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Tristan is wild, unreserved, always running his hand through his inky hair to keep it out of his eyes. He’s sporting a new piercing—a silver hoop nose ring.
Jameson is always quiet—an unnerving kind of quiet, his hair shorter, his eyes seeing everything.
She’s so beautiful in her fear and sorrow, so pure, just like a babochka—a butterfly.
She is color, brightness, new life, and we are rot, decay, carrion. But the beautiful thing about that? The world needs both to function—just like we need her and she needs us.
“Would you like us to share you, Alice? Do you want us to fuck you, lick your cunt until you see stars?”
“You’re so beautiful, babochka, perfect. You’re such a good girl.”
“Be a good girl and take his fingers in your cunt, Alice. I want to watch you come again.”
“For instance,” Tristan says proudly. “I like it fucking dirty and rough. I’ll choke you, spit on you, bite you, make you come even when you beg for me to stop.”
“And me, babochka,” Jameson says, tearing my attention away from my fantasy. “I like to tie you up so you cannot move, so your legs are spread and I can see how wet you get for me when I slap your little cunt, when you take your punishments like a good girl.”
Jameson’s slick skin slaps against mine, and those pearls? Holy. Fuck. The piercing is one thing, but to feel that tip rubbing against my deepest parts while also having those big, round pearls stroking along inside me—it’s almost too much to bear.
“We’re your monsters, your demons, your fucking slaves—and you’re the queen of our black hearts.”
