Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

Dreams	By : sisterray Category: A through F > Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Views: 5367 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Dreams
- 1
Willy Wonka had always been admirably permissive and tolerant with his young heir. After all, how was the boy supposed to learn anything if he wasn’t allowed the luxury of exploration? He had very few rules for Charlie. All except for two were rather flexible. The first inflexible rule was the same he had articulated to the group on the fateful day of the tour: no touching things in the inventing room. The second wasn’t revealed to Charlie until much later: he was never to enter Mr. Wonka’s room after dark. Charlie had been in the room several times during the daytime hours and found it fascinating. There was so much to take in he felt on the verge of sensory overload, and wondered how a man could ever sleep in such quarters. Unevenly shaped with an impossibly high ceiling, light poured from the windows way up on the walls. Charlie felt as if he could spend years in this room and still not come close to experiencing everything within it. It was truly a microcosm all its own, rivaling the factory as a whole in terms of complexity. Of course, Charlie had agreed to adhere to Wonka’s rule regarding the room. It seemed easy enough at the time; what reason would he have to enter the room after dark anyway? But naturally the mere fact that it was forbidden made Charlie intensely curious. While touching things in the inventing room was forbidden as well, he could see the inventing room. Nothing was hidden from him there. What could possibly be in Wonka’s room that made it off limits? He had asked Wonka once, but the man had been coy about it, half-heartedly scolding Charlie for mumbling and then promptly changing the subject. This did nothing to assuage Charlie’s curiosity. In fact, it made the boy more determined than ever to find out for himself. There was only one way to know for sure: he’d have to sneak into the room after dark, when Wonka was sleeping. Charlie surprised himself with that thought. Since when had he ever wanted to go against Wonka’s wishes so willfully like that? Well, Charlie rationalized, if the man would simply tell him why the room was forbidden, he wouldn’t need to find out for himself like that. If he was quiet about it and waited until quite late when his mentor was sure to be asleep, he could simply poke his head in, take a quick look around and return to his own room. Wonka would never have to know.
Charlie resolved to carry out the plan that very night, before he lost his nerve. While he was fairly familiar with the appearance of the room during daylight hours, at night a very different sight greeted his eyes. The moon was high overhead, and its light shown perfectly through the window and landed on Wonka’s sleeping form like a ghostly spotlight. His bed stood on a dais in the center of the room, with no other furniture near it. Charlie could see heaps of silken sheets and pillows, elaborate brocades and fabulously embroidered quilts gleaming gently on the massive bed. The boy blinked several times, finding himself slightly disoriented at seeing Wonka’s room in this new light. He’d always noticed that the room was rather oddly shaped, having no perceivable symmetry in its architecture or layout. In this ethereal light, however, it was downright baffling. Some of the angles seemed impossible, corners expanded and contracted, and just a few times, as a trick of shadows no doubt, the room seemed to increase in size. The thousands of trinkets and baubles adorning the room’s walls seemed to sway and tinkle of their own accord. It was all slightly unsettling to Charlie, but inescapably alluring at the same time. Some mostly dormant protective instinct deep within the boy stayed his curiosity for the time being, and kept him away from the room’s geometric abominations. Charlie shook his head, assured himself that it was all tricks of the light, and refocused on the regal bed in the center of the room. He crept forward with terrible suspense, not wanting to wake the sleeping chocolatier.
Willy Wonka was sprawled on his back over the expanse of the bed with black silk robe embroidered in dizzy gold patterns covering him. His hair was wild around his face. With his strangely penetrating eyes hidden from view he appeared much more human. Soft breaths escaped his slightly parted lips, and his skin glowed dimly in the moonlight. Charlie stood entranced. He knew he shouldn’t be here, that he should heed his mentor’s warnings, but what he was seeing now was irresistible. Never before had he seen his benefactor like this; no tightly controlled mask veiled his face now. For the first time, Charlie felt as if he actually saw Willy Wonka. Barely aware of what he was doing, trembling, Charlie reached out a hand delicately stroked soft chestnut hair splayed over the pillow. His eyes widened as he marveled at the texture of the strands, so fine and silky as they slipped through his fingers.
Wonka stirred ever so slightly in his sleep, lips moving imperceptibly, and Charlie became suddenly aware of what he was doing. With the spell broken, he jerked his hand away as if he had been burned, and bolted out of the room. Had he turned around, he would have seen a pair of wide open and alert violet eyes pursuing him out the door.
In the comforting confines of the glass elevator the boy struggled to collect himself. Conflicting emotions washed over him. Guilt nagged him; after all, he had blatantly disobeyed Mr. Wonka, something he had never done before. On the heels of guilt followed a strange fear. Partly it was fear of Wonka’s reaction to the trespass (Charlie just couldn’t shake the feeling that Wonka somehow knew what had happened), and partly it was a strange fear of the man’s room itself. Something about the room just seemed not right to Charlie, though he couldn’t even begin to explain what it might be. The fear melted away, however, as he remembered the room’s grand centerpiece: Wonka himself. Images of the sleeping chocolatier were engrained into Charlie’s mind. A strange, fluttering warmth glowed within him as he closed his eyes and utilized the full breadth of his imagination to re-create the vision of slumbering Wonka.
The elevator lurched to a stop and dinged, pulling Charlie out of his thoughts. Confused and uneasy, the boy scampered into his own bed and pulled the covers over his head.
The next morning, after a brief and restless sleep, Charlie awoke unsure about the reality of the previous night’s events. Had he really ignored Wonka’s wishes, snuck into the man’s room, watched him sleep, and touched his hair? It was almost too much for him to fathom. The images and feelings that lingered seemed far too vivid to be mere dream residue, though. Charlie found some relief in the fact that Wonka was apparently unaware of the previous night’s trespass, or at least made no mention of it. Even so, the boy found himself increasingly distracted by the memory of it. He found himself wanting very much to touch his mentor’s hair again, but didn’t dare attempt or ask while the man was awake.
That night Charlie found himself drawn to that bizarrely beautiful room for second time. His childish curiosity drove him on, though he still felt a tad guilty about his disobedience. Wonka didn’t seem to notice, though, and there was definitely something to be said for the thrill of getting away with it. Again his fingers wove through Wonka’s hair, a bit more boldly this time. Charlie’s heart was beating fast and his own breathing sounded very loud to him. Suddenly terrified that Wonka could hear it, the boy’s courage evaporated and he scurried away. The distance between the bed and the door yawned before him. Charlie fumbled frantically through it, telling himself that the door should be just a little further… and maybe a little further… The moonlight didn’t reach those darker crevices. As he pawed blindly for the doorknob his fingers brushed over all manner of bizarre objects, alien textures leaping out at him. Just as panic began to bubble to the surface, Charlie found the exit and leapt into the elevator with a sob of relief. Again, Wonka’s wide-open eyes traced his heir’s desperate escape with great interest. A smile touched his lips as he drifted back to sleep, knowing that the boy would return.
Wonka was right of course, and night after night Charlie returned. Each time he grew a bit bolder, gradually exploring Wonka’s sculpted features, slender neck, lips, and even the exposed skin of his chest when the robe fell to one side. This was all terribly exciting to the boy, who loved not only the visual and tactile sensations but also the aching warmth that spread through his body and made his pulse race and his breath catch.
As much as Charlie longed to remain there all night, he couldn’t bear the thought of being caught; how would he explain his disobedience to Mr. Wonka? The idea of this shame inspired Charlie to face the part he dreaded most: the trek back to the door. He’d hoped that as he visited the room more often he would become familiar with it, and the door’s location would become more apparent. To his dismay, however, the opposite seemed to be happening. Every night he seemed to grow more and more lost. It took him longer and longer to find the door, and he was forced to run his fingers over more unseen things in order to find it. Charlie was inexplicably afraid of the unseen things. Their shapes and textures were entirely unknown to him. His over-active imagination had no trouble conjuring up disturbing images to accompany them.
Even so, he continued to brave these unknown horrors for a chance to experience the longed-for sights and feelings within them. Tonight Wonka slept on his side, which Charlie had never seen before. The boy leaned forward to continue the exploration of his idol’s forbidden skin. As he did so his groin pressed unexpectedly against the side of the bed. A jolt flew through his body at the contact, making his nerves tingle and his skin grew hot. He gasped loudly at the unexpected sensation. Despite the pleasure he felt, Charlie knew it was time for his retreat. He sensed he was dangerously close to giving himself away. Slowly he turned to begin the dreaded task of finding the door. This time, however, he was surprised to see the door clearly, directly in front of the bed. Charlie shook his head; had it been there all along? Silly of him not to notice! Mentally kicking himself for being so unobservant and clumsy before, he stepped through it and returned to his own room.
Sleep was a long time coming for Charlie that night. His body was still alive with the strange, illicit physical pleasure from earlier. Yearning for more of the sensation, Charlie tentatively began to explore his own body. His hand hovered over his groin before tentatively pressing down. Again he gasped as the same feeling spread through him. Repeating the motion with a bit more certainty, images from his nightly forays into his mentor’s room appeared unbidden in his mind’s eye. Charlie rubbed himself faster as he closed his eyes and let the images wash over him. His hand crept its way into his pajama pants, seeking stronger contact. Not long after, Charlie’s eyes snapped open again and a muffled shout of surprise and delight escaped him. His hand was suddenly very warm and wet and slightly sticky. Absently he wiped it on his covers. Incredible exhaustion had crept over him and he let his eyes close, feeling very warm and satiated.
Charlie didn’t know how long he slept. He awoke slowly, feeling a bit stiff and cold. He fished around for his quilt. Not finding it, his eyes peeled slowly open to prepare for the onslaught of bright morning light. It never came, however. Charlie opened and closed his eyes several more times, but there was still no trace of light. It dawned on him that he was not in his bed, but on the floor. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, fear started to prick at his senses. He wasn’t even in his own room.
There was no mistaking it; Charlie was huddled on the floor of Willy Wonka’s room. Confused, he tried to remember how he’d gotten there. He distinctly remembered leaving… the door was right there, and he’d walked through it. Hadn’t he? Did he return here in his sleep, subconsciously? Charlie didn’t think he’d ever exhibited somnambulant tendencies before. Growing up in a tiny house with six other people, surely someone would’ve said something about it. Before he could contemplate further, however, the moment he dreaded arrived.
On the dais in the center of the room, Wonka was sitting up. More dim light seeped in through the windows, giving his skin an ethereal pallor. Was the moon full again outside? Charlie could’ve sworn it had been full just last week.
“Charlie,” the man spoke, “c’mere.”
The boy suddenly felt on the verge of tears. All the times he had disobeyed his mentor, who had shown him nothing but the utmost kindness and generosity, hit him like a slap in the face. How could he have been so ungrateful and selfish? On weak and watery legs he slowly approached the great bed. All of his courage had been used to make it that far, and at the foot of the bed Charlie slumped forward, sniffling.
“I’m…I’m so s-sorry…” he began, a muffled sob breaking his voice.
Wonka chuckled softly. “There’s really no need for that. C’mon up here.”

Not feeling terribly reassured, Charlie obeyed and climbed onto the bed. He couldn’t bear to look at Wonka. His face was hot with shame and guilt, and to make matters worse, there was that feeling again: warm, cloying, and more overwhelming than ever. Charlie squirmed with discomfort and embarrassment and need he didn’t fully understand. A moment later he felt a warm puff of breath on his cheek and would’ve fallen backward off the bed had a hand not slipped behind him to steady him. The boy hadn’t even heard or felt his mentor move.
“Now my dear boy, what seems to be the problem?” Wonka inquired, sounding as chipper as ever. Charlie was trapped between Wonka’s body and the edge of the bed.
“Well, ah, Mr. Wonka… sir… you see, I was…curious… and…” the boy’s voice trailed off pathetically. He knew he had no rational excuse or explanation to offer. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out desperately, “Please don’t be… angry with me.” The thought of Wonka mad at him was almost too much; Charlie would never be able to live with the guilt of having disappointed his mentor. Beneath that, however, lurked a crawling fear; what was to stop him from ending up like the other children on the tour?
“Now Charlie,” Wonka began, finger upraised, “Curiosity is the very thing from which ideas are born! Unless you’re curious about how to go about doing something, you’ll never come up with an idea of how to do it. For example, if I hadn’t been curious about the possibility of converting matter into energy and projecting it to a specific location via electromagnetic waves, I never would have come up with the idea of how to do it!” It took Charlie a moment to figure out that Wonka was talking about the television room; he’d explained it in much less scientific terms during the tour.
“So does that mean you-you’re not mad?” Charlie asked tentatively.
“Of course not,” came the snippy response, “It doesn’t not mean that I’m not not mad at you.”
Lost in the negatives, Charlie merely blinked.
“My dear boy, you’re so very young to understand this, but sometimes curiosity leads to ideas you don’t think of. The ideas that simply swoop down on you like an enraged whangdoodle and consume you… though perhaps in a more figurative sense than an enraged whangdoodle would be inclined to do. But then again perhaps not.”
Very much aware of Wonka’s close proximity, Charlie struggled to keep his breathing calm and even. “I’m not sure I follow you,” he replied. Arm still around Charlie’s, Wonka pressed forward and slid his thigh between the boy’s legs as he steadied himself. A small, breathy gasped escaped Charlie and his eyelids fluttered as a familiar jolt of pleasure traveled through his body. Wonka missed none of Charlie’s reactions, even the most subtle. Abruptly he laid back and pulled Charlie down on top of him. Another sound of pleasure came from the boy as his body pressed against Wonka’s.
The shame and embarrassment Charlie felt earlier were rapidly taking a backseat to the ever-growing want he felt. He pressed his hips against Wonka’s body insistently, only the thin fabric of his pajama pants and the slippery silk of Wonka’s robe separating them. Through hooded eyes Wonka watched the boy sliding against him.
“I think you understand perfectly well, actually,” he said in a dark, smoky tone. His hands slid lightly up and down the boy’s sides, encouraging his movements.
Charlie groaned as Wonka’s wandering hands found their way under his pajamas. The boy surrendered completely to the sensations, never noticing as Wonka held him tightly and the impossible angles of the room closed in on him.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Dreams