Page 48 of Shy Girl

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I wake upto the prickle of something foreign against my back, a sharpness pressing through the sheets like an accusation. Half-asleep, I trace the feeling to its source, my fingers brushing the unfamiliar texture of fur. I think back to the last time Nathan shaved me—it’s been weeks. But as I push the covers back, the truth stares at me: patches of dark, coarse hair, not the soft peach fuzz of neglect but something thicker, wilder. It sprouts on my arms, my thighs, a small tuft curling just above my hip.

I run my fingers over it, marveling at the texture, the way it resists me like it belongs to something untamed. Panic feels distant, abstract. Instead, there’s a strange calm, quietokay, this is happening. I crawl to the mirror and tilt my body to inspect the patch growing on my shoulder blade, the coarse bristle standing defiantly against my pale skin. I think, This is new, then pull my shirt back down and move on. Ignoring it feels like a relief, letting it blend into the chaos already carved into my life. Nathan notices the same day. Of course he does. It’s during one of his inspections, the ones that feel more like inventory than

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affection, his hands skimming over my skin with the dispassionate ownership of a man checking his possessions. His fingers pause at the patch on my lower back, and I feel his body stiffen behind me, his breath catching in a way that makes my stomach twist.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He retrieves an electric razor from the bathroom, clicking it on with a steady hum. “Hold still,” he says, his voice low, not unkind, but threaded with something I can’t name.

I hold still. The buzzing fills the room, slicing through the silence as he shaves me clean. The fur falls away in soft clumps, landing like shadows on the floor of the Pink Room. He finishes quickly, pats my hip like I’ve done something obedient, and leaves. No questions, no comments.

But a week later, the fur comes back. Thicker. Darker. This time, it’s on my forearms too. I see him notice it during dinner, his fork hovering mid-air, his jaw tightening as I scarf down my food, the dog bowl scraping against the tile.

That night, he shaves me again, his movements slower, more deliberate, his lips pressed into a thin, tight line. I catch the flicker of concern in his face, the way he mutters, “It keeps coming back,” like a confession he doesn’t mean for me to hear.

The weeks stretch on, and the fur refuses to be tamed. It spreads across my body like moss creeping over stone, stubborn and alive. At first, Nathan tries to keep up with it, the razor buzzing against my skin every few days, but eventually, he stops. Instead, he dresses me in long-sleeved dresses, the fabric falling just below the knee, hiding the patches on my thighs, my arms.

At first, I think it’s practical—easier to hide than to shave. But then I notice the way he avoids looking at me, the way hisgaze skips over my body like it’s something foreign. When we fuck, he keeps the lights dim, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

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His hands, once possessive, now hover just above my skin, hesitant, trembling slightly before pulling away.

He’s not fully hard most nights. Not really. The fur bothers him, pushes him into some corner of himself he doesn’t want to face.

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I can’t help but laugh, quietly, bitterly, at the absurdity of it. Isn’t this what he wanted? A pet. A dog. I’m becoming one in real time, and he’s recoiling, unprepared for the reality of his fantasy. He’ll still call me “good girl,” still buckle the collar tight around my neck, but the fur is too much. It’s real in a way that makes him flinch, a mirror he doesn’t want to see himself in.

At night, I run my fingers through the patches, feeling the way they soften, thicken, become more than just rogue clumps. The fur spreads, wrapping me in its quiet defiance, covering the parts of me I no longer want to recognize.

I don’t mention it, and neither does he. But the silence grows louder between us, the air charged with the weight of this thing neither of us can control. I start to notice the way he avoids me now, the distance in his eyes when he looks my way, like he’s searching for the girl he once took and finding only this.

And I wonder, late at night, when the house is quiet and the fur brushes softly against my skin: Who did he want in the first place? A girl pretending to be a dog? Or a dog pretending to be a girl?

And I wonder which one I am.

It started with the fur, stubborn patches growing darker, thicker, spreading across my skin like an invasion. At first, it’s just patches on my arms, my thighs, the back of my neck where his hands linger too long. But then it moves to my belly, my chest, crawling up my jawline in thin tendrils that prickle against my touch. The texture changes, soft and wiry in places, coarse and rough in others. At night, I lie awake and run my fingers over it, feeling it creep further, becoming something impossible to ignore.

My nails start to change next. I don’t notice at first, not until one breaks and refuses to crack cleanly, splitting into layers that thicken and curve. The tips harden, darken, the smooth crescent of each nail warping into something blunt and sharp. I sit on the bed,

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staring at my hands, at the way the fur creeps toward my knuckles, the way my nails seem foreign, dangerous.

Nathan doesn’t do anything, he just watches. His eyes are different now—not disgusted, not afraid, but something worse: fascinated. He doesn’t touch me as much, but when he does, his hands are rougher, less measured. He doesn’t talk to me like he used to, doesn’t call me “good girl” in that coaxing tone that once made my stomach twist. Now it’s sharper, clipped, like he’s reminding himself of what I’m supposed to be.

“Sit,” he says one night, his voice steady, the leash taut in his hand.

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