And I want both.
The one between my legs is relentless now—three fingers, soaked and curling with brutal purpose. The vibrator is back, pressed so tightly to my clit I swear I feel it in my spine but I still can’t cum because they won’t let me, because they’re turning my orgasm into worship.
The blood from my thigh smears across my stomach, forming a handprint of sin.
The one above me leans down, tongue licking it up in slow, reverent strokes.
“You were always meant to be bled for.”
The one between my legs groans.
“She clenched. Did you feel that?”
“She’s begging inside.”
“But her mouth hasn’t earned it.”
They stop everything.
I whimper. Collapse. Scream.
“Please,” I sob. “Please—I can’t?—”
The blade at my throat lifts.
Replaced by lips.
A kiss.
Tender. Gentle.
And that’s what breaks me.
Even now—they still know how to make it feel like love.
“Then say it,” one of them whispers. “Say what you are.”
The pain is nothing now.
The need is everything.
I let the tears fall. Let my wrists strain against the silk. Let my blood paint the sheets like a sacrifice.
And I whisper: “Yours.”
The vibrator slams back against me.
His cock replaces the fingers.
One thrust.
Two.
Three.
And I’m there.
On the edge.
