Hard. Sudden. Her body locks, thighs clamping around my head, a muffled scream vibrating. I don’t stop.I keep licking, keep curling my fingers, drawing it out until she’s sobbing.
Sting pulls out of her mouth, stroking himself. “Again,” he says. “Make her come again.”
I do.
This time with my mouth on her clit and three fingers inside her, fucking her hard and deep. She comes screaming, back arching off the blankets, hands fisting in the wool.
Rogue groans, close. He pulls her hand faster, then spills across her stomach in hot stripes.
I stand, cock aching and flip her onto her hands and knees, positioning myself behind her. She’s still shaking from the last orgasm, barely able to hold herself up.
I push inside in one brutal stroke.
She cries out, head dropping forward. I’m big, bigger than she’s ready for, but she takes it. All of it.
I fuck her hard, hands bruising her hips, pulling her back onto me with every thrust. Sting moves in front of her, fisting her hair, guiding her mouth back to his cock. She sucks him while I pound her, the wet sounds filling the room.
Rogue steps back, stroking himself again, half-smiling while he enjoys the scene.
I feel her tighten around me, another orgasm building. “Not yet,” I growl. “You don’t come until I say.”
She whimpers around Sting’s cock.
I reach around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing hard. “Now,” I say. “Come now.”
She explodes. I follow, burying deep and spilling inside her with a low groan.
Sting pulls out of her mouth and comes across her face, thick ropes painting her lips, her cheek.
We don’t stop.
Rogue takes my place, sliding into her still-fluttering cunt. He fucks her slow, controlled, hands gripping her ass cheeks.
She comes again. And again. Until she’s boneless, shaking, barely able to form words.
When we’re finally done, she collapses onto the blankets, cum dripping from her, marks covering her skin. We don’t cuddle. Don’t whisper sweet things. We just clean her up with a spare cloth. Efficient. Thorough.
Then Sting lifts her easily. “Come on,” he says. “One more thing.”
She’s too exhausted to argue.
49
ARMEN
Sting carriesher through corridors I know she doesn’t recognize. Deeper. Quieter. Away from the main hubs where people cluster and noise never stops.
She’s barely conscious, head lolling against his shoulder, body limp from exhaustion. Rogue walks ahead, checking corners. I follow behind, watching the way her legs dangle, the way her breathing has gone slow and deep.
We stop in front of a door that looks like all the others, scuffed metal, faded paint—but this one has a lock that actually works. Rogue pulls the key from his pocket and opens it.
The room inside is nothing like the storage closet she’s been sleeping in.
It’s small, but deliberately so. Warm. A low platform bed takes up most of the space, covered insoft blankets and actual pillows, not the thin, flat things most Runts get but real ones, scavenged from old department stores and cleaned until they didn’t smell anymore. Tapestries hang on the walls, faded but whole, geometric patterns and soft florals that catch the light from the string of small lanterns strung across the ceiling. The glow is warm, golden, nothing like the harsh fluorescents that buzz everywhere else.
There’s a rug on the floor, worn but clean. A small table with a chair. A narrow shelf with space for her things, if she ever gets any. A curtain instead of a door leading to a private washroom.
It smells like cedar and something faintly floral. Clean. Safe.
