One tongue licks up my slit.
A hand slaps the inside of my thigh, hard.
“Keep them open. I didn’t ask.”
I gasp.
One of them is whispering in my ear—“Good girl.”
The other is biting my collarbone—“Dirty slut.”
I don’t know which one I want more.
Because they both sound like Damien.
And I hate that I want both.
Two sets of fingers now—one teasing my nipples, the other circling my clit, feather-light and infuriating.
“You’re not allowed to cum.” They say it at the same time.
One presses a vibrator to my clit.
The other shoves two fingers inside me.
The overstimulation is instant—cruel.
I’m already shaking.
Already there.
“Please—”
They smirk in stereo.
“She’s going to break.”
“Not yet. She hasn’t earned it.”
One of them holds the clamp again. Tightens it.
The other lowers the vibrator.
“No,” I gasp.
“Yes,” they whisper.
Their mouths trade places.
One on my breasts.
One on my throat.
One hand slapping.
The other soothing.
I’m twisted in knots, not just of rope—but of reality.
