Page 9 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
Convivificat.
I don’t want to safe out right now, I’m nowhere near the edge, but it’s nice to have it there all the same. Reassuring. There’s nothing they can do that I can’t stop.
And anyway, this is who I am—who I’ve been growing into ever since I found the words to define it. I am the girl who kneels at night. I am the bride by thorns.
With a deep breath, I press my forehead all the way to the floor, closing my eyes and inhaling the smell of leather and new wood. I hear my masters moving behind me, I hear Rebecca murmur something to Auden, and then there’s his touch again—firm and blunt and more confident than ever. I fight to keep myself still as he rasps a warm palm over my hip and the swell of my ass, and I barely fight off a yip when he gives me a sharp, quick swat on the cheek. But I can’t help the goosebumps that pebble across my skin, I can’t help the flood of heat in my belly.
“Don’t be quiet on my account, sweet bride,” he whispers. “I like to hear you.”
I recognize permission when I hear it, and so when he runs a fingertip over my hot, pleated button, I moan, both in surprise and embarrassment. The surprise is because it feels good—so good—this slow, light touch. It sends shivery sparks everywhere through me, pleasant and long-burning, and then when he presses against the opening, those sparks catch fire and I gasp. It’s uncomfortable and raw and I’m not sure what to make of the feeling. I’m not sure if I like it, having his finger pressing there, I’m not sure I like the urgent, animal way it makes me feel—although when he pulls back, I feel strangely bereft.
“Use her cunt to make your fingers wet,” I hear Rebecca instruct.
Auden does as she says, and once again, his fingers push inside me. I’m sore enough from last night that the intrusion makes my toes curl with pleasure, the hot ache of memory mingling with the tantalizing present, and Auden seems to enjoy my reaction quite a bit, if the rhythm of his breathing is any indication. I hear his clothes rustle, and then I feel the warm puff of his exhales on my skin, and that’s how I know he’s bending down to watch. Watch his hand moving against me and inside me, watch the spread of my tender flesh against his invasion.
He’s watching himself take ownership of me. Stroke by stroke, crook by crook, twist by slippery grinding twist.
I whimper helplessly into the floor, tension pulling tight in my stomach while my mind clears and then fills, clears and fills, like clouds chasing across the sky. For long seconds, there’s nothing but the satiating fill of his fingers, and then the thoughts will come—mostly thoughts like Auden Guest is fingering you; the pouty, rich boy you’re in love with is marking your cunt with his touch—and then he’ll spiral his hand this way or that way, or add another finger, or pull back to tease at my swollen clit, and the thoughts will disappear again. There’s only him and me and the authoritative tap of Rebecca’s toe on the floor as she watches her apprentice at work.
“Can you feel her tightening up?” she asks him. “Do you see how she’s quivering and starting to buck back against your hand—you can smack her for that, by the way—and do you see how deeply her cunt is flushing right now? She’s close to coming. Don’t let her.”
Let me, let me, let me, I silently beg, but I’m not so far gone as to make a rookie move like that. I keep my pleas in my throat where they belong—for now—and somehow manage not to burst into tears when Auden slides his fingers free right as I begin to crest up toward my climax. And then, without Rebecca saying anything, he touches a cunt-wet finger to my entrance and works his way inside.
A groan tears out of me, the feeling of his finger there, going deep, so deep, like nothing I’ve ever felt. I’m ashamed and scared and also helplessly aroused by the idea of being examined like this. Inspected for his use.
A cool hand sweeps over my ass, and then I hear Rebecca kneel down next to me. “Turn your head,” she says softly, and I do. I’m rewarded with a fond caress over my lower lip before she pushes into my mouth. “Suck,” she orders.
Once I’ve sucked her finger to her satisfaction, she moves behind me, and I only realize what she’s going to do as she’s doing it, as she’s pressing her finger inside me next to Auden’s.
I cry out, rolling my head against the floor, my hands dropping from behind my back to scrabble at the wood—which earns me a spank from Rebecca, who doesn’t miss a beat with her other hand as she works her finger inside me.
And then I have two fingers in my ass, deep and almost tickling, if elemental shocks to the nervous system can be called tickling.
“Feel how tight she is here?” Rebecca croons. I feel a brush of fingers, and I think she’s taken Auden’s other hand and is guiding it around my body again. “This ring, so snug, like it doesn’t want to let you go? Think of how it would feel cinching up and down your cock, Guest. Think of how hot and soft it is here—” she wiggles the tip of her finger deep, deep in my ass, moving it enough that I feel every single twitch “—that would be around your head, like the plushest, silkiest prison. Just squeezing all slick and smooth and small around you until you can’t take it anymore, until you’re certain you’ll die with how good it feels, until you realize there’s no way you can survive unless you get to fuck this at least once a day.”
Auden makes a n
oise—a ragged, agonized noise. “Yes,” he whispers after a minute. After a long minute of them sharing my body, because in this moment, it’s theirs to share. “Yes, I feel it. Christ. Fucking Christ.”
“Shit,” Rebecca whispers back, sounding haunted by her own spell, sounding suddenly as taken by desire as the rest of us are, and then she murmurs, “Guest,” at the same moment Auden says, “Quartey” in that melodic husk of his, and then they kiss.
They kiss as they’re still owning my body with their touch, as I’m still bent over and exposed for their gratification. They kiss and I can feel the sturdy wool of Auden’s trousers and the soft cotton of Rebecca’s jumpsuit brush and press against the back of my thighs, and I don’t have to see them right now to know that they’re pressing their bodies together, that they’re seeking friction, seeking relief, and I can tell by the grunts and pants spilling out from between their kisses that they’re finding it.
Have they done this before?
Have they kissed before this moment?
Maybe in a fit of teenage experimentation, as best friends sometimes do, curious and then awkward? Or maybe late at night, some weekend in college, overworked and raw from the intellectual grind of being the best, the smartest, the most creative, did they look up from their books and see mouths shaped like respite? Hands shaped like comfort?
It should make me jealous, this. Jealous that they’re kissing now, jealous that they may have kissed before. And I am jealous, I think, but I’m also so turned on by their frank display of lust, so turned on by the knowledge that it was me, my body, my submission, that reduced both of them to this, that my jealousy is only part of what I feel. And most of what I feel can be summed up with one word.
Yearning.
“Fuck, Bex,” Auden mutters, using his more familiar name for her. “I’m going to—I need to—”
“I know,” she says, “I know. Use your submissive.”
He uses his submissive. In an instant, I’m emptied of their touch and then hauled against Auden’s firm chest as he kneels in front of me. He crushes his mouth to mine, one strong arm banded across my back while his other hand drops to unfasten his trousers, and with an impatient yank, his cock is freed and then ground into my naked belly.
