," Richie muttered.
"Aunt Sandra told me I'm going to be living here for awhile," Cathy continued, her voice husky. "Will I be staying with you in your room?"
Richie frowned. "You think I got space for all your crap in that dinky room?"
"Oh no, I didn't bring anything, really. Just some clothes. But ... I figured I wouldn't be wearing very much around here."
Richie clenched his jaw as his cock twitched.
"Or ... I could wear what you want me too," Cathy said in a soft voice as her Aura churned. "Maybe some lacy underwear. Or a teddy. Or--"
"Look, shut up, okay?" Richie snapped as his cock expanded.
Cathy nodded, looking mildly hurt, yet her hips did not stop their sensual sway, her nipples rising as two hard bumps on her blouse.
Richie sighed. "We'll figure out all that shit later."
"Yes, Richie, of course. I'll do whatever you want."
Richie wanted to throw another sharp retort, but it would have felt hypocritical in light of his solid erection. With an annoyed grunt he tugged his belt so it would sit somewhat more comfortably under his briefs.
He saw her gaze flick downward, and she licked her lips. Her eyes held dark desire and promise. Her Aura roiled, and Richie resisted the urge to order her on her knees.
Cathy drew in her breath and let it go as a lusty sigh. Her eyes flicked down to his crotch again with a hungry look. "Richie, would you like me to--?"
"No," Richie lied. "Not now, we're going to freaking church for Christ's sake." He turned away from her and called out, "Mom, what the fuck are you doing, cleaning the whole goddamn kitchen?!"
Sandra burst out of the kitchen, her body wrapped in a dress of a shade of red several levels too garish for church. "I wasn't cleaning, I was putting the pots and pans away, which I seemed to remember asking you to do."
"Huh? Oh, yeah, I forgot."
Sandra sighed. "Head like a fucking sieve."
Richie could not tell anymore how much direct control the Darkness was exercising over her. Her Aura was almost constantly active now, so he could not trust anything she said. She sounded like herself, but the Darkness could have easily told her "act like a mother today," just to mess with Richie's head.
"You look wonderful this morning, Aunt Sandra," Cathy said.
"Suck up," Richie muttered.
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