Two girlfriends' tale

Yesterday

You run your fingers down the pink satin of your princess dress, tracing the faded lace and slack ribbons at the neckline. It's tighter now, clinging like a second skin, but the fabric still remembers you: your shape, your weight, the girl you were when you wore it last. You must’ve been seven. Maybe eight. Back then, it swallowed your frame, sleeves falling over your wrists, hem dragging behind you like a train. But you had stared through the costume shop window with such **** awe that your mother had **** but to relent. You remember the tug of her soft hand as she let you pull her through the door. You remember the thrill in your chest as you tried it on, the mirror reflecting a little girl transformed into royalty.

But it was another life.

The headband, still intact, sits snug in your styled hair, and the lipstick, cotton candy pink like you’d stolen it from a toy makeup kit, coats your mouth like sugared gloss. But the effect isn’t innocent. The bodice squeezes your breasts just shy of painful, pushing them up like they’re trying to burst free. The waist hugs in like a corset, pressing you into a dollish silhouette you never had as a child. God, you're wet.

Owen’s chair creaks as he fists himself, his strokes are slow, absentminded, but his eyes are ravenous.

-Woah. Babe. You look hot as hell. Where did you even find that thing?-.

-Just, uh, just in an old box. I was... I was feeling nostalgic.- You avoid his eyes. Your voice barely carries.

Your boyfriend, or rather, your girlfriend's boyfriend, shifts in the chair, leaning back, wrist moving with more purpose now.

-Mmm, well, Princess, I think you'll enjoy sleeping on my pea.-. His gaze roams over you, caught between your barely-contained chest and the hem of your skirt. His cock pulses visibly in his grip.

You exhale shakily. No point in stalling.

Your hands move with deliberate slowness. Your fingers tremble on the buttons. One. Two. Your tits spill free by their satin prison, nipples pebbled under his stare. You give each a soft pinch, and his breath hitches. You like the way Owen's pupils dilate when you do.

Then comes the skirt. You pull it up high on your thighs and expose your panties: pure white, the lace soft and almost translucent. A delicate pink bow sits at the center like a mark of filth dressed in innocence.

Owen's laugh is all teeth: -Damn, Cindy. You're a lewd little hoe, you know that?-.

Your cheeks burn crimson. Maria also called you like that, you remember. It was after the blow-up with Ms. Stenback. She'd cornered you in the restroom, pinned you to the wall with a grip that left your lips parted, and her thumb dragged across your bottom lip before she shoved into your mouth.

'I will make you my pet', she said. Your cunt pulsed around nothing. So it does now.

-Earth to Cindy, knock knock!- Owen snaps his fingers: -Anyone home in that little princess tower? Come on, you're gonna suck more than a poisoned apple out of me.-.

You blink, startled out of your reverie.

-S-Sorry, uhm...- You slide off the bed and onto the carpet, crawling to him. He stands as you reach him, giving one last stroke before you open your mouth and offer yourself. His cock brushes your lips, heavy and warm, but easy like it belongs there, and you wrap them around the tip, drawing him in slow and slick.

-Mmmph...- The hum that escapes you is guttural, eager. You swirl your tongue around the swollen head, lapping up the tangy smear of precum, your lips flushed and sticky with pink gloss now half-smeared.

You ease further, letting him slide across your tongue, inch by inch. The shaft grows slick with your spit, veins pulsing beneath the skin as you take him deeper. Your jaw stretches, your throat flutters, but you don't pull away. You relax. You open. You let him in. Your tongue presses beneath him, guiding his length as you start to bob, your hands gripping his knees to steady yourself.

-Fuck.- He groans, one hand sinking into your hair: -You're so good at that. Look at you. Fucking born for this, huh?-.

You glance up at him, your eyes wide and wet, and hum again as your cheeks hollow around his girth, as you fuck your face on him like a perfect little cocksleeve. You pull off with a wet gasp, tongue lolling as you catch your breath. Then you take him again. Deeper. Gagging only a little, only because you want it.

You blow him like a pro, because this is what you are.

A princess. A pet. A hoe.

And you’ll drown in it.

---

Darius's cock is tearing you apart.

It feels like a metal rod being hammered through a silk eyelet, and you're the eyelet—soft, yielding, stretched to the limit. Your tights, once neat and smooth, are trembling with each slam of his hips. His fingers clutch your thighs so tightly that your skin pales under the pressure, indenting deep with bruising promise. The cries spilling from your mouth used to be pleas—"slow down," "wait," "please..."—but they've broken down now into helpless, rhythmic moans, the raw animal sounds of someone who knows they're being used.

-Beg me, you tight bitch! Beg me to stop like the useless bitch you are!-.

-Ah—ahhh~ no-ooh—st-stop—ahh! Y-Yes, y-yes!!~.-

He's brutal, unforgiving, towering over you like a shadow twice your size, fucking you like you're weightless. He manhandles you the way a lion does a rabbit, with no need to slow down, no effort to care. Just pure, merciless ****.

And it's exactly what you deserve.

You disappointed Eric again. Again.

Your sweet Eric, the man who gave you everything. And you repaid him with weakness. With betrayal. You opened your stupid mouth, your insensitive heart, and dared to ask about the women he keeps confined: prisoners, you even called them, but you couldn't help yourself. Maybe, just maybe, they'd be calmer if they saw someone with a kind face, someone who was their sister, you said.

"How could I be so cruel?" You think, every thrust jarring the thought deeper.

They were never your sisters. Not anymore. Not since you were chosen by him. How dare you even suggest they still mattered, that they still had meaning, that you had some say in this grand, perfect life he's carved out for you?

Eric loves you. He forgave your fragile, broken body, the one that caused so much sorrow when he was you. Nevertheless, he forgave you when you stole it. He took in your pain, your baggage, your limp cries in the night, and let you stay. Not just as his girlfriend, but as his devoted, loyal servant. And how did you repay him?

You doubted him.

Worse: you're still doing it. You begged him to restore Jennifer's image after the modeling incident, as if he hadn't been **** to do that to her by Kim's silly war. You pleaded for Heather, even if you knew she was in the care of her lovely parents. You suggested he speak to Kim to make a truce, like your opinion had weight. And worst of all, you once dared to ask for him to return Millie to her life. Little Millie. Your baby sister who loves you so much.

You still can’t forgive yourself.

He should've punished you then. But instead, he was patient. He was merciful.

-Look at you. You're liking this.- His voice is a growl in your ear, thick with loathing and heat. You bite down on your lip, hard enough to taste iron, shame blooming across your face like a slap. You nod, eyes glassy, the wordless admission burning you from the inside out.

-You know I can't run for office because of you, don't you?- He sneers: -If anyone finds out about your existence, this body is done. My name's dust. My future's dead.-.

You nod again, slower this time. The pain deepens. ̶S̶h̶e̶ HE is having run in his place. And you know that he despises simply the idea of it, after all the Russells did to Mom. Eric hates him. But you're too big a secret. Too dangerous. A person like you cannot be related to a man running for the mayor's office, who takes support from the good side of the bourgeoisie. You're rotten, sick, born by a sin. And it's all on you.

Your breath jerks in your throat. His hand, huge, calloused, hot, suddenly wraps around your neck, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath your jaw, cutting the air off mid-gasp. Your back arches instinctively, lungs flaring with panic.

His eyes burn with fury. His teeth are clenched. His breath comes in ragged growls.

-And yet you keep defiling me. Even now. I should just get rid of you once and for all.-.

Your vision pulses with light, mascara streaking down your cheeks. Inside, you're screaming: "No... no, please... please, Dad, please...".

He grunts, low and disgusted, and shoves you off. His cock slips from your body with a wet sound, leaving you empty, gaping, clenching on absence. You fall forward onto trembling elbows, coughing as air floods your lungs.

-I feel dirty having been inside your cunt. Clean me, slut.-.

The shame swells in your chest like a heartbeat. Your dark-streaked eyes rise to his cock. It's slick, gleaming, twitching with the aftershocks of rage and lust. You crawl forward on bruised knees, lips already parting, and then you suck it like you'd do with a lollipop.

---

Owen lies sprawled across the bed, sunk deep into pillows like some debauched sultan, his thighs slack and open. You're crouched between them, chin tucked low, lips wrapped snug around his heavy sac, suckling with little greedy grunts while your hand works his cock—thick, twitching, slick with spit, and blooming hotter by the second in your palm.

-You haven't turned it into a prince with your kisses but... ah, screw it, don't stop here, Cinders.- He groans, a hoarse, indulgent sound. He gives your hair a playful pat, then tightens his grip, holding you in place.

Right then, his phone buzzes against the wood of the nightstand. He fumbles it up with the opposite hand, squinting down at the screen with a grunt.

-Oh, hey babe! Yeah, I was just thinking about you. We miss you here, right, Cindy?-.

You raise your face with a wet gasp, lips parted, his cock swaying against your cheek like it wants to climb right back in your mouth. You can make out Maria's voice crackling faint through the speaker, her tone clear even through the muffled distance, sharp and steady. You can't catch the words, but Owen just smirks and mimics at you to change position.

-Of course I'm treating her well, she's your best friend, right? Give me a sec.- He drops the phone beside his head and slides both hands under your ass, cupping the cheeks firmly, lifting you up to straddle him. He aligns his cock with your slit, the thick head teasing your folds until you're trembling, then you lower yourself with a slow, aching moan.

Your thighs tremble as your cunt stretches around him, swallowing him inch by inch, and then he's buried deep. A jolt shoots up your spine, and you groan, sharp and loud, shivering from the inside out.

-Ahhhnn~!-.

You start bouncing, hips rising and falling in hard, rolling thrusts, each movement slapping against him, your breasts jostling with the rhythm. Your hair tumbles down your shoulders, damp with sweat, and every time you bottom out, you feel it—his cock nudging so deep it makes your vision twitch.

Owen grunts, distracted but still pumping up into you, not missing a beat even with Maria still on the line.

-Anf, anf, you, you want to talk to her? S-ah-sure babe.- He flips you around until you're straddling him, his cock now hits that pressure point just right, slamming into it again and again until your legs twitch and your toes curl. Your fingers clutch the sheets as he fucks you with mindless, perfect focus.

Your body, Cindy's body, god, it feels like it was built for this moment.

He passes you the phone, and you clutch it with shaking fingers, trying to swallow the moan caught in your throat.

-M-Maria?- You manage to breathe.

-Cindy.- Her voice slices right through the haze of heat you're swimming in.

-You haven't sent me the photos.-.

-I, ah, sorry, now, now I'm...- You can barely speak. Your breath's stuttering, hips jerking up toward Owen's cock every time he plunges in.

-No. It's too late for that. I thought we had a deal. I'm letting you keep my boyfriend's cock warm if you make me see. We agreed it was for your own good, isn't that right?-.

-Y-Yes! Yes, I just, I forgot, please I'm sorry, ahh~~- You gasp as he slams into you harder, pounding straight through your words. If he could stop only for a sec-mm-kkkh-no, no, forget that~

-Hey, you good up there?- Owen looks up at you, though without slowing down his rhythm.

-I'm allowing you to be part of my family, Cindy, but you're giving me no reason why I should trust you. If you're still bonded to your old one, perhaps I should trim that edge for you.-.

Your heart nearly stops. You think of your mother. You grip the phone tightly.

-N-No, I, I'm wearing th—oh God, oh God!- The words collapse into a strangled cry as you arch off the bed: -The dress you told me, I, I swear they mean nothing anymo—ghh-f-fuck!!!-.

You grit your teeth, snorting through your nose, eyes squeezed shut as the orgasm threatens to drag you under. You hold onto that silence on the other end of the line like it's a ledge keeping you from drowning. Then, click, the call ends.

But there's no pause, no time to think.

Owen shoves you off him with a grunt, pulling you onto all fours, his cock slapping against your dripping folds. He grabs your hips and plunges in from behind with a wet smack, balls slapping your clit, his blow warming your mouth.

"Maria... Mom... I... later, later~".

He fucks you like a promise, like a warning, like you'll never be allowed to stop.

You look down at his cock disappearing inside your pussy, a mesmerizing sight that is almost magical. And, despite everything, for a fleeting, unwilling moment, you feel like this is where you belong.

---

His balls taste like salt and moss.

Like licking sweat from velvet, like sucking on a bruised, hairy peach, one that splits under your tongue and leaves the apricot pit caught between your lips, the musk soaking into your breath. You nuzzle into them deeper, tongue dragging wet and deliberate beneath the swell, your lips wrapping around the sack with reverence. His scent fills your nose, the sheer weight of him pressing against your face as you kiss, lap, worship.

You're a good girl. You know that. He doesn’t need to say it (he won't say it) but the way he groans, the shudder that rolls through his thighs, the twitch of his cock every time your tongue finds a new fold… he wouldn't let you do this if he really hated you.

Those things he said, all the venom, all the curses, they don't count. Not really. He's angry, sure, and he's right, but deep down... deep down, you know he cares for you.

-Enough. Turn around, I'm fucking you now.-.

-Yes...-.

-Don't talk. Do it, bitch.-.

You don't answer again. You just move, slow, aching, turning your body with limbs like string, laying your chest against the mattress and raising your ass for him like a trained pet. The bedsprings squeal as Darius moves behind you. You feel the heat of his body as he spreads your cheeks wide and lets his cockhead glide across your soaked slit, dragging back and forth in teasing swipes.

Then he pushes.

-Ah! Oh G-God, daddy!- Your cry shoots out of you, sharp and involuntary.

-Shut up, I said!- He snarls it like a warning and slams into you with a thrust that knocks your breath from your lungs. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes around the room, wet and brutal. He fucks you like he's grinding something down, with his hips working like a pestle pounding into a mortar, battering your cunt until every thought in your head blurs.

-I've never even wanted you, you're a fucking mistake. You hear me? I look at you and all I feel is regret. But I'm glad you stole my body, Kimberly. You make one hell of a cumdump.-.

-Ahh-y-you're ri-uhhn-I'm just, just, mghh, I'm sorryyy~~-.

Your voice is all moan now, fractured and hoarse, your cheeks wet with spit and tears. He leans forward, his chest over your back, his hand clamping hard again around your throat, but this time you arch into it. Your breath stutters, but the thrill of it burns through you.

You feel him not just inside your pussy (ohh fuck, you got a pussy, a girl's pussy), but your skull, your self, splitting you open from the inside out. Your brain is melting. You're not a person. You're not a girl. You're just this heat, this hole, this mess made for him.

-You're just a slut possessing a slut, Charity.- He spits in your ear, his voice low and crackling: -You're just lucky became a man, that I’ve got all this cock and ego and cum to pour down your... urgh... fuck!-.

His body tightens like a bowstring, muscles locking, and then he unloads inside you, hot, thick pulses of seed gushing straight up your cunt, splashing against your walls. You gasp, lips parted, numb, stunned, drooling.

Somewhere above you, he's saying something—about his family, about your role—but the words are water over glass, distant and unreachable. You just understand he wants to be cleaned again.

Your limbs are slow but certain as you rise to your knees, your body trembling as you bow your head to his cock once more. He's semi-hard, his shaft dripping with the mixture of your juices and his, glossy and filthy. You lap at the head first, then trail your tongue along the shaft, licking him clean with careful, dutiful strokes.

He pounds your mouth like it’s the last fuck he’ll ever get.

Eventually, the tension breaks with a groan, and the second load spills straight into you. It fills your mouth fast, hot and foaming, spilling out the sides and dripping from your chin onto your tits.

You try to swallow, but you're ****, sputtering, gasping around the aftershock. He yanks back and you collapse sideways, coughing on the bed, strings of cum still dripping from your lips. Your eyes are burning. Your throat raw.

You blink just as the door creaks open. Geneviève stands there, eyes cool, unreadable. She sees the altar of you and offers her contempt. Darius zips up his trousers and turns, face calm again, and kisses her cheek. Then, they leave together.

---

Owen's shoves punch the breath out of your lungs as your body convulses beneath him. It's the third orgasm in a row, a wet, helpless cascade wracking your core, making your hips buck and tremble while your limbs fail to keep up. Your voice breaks into a ragged moan as his cock drives deep again, his fingers locked like iron around the back of your knee, holding your leg high in the air so he can keep drilling straight into your soaked, swollen cunt. He's fucking you hard, and fuck, he's so good.

Ruthless in rhythm, unrelenting in pressure, hips slamming into yours with the sound of skin on skin, wet and sharp. But you can feel it in him too—the unsteadiness in his movements, the slight quake in his groans. He's close, so tantalizing close.

Which is normal. Expected. Good.

Because that’s what this is for, what you are for, what Maria wants you to be. This pussy, Cindy's pussy, exists for him to use, to fill, to stretch, and stuff, and breed.

So you repeat it to yourself like a mantra between gasps, your voice reduced to ****, slurred affirmations inside your head: "Good girl. Good hole. This is right. This is what I must be.".

Owen shifts his grip, grabs your ankle now instead of your knee, and spreads you open even wider. His hand is so big it could close into a fist around your entire foot if he wanted to, and he still wouldn't strain. You want to say something, pinch me, kiss me, hold me, but the words dissolve in your throat, leaving only the wreckage of moans and helpless pleading.

And then it hits.

His cock pulses hard, thick veins swelling as his rhythm falters. His groans go guttural, straining into cries, and you feel the eruption first in your gut: a splashing, stretching heat that fills your womb like liquid fire. You arch off the bed, the mattress bouncing like jelly, as he grinds in deep, trying to plant every drop.

Then he pulls out suddenly and jerks once, twice, spraying thick spurts of semen across your stomach, leaving streaks of it across your navel and pelvis. You reach down instinctively, fingers brushing one of the pearly drops just below your belly button. It's warm and sticky. It smears across your skin, mixing with the slick already dripping from your hole. You're soaked, both inside and out.

He's still got your leg in hand, shifting it lazily now, steering it like a rudder as he catches his breath. His fingers toy with your ankle absently. You look up at him from under your lashes, eyes half-lidded, a small smile tugging your cherry-tasting lips.

-Wow.- He grins, breathless, running a hand through his hair: -I don't know what Maria said to you on the phone, but you've never been this lewd, Cinders. I like it.-.

You try to respond, but your voice is still buried under the hum of aftershocks. You settle instead for a faint nod and a quiet sigh, curling your arms around your ribcage.

He finally lets go of your leg and steps off the bed, rolling his shoulders with a casual stretch. His cock hangs half-hard, glistening, streaks of cum still clinging to the shaft. You adjust your position, sitting up slightly, one hand pulling the wrinkled fabric of your skirt back down over your thighs, the other smearing some of the mess from your abdomen.

-So, uh, would you like to watch a movie or-

-Nah, I was just passing by, I told you.-.

He's already pulling his pants back on, checking his phone mid-sentence.

-Sheesh, I gotta get ready for dinner with Aunt Lynette and Uncle Richard. If they find out my girlfriend's letting me fuck her friend... well, you won't tell them, right?-.

He shoots you a wink. You meet his eyes, press your lips into a tight line, and shake your head.

-Awesome. See you, princess.-.

He finishes dressing, gives himself a final glance in the mirror, then heads for the door. You listen to his footsteps fade down the hall, the quiet click of the front door closing behind him.

Silence follows. Thick and sterile.

You look down, watching a trickle of semen leak lazily from your raw cunt, sliding down to the sheets like rain rolling along glass. You stare at it for a long moment, dazed. Not sad. Not thrilled. Just there. Like weather.

Then, with aching limbs, you rise from the bed and walk to the bathroom. The costume clings to your skin in heavy, twisted patches. You peel it off piece by piece, letting it fall in damp piles on the tiles, and turn on the shower.

You don't wait for the water to warm.

---

Now

Kim thinks you're curled up in bed, dozing peacefully under the covers. And in a way, that's true. There is a Tina Harris lying in your room, her chest rising and falling with borrowed breath. But the real you is out here, cloaked in night.

You're crouched low beside the hedge wall across from the Russell estate, the same house you walked into dozens of times in daylight, with polite smiles and pointless small talk, back when your presence was more or less welcome. Thirty days that look like an epoch ago.

Your whole body is tight with adrenaline. A bead of sweat slides down your temple, stinging slightly as it drips past your cheek. You have no plan. No backup. No certainty. Just this absurd idea pulsing in your chest like a second heartbeat: that this is so reckless that Charity isn't expecting it.

Saying it out loud doesn't sound this good, though; but you are going to do it. You're going to pull your best friend out of that place. You'll walk into the lion's den and walk back out, with Heather beside you. And perhaps luck is on your side, as you glance at an open window on the first floor of the mansion, right where the bedrooms are located.

Or perhaps it's a trap. You're going to find it out.

You move to the front gate and stop before the bars. The iron is cold and silent under your palms. You close your eyes and your body shimmers: flesh softening, liquefying, turning to a thick, glowing red ooze. You slip between the bars in a seamless motion, like candle wax spilled between stones. On the other side, you reform, muscles knitting back into place. A moment to breathe. Then you press your back to the outer wall of the house.

One arm lifts, drips, reshapes, your hand spreads into a flattened glue-like sheet, suctioning to the white plaster. Then your foot; another hand, another foot, and you begin to climb. Each movement is slow, calculated, your limbs flattening and sliding with squelching friction. Your muscles ache halfway through, but you've practiced this. Still, comics make it look effortless. You're shaking by the time you reach the sill; but you make it.

You glimpse in, finding an empty, dark corridor. You pull yourself inside, body reshaping again, red melt reconstituting into your little sister's, now yours, cute form. This was the easy part. The hard one is finding Heather without being detected by Charity's minions, or whatever surprise she may have set for any idiot who tries to break in.

You gulp.

The air in the corridor is stale, heavy with hush. You let it wrap around you as you start forward, steps feather-soft, ears straining for the sound of motion, any hint of a guard, a door opening, an alarm tripped. But nothing happens, and in a few minutes Heather's door is looming in front of you, a simple slab of painted oak. Your hand hovers over the knob, trembling.

Locked.

You press a fingertip to the keyhole. Your flesh oozes inward, shaping into the tumblers, and when you're ready, you spin.

CLICK

You push the door open slowly, and then lock it again behind you. Darkness greets you, thick, suffocating. You hold your breath.

You know this room, by memory, by proximity. But shapes float before your eyes like ghosts, like memory trying to recreate the furniture from nothing. Still, your feet know where to step.

You move toward the bed. There. Under the covers. Someone. You really hope it's Heather.

You reach out, fingers brushing the warmth of a shoulder, and give a soft shake. A feminine gasp breaks the silence.