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At Mira and Zoey's vociferous insistence, they're seated on the floor of Rumi's bedroom. Right in front of the wide full body mirror, glass scrubbed, shimmering immaculate, spic and span, since Zoey went at it with some elbow grease, gusto, and lemon-scented cleaning solution. The acrid artificial odour still lingers in the air, mingling with the base notes of sweat, cloying in Rumi's nostrils as she heaves down a gulp of air, almost choking on it.
It's insufferably stuffy in her room.
They really should have cracked a window.
Not that she's capable of articulating that hazy thought as a bomb goes off inside her brain.
The fixture is a remnant from latter days when the fear of discovery had her reviewing each ensemble a dozen times every morning, checking folds and fit to ensure her patterns were covered.
Your faults and fears and scars and you can never be seen.
In the clear glass, all three of them, Mira pressed firmly to her back and Zoey at her side, are on display, tangled together on the floor atop a few fluffy blankets.
Scrabbling for purchase against the floorboards with elongated, demonic claws, Rumi keens, eyes slamming shut because she can't stand it. Can't watch this, something so depraved on display. The thrumming and throbbing and pulsating violet-white patterns that arc over her entire body. She has to be hidden. Nothing should be allowed to see this. Her. Them. Celine's voice whispers in her ear like oil. Like tar. Like ice water that's turning to steam because -
Her buttocks heave up off the floor and her spine arches, aching - like the one that's welling up between her thighs. They try to snap shut instinctively, a kind of languor warring with mortification because every inch of her is flushing hot, and it's only indecision and Zoey's palms and compact, muscular arms that hold them apart.
God, legs spread wide. They must be able to see everything, and blood burns under Rumi's cheeks even as her eyes pinch even tighter, almost to the point of pain.
"There we go, babe," Mira hisses, serpentine and nearly demonic with a kind of sadistic glee, next to Rumi's ear, chin resting lightly on her shoulder, breath washing over her neck. Hairs bristle, and the sound races through her like she's crystal on the verge of shattering at the perfect pitch. Just one tone away. One decibel louder and fissures would crack her down to her core.
Already, desperate, her hips leap forward involuntarily with a whole-body convulsion. Iron-strong arms clutch at her waist as the body behind her presses close, sweet and soft, compact breasts flush against her shoulder blades, the nipples already little pebbles. Lilac perfume is so intense in her nose that she nearly chokes again, this time on her gasp for air when a cheek nuzzles against her thigh.
Pressure builds inside her clenched eyes that throb, a starfield busting behind the lids and wicked fangs clamp down on her tongue, bite back a whimper at the flames that are crackling to life in her belly. Can't let them show. Another fault, another mark, set on display with even a faint smile - a breathy pant. Her lungs burn for want of air.
"Now open up those pretty eyes for me, babe." This, Mira says while teasing a finger into her womanhood, just a tender, slow half-inch deep.
A scalding hot pulsation thrums through her pussy, her own hands nearly rising so she can quell the deep ache, enough to have her thrashing. Just shove the other girl aside and do it herself, do it right, do it to the imagined vision of what they must look like when the real thing is right there for the taking but she can't look!
Clenched, her hands remain at her sides, quaking.
She's completely beyond coherent sentences, words, thoughts. Only a slurry of sensations all smeared together. The thrill at a lingering hum of approval at her ear, nearly enough to drown the war drum beat - never be seen.
Every inch of her is a fault. Body and brain and instinct, she believes this even if she knows it's not true.
On stage she's never croaked once regardless of overwork or laryngitis; there's always been enough pride and stubbornness to take mastery over herself and her voice, tame it and deploy it and now all she can do is whimper out a garbled stream of nonsense that she thinks is a plea, a denial-
"Come on, be a good girl for us," Mira coaxes coyly, and it is Mira. This Rumi knows and sees when her eyes unstick, peeling open to mere slivers.
She takes in the sight of the mirror before them.
Utterly embarrassing, mortifying.
Mira behind her, legs alongside hers but ankles wrapped around Rui's shins so that she can tug her legs apart fully, exposing the entire expanse of her naked inner thighs and the parted, glistening folds of her womanhood, framed by a delicate forest of violet hairs that arch around her lips and trail upwards, thinning to a point on her belly.
Hot and moist, her pubic mound is just kissing Rumi's ass, settled into her lap.
And right there, inches away, Zoey.
Awed.
Breathing hard, mouth opening. Closing. Opening again so close and an infinite distance away so that it's obvious she's going to-
"S-stop! I-it's-" The word ugly is on the tip of her tongue, but it gets caught up in the fangs that glint in her reflection.
"Fucking hot," Zoey, bright-eyed and almost hyperactive, like she's about to feast on a smorgasbord of vending machine snacks, supplies from her place beside, her chin pressing into the crux of Rumi's thigh and hands carding up and down her leg in a faint petting motion, as she stares down at the slick and sticky mound of pubic hair and lips that are spread apart by Mira's inquisitive, demanding fingers.
A thumb traces her flinching navel, dipping into her belly-button and then arching outwards, testing the rougher skin of the thunderbolt patterns that arch and zig-zag towards her sides, provoking a minute yelp from her, Rumi's head swimming because she's drowning, lost at sea and being submerged by the billowing waves. Breaching the surface for breath only to swallow lungfuls of salt water that sting her tongue and throat. Clenching pleasure blooms inside her belly at the faint pressure.
"Fuck, you're so sensitive," Mira says not with lewdness or teasing, but sheer wonder, the pressure of her touch increasing based on her judgement of Rumi's twitching thighs. The way her claws quiver, uncertain, caught up like a fly being smothered in warm, molten amber, and that makes it impossible to suppress the sumptuous moan that breaches her lips.
"Oh god," Rumi whines as she fixates on the image of the girl in the mirror, every stitch and seam of her being snapped, breasts heaving and reddened nipples slick with a patina of saliva. A faint dribble of drool running down her chin. Flushed hot skin from cheeks down to her upper chest. Muscles in the arms smooth and sculpted as they flex, straining.
If it was another person, she'd think that they were beautiful.
Desirable.
Fingers splay out over her abdominals, feather light and teasing, cutting into the grooves and divots of muscle almost tickling, and Zoey's moving again, shifting so that she's now laying flat on the floor between Rumi's legs. Tucking callused fingers under Rumi's things, Zoey heaves up her legs, settles them over tightly muscled shoulders, and just stares.
Breaths and waits and oh god she must smell the hot musk as she licks her lips greedily and - and -
"N-no." Even she doesn't buy it. There's only enflamed need, the molten pulsation in her lips framed by the thick thatch of violet pubic hair and Mira's fingers that hood wide her labia as if presenting them for Zoey and she can't even though she's closing in because it's disgusting, every inch of the panoply of patterns along the inside of her thighs and the sodden mess of tangled pubic hair, and- and-
"I-it's filt-" Can't even finish the words, gasping, believing but not knowing.
Tender flesh stings and aches because Rumi is so empty, needs to be filled up properly! Anything! A touch, just spiralling inwards, bur the sodden folds are repul-
Zoey leans in, close enough for Rumi's pussy to clench at the wash of warm breath against her folds.
A lick, lightning quick, quizzical and experimental, peppering the inside of Rumi's belly and pussy with flaming hot shards of metal like a fragmentation grenade going off.
Just when Rumi, squirming, stinging tears of frustration welling in her eyes because it's grotesque and wrong and cruel because she needs more! Is trying to mouth an apology. That's when a radiant, self-satisfied grin spreads over Zoey's lips.
Glistening and plump. Engorged.
Lips she licks, savoring the taste, sighing, eyes alight like she's blissed out.
Rumi nearly screams when Zoey thrusts herself back in, face and sloppy wet tongue burying into Rumi's pussy, hands to her thighs so tight that she'll be bruised in the morning.
And gorges herself.
"That's it, babe," Mira encourages breathily to encourage Rumi while she writhes. Liquid pleasure like honey flows over her folds with every steady lap and grind of Zoey's tongue. "Good, isn't she?"
Good doesn't even begin to describe the sensation as Rumi nearly comes undone. There's a flurry of violence, of mania, as Zoey almost seems to crack, heaving Rumi's butt upwards and leaving her scrabbling for purchase, only for Mira's grip to tighten, hold her in place. Pin her so that's she suspended and cradled and utterly helpless while Zoey delves in.
Just feasting.
And Rumi screams outright, head heaving back to crack against Mira's shoulder but the hiss at her ear demands that she keep watching. The ceiling rolls out of view so that only the hazed vision in the mirror remains. Zoey's tongue zeros in on her clit, spiralling and grinding, sloppy wet sounds pouring forth in a profusion from between her thighs. When they try to clamp down, jerking closed around Zoey's head, the palms braced against them resist her, keeping her open and vulnerable. Flecks of spit cough out from her mouth when the pebbly rough pad of Zoey's tongue is joined by a probing finger that teases around her slit.
Now Mira's hands can trail upwards to her breasts, cupping them, thumbs to the aching nipples and mouth finding her throat, the shell of her ear, her jaw, little tingling explosions to leave her body bombed out as Zoey consumes her like Rumi's pussy is a succulent meal after a fast - the last meal before execution for a starving woman.
She's lost, nearly swept away, torn in two by the pair of women groping at her and wrenching her apart. Feral wolves slavering over a carcass that they're rending to pieces, nips and suckles that leave her throat peppered with bruises and furiously incessant licks and it's all just too much as her roving gaze lights on Zoey, expert lips and tongue pressed tight to the seam of her cunt, nose buried in slick violet pubic hair.
"Atta girl," Mira says breathlessly, like she's the one who's on the very cusp of orgasm even though she's completely untouched, only clinging on to Rumi's back. "Being so good and slutty for us."
Oh. God.
She wants to be a slut for them.
A buck, grind, whine, and if her arms weren't restrained and her body not taut and enfeebled, she'd tear away, thread her fingers through Zoey's hair, and shove here deep into her cunt, filthy though it may have been because she's beyond caring at this point. There's only need that scours clean the human and the demon, leaves her featureless. Sensation rather than person.
All the world is wiped away in the liquid tide of Zoey's motion, never abating or balking. Utterly relentless with each curving stroke of her tongue.
And then.
Then the finger slides in, disrupting the amplifying rhythm of her tongue for an instant, and it's worth it!
Lips spread around her, muscles straining, baring down on the intrusion ,trying to milk it, increase the friction, the pressure.
Suddenly, it doesn't matter than this is depraved, or that she's an imperfect mass of scar tissue, a million interwoven shards that should never been seen, because if they're degenerate and filthy, she never wants to be clean - just revel in this with them now and forever and a second finger slides in effortlessly, causing her to whine because she needs it so desperately she could scream.
A grin.
There's a grin.
An absolutely feral and wicked grin that she doesn't see.
She feels it - spreading against her pussy, lips against lips as Zoey starts to finger her, scissoring to spread the walls of her pussy.
"Now," Mira hums like she's praising a dog for having done a trick, sat and barked and begged - Rumi would beg if she had the words, but can only whine and thrash, hearing the reciprocal smirking lilt to Mira's tone. "Be a good girl and come for Zoey."
The world condenses down to pinpoints of sensation -- the coiled tension in her belly that's nearly ready to snap and burst; every frenetic pass of Zoey's tongue along her folds, the circling motion over her clit that sends stars scattering through her vision; shocks of near stinging pain as Mira just faintly twists her nipples. A cascade of energy washes over her, the static crackle before a thunderstorm, and it's like a portal cracks open, loosing a torrent. Under the onslaught, she snaps, a sequence of explosions going off in her belly and all the way to her core, shockwaves liquifying her down to the bones even though they seize her muscles, leave her rigid like an iron beam.
Her pussy clenches around Zoey's probing fingers, a scream piercing the air at the molten hot rush that floods her veins that send her bucking and grinding, nerves firing off at random so that she's lost even the vestiges of control; faintly, she's aware of a release of fluid, barely felt save for the shift of Zoey's mouth, a transition from licks to almost nursing suckles and frankly obscene swallowing noises, fluid pouring down the other girl's chin. Existence is washed away in a flare of white-hot light that blinds her, strips her of every sense like a flashbang that leaves her ears ringing deaf, her eyes cauterized, her breath caught and lost - only the involuntary bucking of her hips, the condensed and focused purely animalistic need, remains.
During Rumi's feeble, groping attempts at recovery, her body sagging limp so that she no longer lies pinned by Mira's grip, but cradled, she swims back to coherence,
When she rises, smugly sated like the cat that got the cream, she's wiping her mouth with the back of her hand; a patina of glistening fluid has smeared up her cheeks and a few rivulets of sweat are beading up and trailing down her forehead.
"That's our girl," Zoey praises with a grin; she settles back down again almost immediately like a kitten, trying to curl up in Rumi's lap, so that the two girls are sandwiching her between them.
Wrecked, utterly undone, sticky between her legs, desperately in need of a shower but too languid and burnt out to even suggest it, Rumi just stares at the three of them in the mirror, traces curves of flesh that run one to the next.
A sputtering grumble is tugged out of her lips, mouth dry and voice hoarse and scratchy, as Mira tugs them all to the floor, splaying them out on the comforter that's been set in place for this very moment.
Lanky arms and a chin atop her head. A wriggling, giggling mass of flesh tucking under her chin. A jockeying for position as her bonelessly pliable body is shifted and molded between the other two girls while she tries to catch her breath. Above Zoey's tangled mass of hair, she can see the cityscape beyond her window. A sea of colossi and glittering lights, faint and blurred because her eyes are still wet with fears and she's not sure if that's from the orgasm or something else, even deeper than that.
Somewhere along the way, they begin to whisper to her, like the fading city lights that flicker with her fluttering eyelids. Between the slowing pulse of her heart and the viscous fluid of her own melted brain sloshing about inside her skull, she can't discern anything beyond tone, the musical harmony of intention and aura and the Honmoon enfolding all three of them like a blanket that pillows her down.
"It's okay, pretty girl," someone says, nuzzling her hair. It might be Mira; it might be Zoey; and it doesn't matter in the least. Too much soft flesh enfolds her, slick with sweat but in no way disgusting or clammy but just right - human and alive. Every inch, every looping swirl and jagged line, and fractured, sharp edge of her being traced. Fingers draw shapes along her patterns. Feather light. Tiptoeing.
"You can go to sleep."
Even though there's a faint rebellious and petulant impulse to deny them, as they've not even had the faintest hint of pleasure for themselves, it's impossible for her to stave off the wave of exhaustion that only comes when you finally allow yourself to be tired. When all the fight has been squeezed out of you and you're too far gone to muster the brainpower to care that you're being selfish.
Rumi hasn't learnt how to be selfish.
Her girls are trying to teach her.
But as she drifts in the warmth like a baby floating in the womb, surrounded on all sides and blind to the world that exists beyond her - the glaring lights and the cold that must exist in another universe entirely - she actually thinks that, maybe, this - letting them do this isn't completely selfish after all.