One of them enters me.
Slow.
Cruel.
Deep.
“Mine.”
The other bites my lip. Licks my tears.
“Ours.”
My body clenches.
But the second I’m about to cum?—
Everything stops.
The fingers are gone. The vibrator off. The cock halfway in… pulled out.
I scream.
“No!”
They laugh.
One kisses my inner thigh. The other stroked my cheek.
“Not yet, little moth.”
“You don’t get to cum until you stop asking who we are.”
They don’t let me breathe.
Not properly.
Not without trembling.
One hand grabs my hair, pulling it back to arch my neck for a bite.
The other trails lower—between my legs, sliding through my slick folds without mercy but every time I try to move, to grind, to chase that unbearable edge?—
They stop.
“Naughty little moth,” one growls. “Did we say you could beg with your hips?”
I sob but I’m not crying.
I’m melting.
One of them leans in, licking the salt from my cheek.
“Incy wincy spider climbed between her thighs…”
My pulse screams.
The words slither down my spine like venom. Like truth. Like a promise I never meant to make.
