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She wasn’t sure what compelled her to rise. Hunger? Loneliness? The **** need to feel something other than dirt and shame pressed into her skin? Maybe it was the way their touches were not violent, but reverent.

Her bare feet touched the cold marble floor as she stepped forward slowly. Her body still trembled from thirst and exhaustion, and yet, something warmer now coiled low in her belly.

The freckled woman rose first, her eyes soft and curious. She walked to a basin near the side table—gold-rimmed, elegant—and poured water from a pitcher scented faintly with lavender. A clean cloth was soaked, then wrung with slow, deliberate care.

"Let’s wash that filth away," she said gently, her voice low and smooth like wine.

Eleanor stood still as the cloth met her shoulder. Warm water slid down her skin, chasing the grime and cold away. Fingers moved tenderly—down her arms, across her chest. The fabric was gentle, but the care behind it stirred something deeper. Something raw.

As the cloth brushed across her breasts, her nipples tightened into peaks. A sharp breath escaped her lips before she could stop it. The woman’s gaze lingered there only a moment—knowing, yet never mocking.

She knelt, cleaning Eleanor’s legs, feet, the backs of her thighs. With each pass of the cloth, Eleanor felt a layer of herself peel away—fear, shame, the filth of the pits.

The other woman had joined them now, standing behind Eleanor. Her fingers slid lightly down Eleanor’s spine, sending tremors through her, her body arching subtly toward the warmth.

Then came a kiss. Light. Just below her ear. The heat of it sent a ripple of sensation across her damp skin, and her knees nearly buckled.

"You’re trembling," one of them whispered.

Eleanor’s voice broke from her lips, breathless and unsteady. "I don’t know if I can…"

"You already are," the other murmured, her hand resting against Eleanor’s hip, grounding her.

Fingers traced the curve of her belly, her thighs. Lips brushed her collarbone. Their movements were slow, exploring her like a song being discovered for the first time.

She could feel herself growing wet between her thighs, not from shame, but from something else—need, rising like a tide she hadn’t felt since her youth.

And when they guided her to the bed, clean and kissed and no longer unseen… she went willingly.

Eleanor stood between them, her breath shallow, her skin warm from their touch, her mind a storm of doubt and desire. She had not been kissed in years. Had not been wanted. Not like this. Not as something beautiful.

The darker-haired woman—tall, with strong shoulders and lips like velvet sin—guided her to the bed. Her hand never left Eleanor’s back, tracing circles that left trails of heat along her spine.

The freckled woman followed, still holding the basin of water, setting it down as she climbed onto the mattress. Her thighs brushed Eleanor’s, bare skin to bare skin.

Then came the kisses—slow, measured, meant to be savored. Lips met hers, softly at first. A test. When Eleanor did not pull away, the kiss deepened. Tongues touched, a taste of heat and invitation.

The woman’s hands slid along her ribs, then cupped her breasts with reverence, thumbs circling each taut nipple until Eleanor gasped. Her body leaned in on instinct, chasing warmth, permission.

The freckled woman knelt behind her, pressing kisses along the curve of Eleanor’s neck, her collarbone. Her hands slid down Eleanor’s sides, one tracing the line of her belly, the other resting between her thighs—gentle at first, then firmer when Eleanor didn’t protest.

The dark-haired woman pressed Eleanor onto her back, straddling one of her legs, her own breath catching with anticipation. She lowered herself slowly, her slick warmth sliding against Eleanor’s thigh as their mouths met again, hungrier now.

Skin met skin. Hips rolled. Hands explored.

Moans filled the room—not loud, but aching. They moved together in rhythm, every motion deliberate, bodies seeking relief and giving pleasure in return. Eleanor's breath hitched as fingers slipped through slickness, teasing, then entering with care.

The freckled woman met her eyes with a wicked smile. "You’re more alive now than when you walked in."

The pleasure built slowly—not rushed, not stolen—but offered, layered with kisses, with sighs, with the warmth of another body against hers. Eleanor lost track of who touched her where, who whispered in her ear, who made her cry out first.

The freckled woman slid in behind her, spooning Eleanor’s form, one leg slipping between her thighs. Her hand wandered with lazy confidence—fingertips tracing Eleanor’s stomach before dipping lower, brushing across the soft petals of her kitty.

Eleanor gasped, her breath catching. She wasn’t used to being touched like this—with intention. Not a grope or a grab, but an invitation.

In front of her, the dark-haired woman leaned down again, her lips brushing Eleanor’s. “You feel like honey,” she whispered, tongue teasing before diving into another kiss. Their lips moved slowly at first, then faster, hungrier—like a storm building from a breeze.

Behind her, the freckled woman’s fingers worked in slow, gentle strokes, each one coaxing Eleanor’s hips to roll instinctively. Heat bloomed deep inside her, making her thighs clench.

“She’s melting,” the woman murmured against Eleanor’s neck, nipping just below her ear. “So sweet. I want to taste all of her.”

The woman in front chuckled softly. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Eleanor whimpered as kisses trailed down her chest, each pass of a tongue making her arch. When warm lips finally closed around her sensitive peak, her whole body trembled. Her buttons had never felt this alive.

Hands explored her curves, smoothing across her waist, gripping her hips. She felt claimed—but not used. Worshiped, almost.

Then there was pressure—firm and steady—as the freckled woman slid her fingers past the folds of her blossom, her thumb circling the little bud at the top, slick with Eleanor’s own growing need.

She moaned into the other woman’s mouth, her hips moving without permission now, chasing the rhythm, hungry for release.

“That’s it,” the dark-haired woman whispered, cupping her cheek. “Let go. You don’t have to hold anything back.”

Eleanor’s breath hitched. The world tilted. Her legs shook. And then—a wave of pleasure crashed through her, flooding her senses. Her voice escaped in a choked cry, her body stiffening before softening into the bed.

Her heart pounded like war drums. She blinked, dizzy with the high of being touched, wanted… undone.

They didn’t stop. Not yet.

One leaned in, licking the dampness from her inner thigh. “Still hungry?”

The other smirked. “She’ll purr again. Just give her time.”

And in that bed of sin and silk, Eleanor surrendered.

Not to pain.

Not to chains.

But to pleasure, for the first time in what felt like lifetimes.

(OOC: These Ladies will remember you from now on....)