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The sensation washed over her in a warm wave of incoherence. The crackling pop of the fire, the plushness of the rug beneath her toes, the ruggedness of the winter cabin around her, the vague sense of danger at the proximity of Sinclair. His name set off alarms in her mind, but they were so distant behind the packed-in cotton filling her skull. She was so desperate to wake up, just as she was finally falling asleep. The sensation was strange and terrifying, but terrifying because the ability to stay alert stood obediently at the sidelines while the pleasure of drifting beneath the surface was too appealing to resist.

What should have been a shout, a scream, a riot of protest, merely escaped her parted lips in the barest of murmur, struggling even to moan in resistance. Dawn tried to organize her priorities, focusing on the feet and knees, but the brain reported back

"Negative. The bones have been replaced by jelly."

"Jelly?" She questioned internally, tasting the word, "but... that is impossible." While Dawn argued the science of things, her recalcitrant ankles and knees buckled and left her with the most helpless sensation of falling. Was it terrifying because it was happening so slowly, or because her arms were too apathetic to even care to brace for injury?

"Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!" She shouted inside for reaction, demanded accountability for her body. Before her sluggish limbs gathered themselves, before she was even prepared, she felt the impact. Even enshrouded in the stifling gauze nauseating her senses, it happened faster than she anticipated, felt different than she imagined. She felt the pressure under her arms, and the sudden straining arch in her back as her descent came to a jolting halt. There was an unnatural heaviness in her slender body, the strangest sensation of her knees hovering above the floor, where she could feel the solid friction of the carpet against the tops of her stocking clad feet.

"I've suspended in time," she thought to herself as her head tilted forward, stopping against a firm but comforting surface. Her blonde hair spilled around her shoulders, spreading over her porcelain cheek. She felt the sudden sensation of an urgent embrace encircling her back, frightening and alien against her crisp white shirt.

"Be careful of Sinclair, Dawn... he's dangerous," the warning came internally, a reminder of sorts. "Yes, I need to be careful around Sinclair," Dawn agreed with herself, as though it were the most casual conversation in the world.

"Shhhhh... shhhhh," Gerald Sinclair hushed the quiet fretful moans of the overwhelmed young reporter. "As I said... I prefer to let the wine breath. I find that my private collection can have... unexpected and intoxicating results. Truly Miss Meadows... it can take a girl right off her feet if she is not careful," he spoke quietly into her ear behind silky golden hair.

If she understood him, her response was only in the gentle exhale of breath, slowing with the rhythm of her heartbeat, becoming as relaxed as her irresponsible limbs. Who knew being in peril could leave one feeling so carefree?

(This picture was made in Daz Studio 3.1.2.24 and postwork in Adobe Photoshop CS2)

Description

The sensation washed over her in a warm wave of incoherence. The crackling pop of the fire, the plushness of the rug beneath her toes, the ruggedness of the winter cabin around her, the vague sense of danger at the proximity of Sinclair. His name set off alarms in her mind, but they were so distant behind the packed-in cotton filling her skull. She was so desperate to wake up, just as she was finally falling asleep. The sensation was strange and terrifying, but terrifying because the ability to stay alert stood obediently at the sidelines while the pleasure of drifting beneath the surface was too appealing to resist.

What should have been a shout, a scream, a riot of protest, merely escaped her parted lips in the barest of murmur, struggling even to moan in resistance. Dawn tried to organize her priorities, focusing on the feet and knees, but the brain reported back

"Negative. The bones have been replaced by jelly."

"Jelly?" She questioned internally, tasting the word, "but... that is impossible." While Dawn argued the science of things, her recalcitrant ankles and knees buckled and left her with the most helpless sensation of falling. Was it terrifying because it was happening so slowly, or because her arms were too apathetic to even care to brace for injury?

"Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!" She shouted inside for reaction, demanded accountability for her body. Before her sluggish limbs gathered themselves, before she was even prepared, she felt the impact. Even enshrouded in the stifling gauze nauseating her senses, it happened faster than she anticipated, felt different than she imagined. She felt the pressure under her arms, and the sudden straining arch in her back as her descent came to a jolting halt. There was an unnatural heaviness in her slender body, the strangest sensation of her knees hovering above the floor, where she could feel the solid friction of the carpet against the tops of her stocking clad feet.

"I've suspended in time," she thought to herself as her head tilted forward, stopping against a firm but comforting surface. Her blonde hair spilled around her shoulders, spreading over her porcelain cheek. She felt the sudden sensation of an urgent embrace encircling her back, frightening and alien against her crisp white shirt.

"Be careful of Sinclair, Dawn... he's dangerous," the warning came internally, a reminder of sorts. "Yes, I need to be careful around Sinclair," Dawn agreed with herself, as though it were the most casual conversation in the world.

"Shhhhh... shhhhh," Gerald Sinclair hushed the quiet fretful moans of the overwhelmed young reporter. "As I said... I prefer to let the wine breath. I find that my private collection can have... unexpected and intoxicating results. Truly Miss Meadows... it can take a girl right off her feet if she is not careful," he spoke quietly into her ear behind silky golden hair.

If she understood him, her response was only in the gentle exhale of breath, slowing with the rhythm of her heartbeat, becoming as relaxed as her irresponsible limbs. Who knew being in peril could leave one feeling so carefree?

(This picture was made in Daz Studio 3.1.2.24 and postwork in Adobe Photoshop CS2)