A Doll's House (PoW: Angelina Tarrant x Madeleine Citronelle)

[Malkavia]

Intimacy was often an exercise in disappointment. When the makeup and the form-flattering clothes come off, the flaws become unmissable—the flab. The body odor. Her slightly crooked teeth. But even up close, Angelina didn't carry an inch of body fat.

Madeleine wanted to hold Angelina—if only it hadn't been for these nasty ropes. She could have cradled her kitten against her chest, her cheek cool no doubt against all the hot sweat drawn by the thought of that knife — a constant red dot in Madeleine's mental radar.

"Mmmmr~" Madeleine breathed heavily through her nose, then crooked her head down and planted a kiss on the crown of Angelina's head. Her body tightened, shuffled, then loosened.

Would she really use the knife? She felt insane enough—almost. She's a lovely, soft kitten with a perfect body, who can program robots on the fly and perform a picture perfect moonsault...

...right into Madeleine's waiting gut. She gasped as Angelina dug her fingers into Madeleine's stomach. Madeleine's abs hardened, flexing, but Angelina's fingers were already in too deep to avoid a wave of pain and nausea.She was filthy. Someone to who wanted Madeleine the same stupid way a shit-covered rat would want a souflet.

No—that wasn't right.

Angelina needed Madeleine. Wanted Madeleine. The way she talked proved it. I wanna keep ya for myself. She was...still a kitten. Just—a feral kitten. On that wanted, no, needed to be housebroken.

And shame would be the best tool for the job. Madeleine's heart fluttered in her chest. She squeezed her toes. Counted to ten in the silence, then licked her lips.

"Charlotte is boring, sweet." Madeleine smiled her sweetest—as sweet as the feeling in her belly that bloomed and buzzed and made her eyes droop, half-lidded. A jerk of excitement — fear! — mixed with the brew, but she kept talking as if she was the calmest woman in the world. "But...she never let a vibrator do her work. She at least knew how to use her body."

To punctuate her silky, half-whispered words, she kissed Angelina one more time—mwah. Right between the horns. The angry buzz of the egg between Madeleine's legs filled the space between her words. A pause followed, and Madeleine looked for her kitten's reaction. When all she did was curl tighter to her chest, she continued.

"Do you know why you feel so jealous?" Madeleine's eyes shifted away from Angelina towards the ceiling. Her lips parted, and she imagined Angelina's eyes on her body. Wanting her. Her lips crooked in a smile. "You know in your bones—as lame as Charlotte is? I still would have adorned her throat with any collar she wanted. That's just...your gut-level honesty, I suppose."

Madeleine's eyes, lidded and acidic, shifted back towards Angelina. "...Have you done something wrong? Really, kitten? I think the better question is—have you done anything right? Any single, solitary thing?"

[Monsy]

Madeleine was a weighted blanket. Or perhaps a thick pillow.

Her body was stern and had firm points Angelina found her fingers fighting with when she squeezed. Now laying on her, it was a different, more powerful experience. She didn’t feel like she was really squashing them into the mattress, so much as laying on hard clay with the texture of soft skin and citrus scent. It was stronger now, and no doubt all over her dress that she planned to keep and sniff.

A kiss to the crown dotted it. Good, good.

Until Charlotte--

At first she squinted. Joy started to erode and worry erased from her face into a slowly squinting gaze, a narrow-lipped flat mouth and flicker in her right eye as she went on and on about Charlotte this, Charlotte better at that--

Have you done anything right?

Angelina acted sharply. She sat up, head-tilted, but kept the face. She drew an arm across her chest, the knife blade turned, then slashed across Madeleine’s gut. A red line from waist to waist that was more of a smack at one side, then a swift drag across as Madeleine eeked out solitary. SHING. And out came the red.

Then before Madeleine could utter a noise, Angelina clamped her hand over Madeleine’s mouth, clawing into the cheek for no reason than it made her feel slightly better. “Fuck off.” She started, finally adjusting the knife to sit on Madeleine’s neck. Her chin tilted down, glaring. “You’re not goin’ to pick her. She’s a lyin’ twisted pink-shit floozie that only cares for herself. I bet she hates you. Think ya can put a collah on that evil bitch? She won’t appreciate any of it.”

Angelina released, sat up, then pulled up one side of her dress as high as she could to show the waist, where Shimmer’s staff lacerated a red line in her side. It was a shallow leftover line of healing skin. “She did this to me. Bet she didn’t mention that when she fake-cried about her rabbit, because she’s playin' you.”

Angelina got off the bed, then went towards the vanity where she left the rye. Glass bottle with the shape of a round diamond-faced urn. The cap was a unique glass twisted cork that she took off, then the inside was light brown. “Besides, it’s not like ya two had anythin’ worth talkin’ about. That’s why she’s a fuckin’ ex. Ya should throw her down a flight of stairs, not let her walk all ovah you. Maybe I should’ve.”

After a thought of ‘Here’s to first times’, she shot back an uncareful mouthful. Immediately, her mouth absolutely burned until she forced it back and swallowed, feeling the shit hit her gut and ignite everything before it. She nearly gagged, but then felt slightly different. More… Weighed down. Feeling in her knees changed. Her thighs were lighter. Her neck tingled.

“What does she even do for you? I bet it doesn’t even compare to this. She doesn't fight for shit…”

She took a second swig, this time more streamlined and kept down easier, then dragged herself back over to Madeleine’s bedside. “Because she’s fuckin’ borin’, as ya said. Really wanna pick borin’ ovah me, Madsy?”

Standing over Madeleine, Angelina’s head slumped to one shoulder, the knife dangled onto one hip and the bottle raised in the other. She tilted it, then poured a drizzle from down on Madeleine’s underwear, then up higher over her belly, chest, neck, then finally -- a slow trickle near her mouth, watching to see what Madeleine did.

[Malkavia]

A searing bolt of pain split across Madeleine's stomach. She screamed, but Angelina's hand caught her mouth. Madeleine bucked, yanked, then shook, whimpering as the bonds cut into her wrists, her thighs, her feet—until they constricted her so tightly that her legs turned numb and her fingerpads tingled. She screamed into Angelina’s hand, her cries muffled as hot saliva dribbled down her chin.”

By the time Angelina released her, Madeleine's body was quivering. Tears rolled down the sides of her face, but her eyes flashed with fury. She was trembling, but the sight of the scar on Angelina's side made her pause like a hand around her throat. The ragged, red edge of the ruined skin cut into the perfect smoothness of Angelina's navel. She imagined how it got there, the Kitten on her back, Charlotte pinning her down, screaming as she stabbed. Repeatedly. Madeleine's face curled into something dark and unreadable as the wave of adrenaline made her heart race, thud-thud-thud—. Her stomach turned, hot, then angry, then cold, then...her stomach itched. Blood slithered down her waist and thigh. An image flashed through her mind. Herself, kneeling. Angelina with her legs around her waist. Madeleine leans in, hesitates, her fingers curled around her pet's side. What would that scar feel like against her lips? Angelina stood up and Madeleine flinched.

The burn flared when Angelina poured alcohol on the thin red slit. Madeleine sucked air through her teeth, and again the ropes cut as her back arched. She couldn't even roll away, powerless as Angelina stood overhead. As the liquid ran up her chest, her breasts, her throat, and finally her cheek, she felt herself shrink into the bed. She blushed. Her legs slid apart. The air was cool on her inner thigh where her stockings were sticky and smelled of alcohol.

What did Madeleine look like to Angelina? What did her gasps and squeaks sound like? What Madeleine imagined made the knots in her stomach pull tighter. She stiffened, narrowed her eyes, sneered, then spat out the rye that trickled into her mouth.

As she sucked in another breath, her forehead creased with a mixture of effort and fury."...You should listen to what you're saying." She knew what she was about to say was a mistake—a dangerous one. A knife's edge, slit throat kind of error. But underneath the hot glare in her eye, she was quivering, melting. It was scream or moan. "You're telling me, oh, what a monster she is." A muscle in Madeleine's stomach twitched, seizing. Pain erupted along the laceration, and she gasped, clenching her fists. Then it passed, and she growled, continuing. "Hooooow could I ever pick someone who sliced up your pooooor...k-kitten tummy." Madeleine's nipples pressed, firm, against the damp semi-transparent gauze of her dress. Her breathing was heavy. "...Even a liar like you can taste the bullshit."

[Monsy]

“Bullshit!?” Angelina gasped, then her nose, mouth and eyes turned sour. Wrinkled, tight and big. There were a thousand ways she imagined handling it. Nine-hundred and ninety-nine involved the flight of stairs she mentioned before, but with two persons. She squeezed the knife until the knuckles ached. Her eyes ached from pressure, with a tear drop at her eye-corners and glassiness over the purple. It’s just a shame her hands were full with the bottle. And if she only dared to get a second scream. The first one made her chest flutter. Her face nearly blushed and there was a tingling from her core, her sex and down all four limbs. For a few short seconds, she wanted those tears.

Break that fucking sneer she had. But even with the cut, Madeleine still made this look like an inconvenience. Is she bein’ fuckin’ cocky?. And the closer Angelina inched onto the bed, there was a moment where her glance drifted down. The interwoven ropes around her chest, pushed up and isolated. Her slice abs had a lick of sweat to them, with still the shallow rolling hills of Citronelle strength. She could glide her hand over it and it would be like tasting honey. Then use that hand on one of Madeleine’s spread thighs.

A heated hand-print to remember who gave it.

Mm… Maybe later.

For now, Angelina straddled Madeleine’s chest and tossed the knife by Madeleine’s head. She arched back, took a long drink from the bottle. It burned to totality until her mouth was numb. It started to spill down her neck, dirty collar and the black dress. She ignored the feeling, forced a swallow, cringed then leaned forward again.

Dizzier.

Click. Button pressed, upping the wand’s setting.
“I can’t taste anythin. You?” She said, then took the knife and started to tap-tap on Madeleine’s lips. “Open your mouth so I can stick this in you. Your mouth or your neck, your call.” After a moment… or a few, when Madeleine obeyed, she slid the blade inside like a sheath, then rested the blade over the tongue. Not too far in to touch any tonsils, but enough the tongue couldn’t easily wiggle out. Then down poured the alcohol along the blade. Gravity would take it to the back of the throat. Then the trickle just kept coming and coming…

“You’re so fuckin’ mean. Know that?”

More trickling. It stopped. Angelina took a swig, then shivered at her shoulders before panting, then looking back down. Madeleine’s turn came again. The same way was used, down the blade. “You don’t mean it, though. You’re just wound up from… Her. I bet ya thought that she'd stop whinin’ if ya told me to give the fake rabbit back, then it happens and everyone wins. She cries on ya shouldah, then sleeps in a separate room so she doesn’t have to see you. You’re fuckin’ dirt to her, a sugar mama with no give back. Looks to me she ain’t even usin’ her body for you anymore. Talk about work.” Angelina slid back down, tummy to cut-tummy, then withdrew the knife. Her elbows sat on-top of Madeleine’s collar, then the stuff above her head.

She released the bottle, then stroked Madeleine’s hair back. “So let's kick her out.”

[Malkavia]

The stimulation from the vibrator had dulled into the background, like a color in her peripheral vision—until Angelina changed the setting, and Madeleine groaned, and her shoulders splayed apart and her breathing became panting.

She tried to isolate the sensation, to remind herself that the he burning sex hormones coarsing through her blood weren't her. As Batson reminded her, over and over. Those are just sensations.

Then there was a knife on her lip and Madeleine's breath froze in her chest.

Your mouth or your neck.

The chill down Madeleine's back hit her like a drug—something in her bloodstream that made her ears ring. She felt cold, except where she was very, very hot and so wet she wanted to bite.

She opened her mouth.

The knife penetrated her lips, sank to the back of her throat, and tickled on the edge of gagging her. Madeleine breathed. Slowly. Out of her nose. She watched the knife without tilting her neck.

The rye burned. Angelina poured too much, and it filled her mouth. She swallowed, panicked, tears running as the sudden deluge of booze made her head spin on impact, but Angelina kept pouring. The rye overflowed and ran, sticky, down her neck. Madeleine felt a stab of fluttery panic. She was going to get drunk. Angelina was going to get drunk. Angelina had a knife. For a moment, the feeling in Madeleine's navel grew so intense she was convinced she was going to cum, but she stayed on the precipice, guzzling. She clenched the ropes around her wrists like she was clinging to a cliff.

Finally, Angelina pulled out of Madeleine, who slumped against the pillow. Her pulse pounded in her head, which spun like the swirl of a pinot grigot at the bottom of a wineglass. She blinked, consciously. The world buzzed with each blink, like it was a big old drumhead and blinking was the mallet. Boosh! Booooosh!

And Angelina talked.

And talked.

And talked.

Madeleine's mind warbled between her ears. She growled. Smacked her lips. Hissing made spittle bubble between her lips. Her eyebrows furrowed.

"I'm not..." She paused. Breathed in a way that made her whole body shake. Then grunted. "I'm not stupid...Kitty."

She was starting to think, though, maybe Angelina was. She grimaced. The ache in her tum tum throbbed where it was all pushed up against the lithe body pinning her down. And she calls ME mean. Her mind skipped a track, and Madeleine eyed Angelina from bare thigh, silky smooth in the half-light, to the black silk hugging the curve of her hips, up to the gleaming, wet curve of her cleavage. She was so unbelievably slender, delicate, and small—and yet here she was. Force-feeding mama.

The Countess let her eyelids drape down, all heavy again, and she had the sensation of falling. She had things to say, but grasping at it was hard, since her heart was pounding so fast. "You think I didn't noooootice?" Breathe in. Swallow. Breathe out. "That Char chose tonight? Of allll nights?"

The alcohol had sunk deeply and quickly—though a part of Madeleine let it take her.

"Mmm. Of course, kitty. Of coooooourse she's here for you and our ... magic rabbit friend." Her eyes slithered open. She sneered. A huge, irrational anger rose in her chest, and the words after came out slurred but venomous. "I'm her dear, helpful, RELIABLE Mommy. I'm always...ALWAYS here when she needs, I don't know. SOMETHING. That's the only time she visits, you know, when there's SOMETHING. And it's not like she'll call, make a date, nnnno no no. She jussssst. Shows up! Through locked doors and expects me to DROP. EVERYTHING. And get my BELLY SCARRED."

She tried to puuuuush her feet against the mattress and to slide up from under Angelina against the bedboard, but a wave of nausea gripped her tummy and she had to lay down. She huffed. "...I'm not stupid. Kitty, pitty, poo. I'm just not selfisssh. I make...sacrifices."

[Monsy]

Fuckin’ … Kitty-Pitty-Poo.

Angelina smiled with teeth, nearing an amused giggle but kept that in. At the same time, she squeezed the knife tighter. Something sat twisted in her stomach from that. It sounded so… Intimate. Close. Charlotte and Madeleine Were they still close? Of course they fuckin’ were. She had a BED here. Was this still a lie? Why would she admit to Charlotte’s snake-ry.

Lost in her thoughts—Angelina had kept unblinking eye-contact the whole time. Both were seas of blue, paired with the gold of her hair. Her index twirled a few strands, soft as sunflower petals. She really did feel so warm… Though that might’ve just been the blood.

Heh.
Hm…

“You’re housin’ a snake, but you got a hold on it. That it?”

And just how did that sit? When she consulted this part of her mind, she only found an echo chamber that pushed for only one thing. No iffs, ands or buts. She sat up. A hand postured against Mads’s collar, right below the neck. She started to inspect the knife, turning it over, upside-down, then looking at the tip with a straight look.

“I was plannin’ on givin’ ya an ultimatum. I bet you’d expect nothin’ less from a dirty rat.”

She held the knife to her chest, then curled over as to dangle her face above.

“So I got a bettah idea.” A head tilt. “If you’ll trust me, that is.”

She looked at the nightstand, then reached for the Rye bottle slowly.

“Trust me?”

Answer.
No answer.

It’s all fine. Angelina took a drink like any of her last dozen. It burned just like the last, but she started to feel painless and like she had floating eyes and a mouth, tingling everywhere in between. She planted a kiss on Madeleine's lips, then scaled up her hand, squeezed the throat, then opened her lips. The Rye poured out, then hopefully seeped into her mouth, with Angelina’s tongue sitting on the doors of Madeleine’s inside, flicking the lower lip with her tongue-tip.

[Malkavia]

Trust her? What a stupid question. Madeleine would have told her so, if she hadn't felt the knife tip teasing the possibility of a second scar, this one higher on her body. There was a right answer here, but Madeleine didn't trust herself to give it. Tied up and naked with her belly bleeding. Luckily Angelina wasn't waiting. Madeleine tasted more rye, laced with Angelina's perfume and lip gloss and spit.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmffffff—"

Fuck. Without the knife on her tongue, Madeleine could have spat the alcohol out. It would have been easy. Instead, after a pause, she swallowed. When the booze hit her stomach, she thrust, rubbing her pussy against Angelina's thigh, gasping. Like a dirty animal.

That wasn't Madeleine. Madeleine had lost her sense of Madeleine—it had gone flying off somewhere into the stream of booze, the slosh in her mind that fuzzed and eroded her focus. But this—this was not her. These were just...feelings in the vicinity of Madeleine.

Madeleine blinked. Once, twice. Goodness. How many kittens were there? She counted six piercing violet eyes, all spinning clockwise. That was clockwise, yes? Twelve, three, six...

You're drunk. But a part of her was awake. A tiny little mote of consciousness, struggling to keep the reins. She tried, furrowing her brow, to focus on just Angelina.

To feel the lithe, thin body draped over her, soft and small except for the sharp, dominating points. The hand leaving its wet, hot imprint on her chest. The knee pinning her pussy until it ached sweetly and throbbed. The knife.

The Countess whimpered and thought, somewhere in the back of her mind, how disgustingly needy, and kissed Angelina back. And if Angelina kept kissing her, Madeleine let her take whatever she wanted, straining all the while against the rope to hold Kitten between her legs, until their lips finally parted and Madeleine was left panting, flushed, eyes closed, tummy heaving.

[Monsy]

Until accepted, Angelina waited with eyelids weighed down, a small slit to watch her twist on what to say, or what to do. Then when the piece fell into place, Angelina’s smile pulled up. And from that moment, she was filled to the brim with this piece of claimed gold. She didn’t quite have a price tag associated with this one. A million, a billion. Whatevah man.

All she felt while kissing Madeleine was a bubble under lock and key. She had her now, alone. All hers. Her eyes fluttered shut now that the snakes were gone. Her tongue slipped through, invited, and tasted the tip of Madeleine’s own. Alcohol-flavoured. She moaned, let the knife rest against Madeleine’s forehead and laid down with her full, relaxed weight.

When she pulled back, there was a string of spit. Angelina bit her bottom lip, broke it and craned her head up. Her cheeks were warmed and her head had a miniscule but constant sway side-to-side, as if her neck lost a bolt or two, her eyes still barely open. “You’re absolutely perfect. So perfect.”

But she smiled more. Cocky, yes. Then went in for seconds, dabbing one, then two sloppier kisses on Madeleine’s mouth, then slid down and nipped her beneath the jawline, kissed it, suckled and left behind a mark. She treated each mark on Madeleine’s neck like a taste test. Six in all.

Lower.

Knotting was one thing with shibari, but when it came to giving attention, Angelina resented not being able to course her hands smoothly up the girl’s sides. But she did her best, grabbing the collar of Madeleine’s dress, only to cut, cut and cut it away, weaving it underneath the squares and then dipping down to bite the new swath of perfect skin. The taste made her move. She dry humped, rolled her hips in, eager and burning up to get a taste of what Madeleine must’ve felt. She cupped both breasts, having finally dropped the knife, then kneaded them. All over Madeleine’s collar, Angelina’s teeth engraved with a kiss goodbye. Her thumb and index treated the nipple to a light pinch, then apologised with a tongue bath.

Lower.

For that stomach cut, she grinned. A flesh wound, but she still flexed and breathed the exact same way. So she treated it like any piece of Madeleine’s body. She went down on it, licked around the wound, then put her face into her belly to nibble and bite on the sides, re-brandishing the knife to cut away troublesome swaths. Her fingers traced over the marks. Specifically an index, ending around her belly button to swirl around and around as Angelina rose towards her knees.

Once she recouped her breath, she tapped the side of the knife on the same place, then lower towards Madeleine’s pelvis. She swatted on Madeleine’s inner thigh. One for each, then said…

“Keep these open for me… Or I’ll stop.”

Snip…Snip. And there went the scarlet underwear.

Angelina relaxed with her hips sliding back down the bed, then snipped away that pesky vibrator tied to Madeleine’s feet, turned it off and tossed it by Madeleine’s shoulder. By now, she started to think less. Her brain was spinning. Her fingers were becoming actuators that awaited inputs, with accuracy gradually slipping and becoming guesswork. Even so, they still managed to grab Madeleine’s buttocks, squeezed, then kneaded as she worked around Madeleine’s sex.

Marks on the inner thigh. A kiss on her labia. Then taking one hand, sliding her thumb around the soaked outer folds, then up until she found the clitoral hood. She blew on it with an O. Once, twice, then rubbed it in circles. After a glance up, Angelina dipped her head in and took her first taste. Then moaned…

So fuckin’ good…

Perfect for me. Just for me.

It took a moment to find her place. Place her tongue where it was meant to be. But once she had it, she started to lather Madeleine’s pussy with a filling of spit and tongue-strokes, first zig-zagging, then flowing into a second phrase of drawing a heart, an A and an M. After that, it was all rhythm and small switch-ups, leaving nowhere unattended to. When her tongue tired, she panted, releasing hot breath before pressing down a kiss, suckling on Madeleine’s folds before going at it again. Shlick. Shlick.

And should Madeleine cum, then Angelina would slow, but not stop, following the hips wherever Madeleine squirmed to. Like a good pet.

[Malkavia]

You're perfect, said Angelina.

Obviously.

Most of Madeleine had slipped away, but the tiny piece of her left looked through her glassy eyes, drooling out of the corner of her mouth.

When they kissed, Madeleine moaned and tried in her mind to picture Angelina kissing her boot—the servile look in her eye. The lovely side of her crown of red hair, of her kneeling body.

Mwah. Rough, messy. Madeleine tried to kiss back, but the world was so loopy. Angelina pressed deep inside her.

"Guh..."

She was still riding the shock of those kisses when Angelina struck her neck. They were kisses at first, glittering, wet, warm embraces that made her melt and shiver until—Nip!

"Ow!" Madeleine's chin trembled without warning. Her throat closed and she muffled a sob.

Are you crying?

She was crying. She shouldn't cry. She snuffled, swallowed, grit her teeth, but the tear was already down her cheek.

Sllllip! went the knife. Madeleine clenched, gasping as she waited for the white-hot pain, then sighed and shivered with relief. Just her clothing. God, but Angelina's hands felt loved against her bare skin. She wanted Angelina so badly in that moment, the need in her pussy was almost an ache.

"Annnngelina...Please—ach!"

She pinched her nipple—PINCHED her! And then—

"Yyyyyyyes!" Madeleine's panting filled her down to the base of her spine, heaving in every glittering bit of breath, as her eyes slid open to watch Angelina press her tongue over her tit. She had a crazy sense of being devoured, but the feeling that exploded out of her nipple was pure pleasure. It rocked her, like a punch to the face. She heaved, ignoring the pain of the ropes, matching Angelina's dry thrusts against her groin.

"Ange Ange Ange Aaaaange...!"

But she shuddered when it came to the wound. When Angelina started to tease that, Madeleine felt herself being stretched taut like a chord on a violin. She waited for pain. She waited to cum.

"G-gentle..." She whispered, chin trembling. "Be g...gentle Kitten..."

If she were a dog, her belly would have been pointed straight up. If she were Little Red Riding Hood, her neck would have been in the wolf's jaws. She bit her lip until the pain flared and arched her back and thrust her hips in tiny, strained motions that forced the vibrator to roll up and down against her pussy. Muscles in her neck worked while her eyes rolled up.

She might have cum then and there if Angelina hadn't dealt with the vibrator. Madeleine stopped breathing when Angelina drew her blade over her panties, tearing open a slit that let in a wash of cool air.

Madeleine was gone before Angelina even touched her folds. A wave of shuddering, humiliated bliss swept her up and washed her away. Her legs trembled. She wanted to squeeze Angelina's head, to press against her with everything, but—Angelina's hands held her pried open, and she'd been told to keep them that way.

"Fuck me..." She whispered. She was naked, soaked, exhausted to the point of tears. "Fuck me fuck me fffff—"

Her back arched and her mouth worked silently as her whole body clenched. She choked, then screamed as she squirted into Angelina—who kept going.

"Ahhhhhh...A-Ange..."

Stop. Stop!

But she didn't stop. Her tongue pressed deep inside her, rose, rounded the crest of her burning, overstimulated clit.

"Ach—AAAAAH!"

A second crest rose, carried Madeleine, and she clenched her toes and her hands and her cunt and her chest a second time. She arched, then collapsed, shivering like a fall leaf. All she could do was pant and whine.

"Mmf...mmmmmf..."

[Monsy]

?!!

Madeleine hadn’t done that before. Not even the little bitch that went BYARK-BYARK.

The taste rushed her tongue, but it merely mixed with leftover rye as Angelina hardly paused for the first, but instead pushed Madeleine’s legs open even more until that second time. And now, she can smell the heat coming off her. Sweat.

Angelina rested on Madeleine’s inner thigh, gathering her thoughts that increasingly became more rotten. Her breath was beleaguered and long. Her cheeks were red, but not from embarrassment. Her head hung. She inhaled through her nose, then rose up on the bed to her knees, finally sitting on her calves. She slumped, blinked slowly, then gave a flat-face at Madeleine as she took two fingers and wiped around her mouth. Glossy. Bitter.

Afterwards, she retrieved the knife and did away with the ropes around Madeleine’s legs.

Up-down, Up-down. Cut, cut, cut. It’s a miracle Madeleine didn’t catch a cut.

“Maaadsy.” She said, “Look at me.”

Though even Angelina was having trouble looking at Madeleine right. Same with using her lower jaw. She needed to intently mind its coordination, out the syllables and NOT look the fool. It was hard stuff when you wasted a bottle. So she made it easier on herself by leaning forward, but that needed a balancing hand beside Madeleine’s ribs.

“Look at me.” She said again. And soon enough, the task to catch her darling Madsy’s eyes turned to the impulse of a fist quickly jabbing Madeleine’s stomach, glaring with a sneer. “Look. Watch me.”

And once there, even a sliver of eye-contact, gave Angelina all the warm and fuzzy thank yous she could need. Madeleine actually fuckin’ cried. Her thighs immediately closed on themselves. She wanted to purr from her chest, wipe that tear away and get out the bandaids. She earned it after that face. But on another plane, the one she’s currently flying, there was every itch to see more of it.

She discarded the knife, placed her hands behind Madeleine’s thighs, squeezed and scratched, then pushed them up. Madeleine’s hips left the mattress, then kept rising to fold her over. Angelina’s hands slid up to behind Madeleine’s knees, then spread them apart. Angelina followed closely, then bit at the exposed butt-cheek.

OOHM! CHOMP!

One hand left Madeleine’s knee-pocket, then grabbed the other cheek and idly groped. After a breath, she loomed over, locked eyes and then spat on Madeleine’s sex. A guttural growl flowed out her chest as she rubbed it in, then dropped her mouth on-top. Her tongue then washed Madeleine’s pussy down from top-to-bottom, licking up her taste until she emanated nothing but Angelina’s smell and leftover spit. She grunted, huffed her shoulders and breathed directly against it.

Her rhythm left for the beat of her salivating itch to keep clawing her, owning her and claiming her until she squealed who she belonged to. A hand near her tailbone aligned, postured up with a middle finger at Madeleine’s asshole, drawing circles around the hole before penetrating.

Slow… Slow… In. Deeper.

Then hook. Against the sphincter. Then rub. Thrust.

Slow. Thrust. Up to the middle knuckle. Thrust.

Add the index, then thrust. Thrust. Faster.

Pump. Pump. Pump. Pump.