FLORENCE THROUGH THE HEARTHRUG

BY NAP

Note: This story is a fantasy for adults only. The author utterly condemns any form of actual abuse – physical, sexual, psychological and emotional – to any person of any age.

This story is set in Victorian times. Florence may be distantly related to Alice Liddell.

* * *

Florence was falling. This was very curious because only a moment before she had been sitting on the hearthrug listening to the nice Mr Dodgson telling a story. But now, for no reason she could tell, she was falling head first through what seemed to be an unlimited space.

She wondered what would happen if the space were not, in fact, unlimited. She supposed she would land on her head. Well, her long blonde wavy hair that now streamed down before her might provide some protection as Mama always complained at how thick it was when she brushed it with long hard strokes. Florence would squeal when the tangles pulled, but Mama never showed any sympathy, and if Florence squealed too much she would use the hard flat wooden back of the hairbrush on Florence’s bottom. She used long hard strokes for that too and Florence squealed even louder, which only made Mama even more cross. But Florence had not been spanked for nearly a week and had been sitting quite comfortably on the hearthrug listening to Mr Dodgson’s strange story about a little girl called Alice when suddenly—

If her hair were not thick enough, her head most certainly would be, Florence decided. Her tutor, Mr Gribble, had often told her she was dense. Only a fortnight before, when he had asked her to name two of Henry the Eighth’s six wives, she had suggested Cinderella and Snow White as she was sure these two ladies had married royalty of some sort. But it seemed it was the wrong answer as Mr Gribble had flown into a fury, and had gone to Papa to complain that she was both inattentive and insolent. Papa, annoyed at her lack of scholarly endeavour, had responded by giving her six strokes with his swishy cane on the seat of her drawers in the presence of Mr Gribble. This had hurt her bottom a good deal, but the shame of being beaten in front of the schoolmaster had hurt her pride a lot more.

She thought about shame again now. For not only had her hair fallen towards the invisibly distant ground, but her nightdress, which was all she had been wearing while sitting on the hearthrug, was obeying that same inflexible law of gravity and had now slipped down (up?) to her armpits, leaving her utterly nude elsewhere, which was most of her. She looked around and was glad there was nobody about who might see her. Nobody she could remember apart from her nurse and mama had ever seen her without her clothes

Except for Mr Dodgson, of course.

Mama was very strict about such things as decency and decorum, but she was also a great admirer of Mr Dodgson, both as a mathematician and as a photographer. Mr Dodgson had taken many photographs of Florence in all sorts of costumes and poses, some of which had been exhibited. So when he tentatively proposed that he might photograph the ten-year-old Florence wearing nothing but a daisy chain coronet in her very thick and beautiful blonde hair, Mama easily overcome any moral scruples and graciously agreed.

Florence had not been consulted. Not that she had minded. She liked Mr Dodgson who told very amusing stories. Nonetheless, it had felt rather strange to be standing in front of him wearing nothing at all. She really couldn’t count the daisy chain. But Mr Dodgson had told her she was an excellent subject because she was able to stand absolutely still while the plate took its time doing whatever magical thing it did inside the camera. Mr Dodgson had taken a good deal of time photographing her, and had made her take up all sorts of curious poses, but Florence had never been shown the resulting photographs. She was not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed at not seeing them.

Perhaps she would not hit the ground; maybe someone would catch her. But then they too would see her bare. Although once she stood up her nightdress would fall the right way and—

Florence was standing up. This was very curious, but what was even curiouser was that her nightdress had now completely disappeared. Florence looked around her, wondering where it had gone and whether there was anyone to see, but there was not. She was in a large circular space with – she counted – twelve tunnels going off like the numbers on a clock. The tunnels were dark, but at the end of each was a small dim light of the exit. But which to choose? Mr Dodgson, that great logician, might well have devised a scientific system, but Florence shut her eyes, turned around three times and walked forwards. The tunnel she had randomly chosen – what o’clock was it? – was quite smooth and the floor only slightly cool beneath her feet. She found the sensation rather pleasant.

Then she heard the violin. It was very faint at first – hardly audible. But as she moved onwards, it became clearer. It was a very pretty tune – curiously like a cross between a jig and a lullaby. Florence found herself very attracted by it and hurried on. Who could be playing? The circle of light became bigger and bigger and bigger and—

It was a frog. A frog standing on a top hat playing a fiddle. A small green frog with a wide froggy mouth and big froggy eyes and webbed froggy feet, and wearing a black jacket, a red weskit a white shirt and a striped bow tie with a sparkling jewel in the middle of it. He looked very fine, Florence thought.

“Good afternoon, Mr Frog,” Florence said. She had been well brought up and was always very polite – except when she forgot.

“Good morning to you,” croaked the frog. Well, he did not really croak, he actually had a very mellow, melodious and decidedly well-bred voice.

“Oh, sorry, good morning,” said Florence. She must have been falling for a long, long time. Perhaps she had fallen asleep. The frog looked at her with his big froggy eyes and she remembered she had nothing on. But perhaps a frog did not count. Her cat, Kitty, had seen her without her clothes lots and lots of times and she never counted her. But Kitty did not speak – well, not often – and she certainly did not play the violin.

“Excuse me,” Florence said, “but are you a real frog?”

“Of course, “ said the frog, puffing himself up indignantly, “I might as well ask you if you are a real girl!” Then his big froggy eyes swelled up even larger and focussed very obviously on the most intimate part of Florence and said meaningfully, “But I see that you are!”

“Really!” Florence thought, “a frog should have better manners, especially one who was so obviously a gentleman!” This led her to another thought, as she remembered all the fairy stories of her younger days; perhaps he was a real frog now, but had once been a real prince!

“Excuse me,” Florence said again, “but do you think if I kissed you, you might turn into a handsome prince.”

“Well,” pondered the frog, “you could always try.”

Florence knew that if the kiss was going to work it had to be on the frog’s lips, so she bent right over – she was good at this as she’d had lots of practice when Papa caned her – and kissed the frog right on his wide froggy mouth.

Nothing happened.

“Do you think,” said the frog, “if I kissed you, you might turn into a princess?”

Florence considered this: being a princess in a silk gown would be very fine – well, any sort of clothes would be an improvement – though as she was now again standing up she did not see how the frog could possibly manage to reach to kiss her.

“All right,” she agreed, “you could always try.”

Suddenly, the frog’s tongue uncurled. It was unbelievably long. It leapt across the intervening space like a lash. Florence was just beginning to be surprised at how long it was when— It kissed her lips.

But not her mouth.

Oh no.

The frog’s long, long, whip-like tongue licked her lower lips. That part of her that was unmentionable. That part so unmentionable as to now be unnameable. Though in her infancy her nurse had always referred to it as her ha’penny. The frog kissed her ha’penny.

“Oh!” Florence squeaked.

The frog’s tongue slid along the groove that separated the twin halves of her ha’penny. Florence felt a delicious, delightful, dizzying sensation sweep from that centre to every extremity.

“Ooh,” Florence sighed.

Perhaps she was turning into a princess. Maybe this wonderful feeling was what accompanied the transformation. The frog’s tongue tickled somewhere strange. A magic button she had never before known to exist. A button that burst an even greater intensity of feeling over her like a starburst from a firework.

“Oooh” Florence moaned.

The frog’s tongue moved away and ran up and down her lips. They moistened and the frog sipped the child’s sweet nectar. The outer lips parted. Beneath these, another, previously hidden gateway opened as if by magic. The long tongue delved deeper. It penetrated a secret passage.

“Ooooh!” Florence groaned.

The frog’s tongue suddenly snapped back. Florence opened her eyes. She was still a naked little girl.

“Oh!” Florence complained, most disappointed.

“Nope,” said the frog decisively, “definitely not a princess.” And with that comment, he hopped off the hat, which was about six times as tall as he was, and then surprisingly swelled in size until he was about six times as big as the hat, which he picked up, put on his head, and he hopped away.

“Oh, don’t go,” cried Florence, and ran after him. But the frog took off the hat, suddenly shrank again, dived into it and disappeared. And when Florence reached the hat and looked into it there was nothing inside. “How very curious,” thought Florence. And then she saw that the hat was getting bigger and bigger. Or perhaps she was getting smaller and smaller. “This is curiouser and curiouser,” Florence said to herself, and jumped into the hat after the frog. But when she stood up, she found she was now very much smaller than the hat and could not get out.

Oh dear,” Florence thought, “now I’m stuck. I shall probably be here until I starve.”

It was then that Florence remembered she needed something else more urgently even than food and drink. She needed to pee. When she had been sitting on the hearthrug listening to nice Mr Dodgson telling his story about the little girl called Alice, she had known she needed to go, and in consequence, she had kept fidgeting, which seemed to amuse the good storyteller. But when she had fallen through the hearthrug, it had quite slipped her mind. Now it had slipped back into it doubled and redoubled. She needed to pee. She needed to Pee with a capital P. In fact, she needed to PEE! What was she to do? There was only one thing for it; she would have to pee in the frog’s hat. She squatted and with huge relief began to empty her bladder. A puddle formed between her feet and she stretched them wider to avoid it. But the puddle spread, wetting her toes. The puddle reached the edges of the hat and grew to a pool. It covered her feet and kept on growing.

“How curious,” Florence thought, “I have never peed as much as this before.” And then Florence decided that although she was now only a few inches tall her pee had somehow not shrunk with her, but had remained the same volume as when she was her proper ten-year-old size. And she may have been right for now the pool of pee had now reached her knees, but Florence just kept on peeing. The rising tide of pee lapped around her thighs.

“Who is making the flood?” demanded a voice.

Florence looked around and saw the frog swimming towards her. He no longer wore his fine clothes and was as naked as she. “I am awfully sorry,” she said, “but I don’t seem to be able to stop.”

“Stupid child,” said the frog, sounding remarkably like her tutor, Mr Gribble. And then he suddenly was Mr Gribble. Her stern tutor was swimming naked in a pool of her pee inside a top hat. This was curiouser and curiouser and rather embarrassing. Florence was very aware of where her tutor, being a man, was different from her, being a girl. Whereas she had a rather elegant slit, he had an untidy jumble of soft dangly objects that she thought were very ugly but mysteriously fascinating. Poor Florence scarcely knew which way to look. But then she had another concern. The pool of pee had reached her waist and was still rising. Soon it would reach her neck and then go over her head. If she could not swim, she would drown.

Luckily, Florence could swim. Last summer her parents had taken a house in the fashionable seaside resort of Bournemouth and had been visited there by Mr Dodgson. Mr Dodgson had taught her to swim. They had gone into the sea, both dressed in their enveloping bathing costumes and Mr Dodgson had put one hand under her chest and the other between her thighs and held her firmly so that she should not sink beneath the waves. It felt very curious. Had she not been wearing her bathing drawers, Mr Dodgson’s hand would have been holding her ha’penny. Not that she minded, not really – the sensation was rather pleasant and she had learned to swim.

So now, Florence took her feet off the bottom of the hat and started to swim with a graceful breaststroke. She and Mr Gribble swam in circles as the level rose to the very brim of the hat. And then the liquid washed over the side and Florence and Mr Gribble were carried towards the flow. As they swirled in the stream Florence found herself swept intimately close to her tutor – so intimately close that they actually became entwined. And Florence noticed that one of Mr Gribble’s soft dangly things between his legs had become long, thick hard and upright. As they whirled together, this pressed between her legs at the top where they met her body. In fact, it rubbed against her ha’penny. “Gracious!” Florence thought, “ my ha’penny seems to be as attractive as a magnet today.” Then they were washed over the hat’s brim and Florence, still entangled with her tutor, found herself in a waterfall – or rather, pee-fall – that swept her falling to the ground.

“Well,” thought Florence, as she bounced on her bottom on the floor, “That was a very curious experience. She was relieved to find she had stopped peeing.

Mr Gribble, still naked and very wet, stood up. “Your father shall hear of this outrage, you disgusting child,” he spluttered angrily, endeavouring to hide the stiff thing behind his hands, “and I trust he will punish you most severely.” And with that, he hopped off, very much like a frog.

“Oh dear,” Florence sighed, for it seemed she was in trouble again. She hoped she might find some clothes before papa inevitably thrashed her. Mama frequently spanked her bare bottom, which was bad enough, but to be caned naked would be hugely humiliating and even more to the point, very painful. “Ah well, I shall just have to hope for the best,” thought Florence, who, despite everything, was a determinedly optimistic little girl.

Florence proceeded on her way. She now found herself to be in a dense jungle, but she realised that as she was so small this was merely grass. She struggled her way along and she came to a sign. It was much like a “Beware of the Dog” sign such as she had seen in the normal world, but this one said “Beware of the Spider”. “Oh dear,” said Florence with a shudder, as she did not like spiders. But there was nothing else for it but to press on. However, she did keep a careful look out for the dreaded creature, but she saw nothing.

Suddenly her right hand was caught by some invisible trap. Instinctively, she pushed with her left hand to free herself and that was captured to. She kicked desperately and found her right foot glued to the unseen snare. She tried to bring up her left knee and it was immediately firmly stuck.

Oh dear,” said Florence, “I do believe am caught in the spider’s web.”

Of course, she was right. So now Florence – still stark naked – was spread-eagled vertically on an invisible web. She could just about move her wrists and ankles, but this – as she knew from observing unfortunate flies similarly trapped – would merely excite the attention of the spider and would do nothing to help her free herself. “Oh dear,” Florence thought, “whatever will become of me when the spider sees me? Surely I shall not be eaten – that would be just too vexing!”

Then the spider spied her.

Florence felt the web vibrate as the spider scuttled towards her. Then she smelt it. It did smell disgusting! Then she saw it – its round head with twin antennae – its huge black body – its eight very hairy legs. “Ugh!” Florence thought, “I don’t like him at all.”

The spider began to move around her. It spun some silken thread from its body and wrapped it around each of her knees, then around her elbows, then right around her tummy, then around the top of her chest just underneath her armpits. Poor Florence was being secured more and more tightly. She could hardly move a muscle. Oh dear! Whatever was going to happen to her next?

The spider clambered on top of her, pressing against her body, its head next to hers. Two of the spider’s legs gripped her shoulders, two clutched at her budding breasts, two pulled apart her bottom cheeks, and two pushed her thighs wide. “Two, four, six eight,” Florence counted, and she knew a spider had just eight legs, so whatever was it that was now being thrust between her parted buttocks? Something that seemed determined to penetrate that opening she had never seen but which – being a healthy girl – she used every day. She tried to squirm away, but being tied to a spider’s web with the spider on her back made squirming – along with every other action – impossible. She had no chance of escape. She felt whatever it was – and whatever else it was, it was long and hard – push against the ring of muscle that normally kept her bottom hole tightly closed when not in use. She tried to keep herself shut, but the beast was resolute and she felt herself being painfully opened and entered. But after this initial resolution, the beast now seemed undecided in its purpose, for it alternately thrust deep inside her and pulled part way out. Florence grimaced, but now that the beast was inside her, it was not so bad.

Then the legs holding apart her buttocks deserted that task and moved around to the front of her thighs and ran up to the junction with her body. In fact, they touched her ha’penny. Touched it and began to stroke it. Really!” Florence thought, “This was outrageous! First the frog with his tongue, then Mr Gribble’s long hard thing, and now the spider with his feet! Or should that be hands? Whatever it was – whatever next?!”

‘Whatever next’ was hot sticky liquid being pumped into her bottom. “How very curious,” Florence thought as the stuff spurted inside her. And as she thought that, she felt herself break free from the entrapping web. Why, I do believe I am growing again!” exclaimed Florence. And so she was. Soon she was her proper little girl height of four feet, five and three-quarter inches. She felt something tickle her back and brushed it off. It was a little black spider that scurried into the long grass. Florence considered stamping on it for its impertinence, but she thought perhaps whatever the spider had injected into her bottom had restored her to her natural size so she let it run alive.

“Well,” Florence thought, “this is a very curious place, I’m sure. I wonder whom I shall meet next. But I do hope that they won’t want to put any part of themselves inside me!”

Remember: Real children are precious and fragile. Please always treat them with kindness and respect.