The air in my room is thick - humid, sterile, humming with machines and electricity and the faint tang of sweat. Four NAS units chatter softly to themselves in the corner like insects. My main tower cycles into a fan curve adjustment and rattles for a moment before settling. The glow from the screen spills pale and blue across the black walls. I don’t bother turning on the light. I don’t need to see anything but this.
I love this room. I built it with my hands. It smells like me. Feels like me. The leather chair creaks under my thighs as I stretch back, absently rolling my neck. My nails - still painted black and half chipped - click against the side of my glass. It's vodka and something synthetic. The kind of burn that reminds me I’m real.
Then I hear it.
The door clicks.
My bedroom door.
I freeze. No one’s supposed to be here. Taylor’s out. I didn’t hear the front door. My throat goes tight, but I don’t move. Just tilt my head toward the hallway.
And standing there - backlit by the dim orange glow of the hallway bulb - is me.
Not a mirror. Not a hallucination. Me.
Same leather jacket. Same red undercut. Same eyeliner smudge on the left eye. Her eyes flick to mine, then down my body, slow and deliberate. She smiles like she already knows what I’m thinking.
"I'm not here to hurt you," she says. Her voice is my voice, but warmer. Confident. Lower, like she smoked before coming in.
I swallow, and my mouth tastes like metal. "What the fuck."
"Yeah," she says. "That's fair."
She steps inside. No sound from her boots on the carpet. She smells like sweat and nicotine and vanilla body spray. My brain stutters - there’s no protocol for this. No file for me walking toward me with that look in my eyes.
"What are you?" I ask.
She shrugs, pausing just a few feet away, standing exactly where I’d stand when I undress at night.
"I'm the version of you that didn’t forget how to touch yourself."
The words hit harder than they should. Like they came from someone who watched every flashback, every blackout night, every time I flinched when someone’s hand went near my hips. And I hate her a little. And I want her.
We just stare at each other for a second too long.
Then she looks down - at my thighs, my bare stomach under my tee, the line where my leggings hug under my hips. Then up again. She licks her lips.
"You really are as pretty as I thought," she says.
And something in my chest cracks.
I stand. I don’t even remember deciding to, but my body’s up before my mind catches up. My thighs brush against hers and it’s like stepping into a fever. She doesn’t flinch. She tilts her chin up, close enough now that I can smell her breath - mint and something darker. We’re the same height, but she feels taller. Denser. Like she's leaning into gravity different.
“Why are you here?” I ask, quieter now.
“To remind you what you’ve been missing.”
She says it like a threat. Or a promise.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I want to grab her jacket. I want to shove her. I want to kiss her. I want to run. Everything is too sharp. My breath's too shallow. The space between us feels like it could snap.
“Missing what?” I snap, voice shaking with more than just adrenaline.
Her eyes flash with something hot.
“Yourself.”
And then she touches me. Just her fingers - barely grazing the outer curve of my hip, over the seam where my leggings dig into flesh. It’s not even a grope. Just a hello. But my knees nearly give. I suck in a breath through my teeth like I’ve been slapped.
“You’re touch-starved,” she murmurs. “I know, because I’m touch-starved.”
“I know how to take care of myself.”
“No,” she says, tone razor-flat. “You know how to survive.”
Her hand moves to the small of my back - just a palm, grounding. And I can’t lie to myself anymore: I’m melting. My brain starts firing in reverse, PTSD flashbacks blending with raw need, but this time it’s safe. She knows how to touch me without scaring me. She knows where I hate being grabbed and where I ache to be held.
Her other hand comes up - slow, deliberate - and she brushes my hair behind my ear. The contact is featherlight, and still it sends shivers straight down my spine. I realize how long it’s been since anyone touched me like this without me bracing for pain.
“Do you want me to stop?” she whispers.
I should say yes.
I should run.
But instead, I whisper back, “No.”
And then she kisses me.
It’s not soft. It’s hungry. Messy. Tongues meeting halfway. Teeth knocking. I gasp against her lips and she breathes it in like oxygen. I grab her by the collar and yank her forward until our hips collide.
The tension breaks like glass.
I feel her hand slide down - over the curve of my ass, fingers squeezing just enough to make my breath hitch. She pulls back from the kiss and looks at me like I’m dessert.
“You feel that?” she murmurs, squeezing again.
“Yeah.”
“That’s yours. You made this. That ass is a fucking masterpiece, Zoey.”
My whole body goes tight with arousal. She spins me, rougher now, pushes me gently but firmly toward the edge of the bed. I fall forward onto my palms, ass in the air, heart pounding.
She whistles behind me.
“Goddamn. You’d let me worship this all night, wouldn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t stop you.”
“Oh baby, you couldn’t.”
And then her hands are on me - firm, greedy, reverent. Exploring curves like she’s memorizing them, tracing along the waistband, sliding under fabric just enough to tease.
“You’re so fucking soft,” she growls. “So full. I could eat you alive.”
She presses a kiss to one cheek, slow and hot, and then drags her tongue up the curve. I moan, unable to hold it in.
“I know how long you’ve wanted this,” she whispers. “So I’m gonna give it to you. Everything.”
I can feel her breath before her lips even touch me - hot and shallow, ghosting over my skin through the thin fabric of my leggings. I shift my hips upward on instinct, offering myself. The part of me that usually tenses or hides is gone, dissolved in the humid throb between us.
She slides my leggings down in one slow motion. They stick a little to my thighs from sweat, and the tension of the stretch just makes the moment filthier. I hear her sigh - this guttural, aching exhale - and then her voice, low and raw.
“Fuck, Zoey. I’ve dreamed about this.”
She spreads my cheeks with both hands, reverent but firm, and I can feel her gaze trailing over every inch. Not judging. Not cataloguing. Just worshipping. The air hits my exposed skin and I shiver - equal parts anticipation and hunger.
And then her tongue touches me.
It’s slow at first. Delicate. Just the tip, tracing a circle around the tight rim of my ass like she’s painting me. I groan, low and long, burying my face into the mattress as my knees buckle.
“God, you taste like sweat and sin,” she murmurs, licking again, longer this time - flat of her tongue now, dragging up in a single motion that makes me twitch. “Like you’ve been waiting for this for years.”
She’s right. I have.
She spreads me wider, thumbs digging into the plush of my cheeks, and dives in deeper - licking, sucking, teasing my hole like it’s the center of her universe. My hips start moving without permission, grinding into her face, chasing every flick of her tongue. I’m moaning now - no control, no hesitation. Just need.
Her hands are so strong. One stays planted on my ass, the other slides up my back, nails dragging softly down my spine in rhythm with her mouth. I feel like I’m being unraveled. Worshipped open.
She pulls back just enough to spit, hot and wet, directly on my hole, and then goes back in harder - tongue pushing just inside, flicking and circling, letting me feel the friction build. I cry out into the sheets, half-mad with sensation.
“Say it,” she growls against me. “Tell me what this ass means to you.”
“It’s mine,” I gasp. “It’s - fuck - it’s beautiful. It’s perfect. I want to be touched here forever.”
“Damn right,” she breathes. “You deserve to be devoured.”
And then she goes feral - eating me like it’s the only thing that matters. No rhythm, just hunger. Tongue deep, wet sounds, obscene moans from both of us. I’m grinding down into her mouth like I’m trying to climb inside her. Like I want her buried in me.
It feels like the entire room disappears - just heat, breath, slickness, and surrender.
Finally, she pulls back - face shining, breath ragged - and slaps my ass, loud and sharp.
“Get on your back,” she orders. “I want to see your face when I make you beg.”
I’m on my back now, legs splayed and knees trembling, the sweat between my thighs sticky and sweet. She’s between them, dragging her fingers along my inner thighs with maddening softness. Her eyes are locked on mine - deep, ocean-blue, exactly like mine. Exactly like me. Except this version of me is calm. Focused. Her hunger is cold and methodical, and it’s terrifyingly hot.
“Spread wider,” she commands, tapping the inside of my knee. “I want to see everything I’m about to fill.”
I obey with a whimper. There's no hiding. No shame. My body is soaked, needy, and twitching under her stare. And she loves it - smiling like she’s looking at the most beautiful thing in the world.
Her fingers slide down my slick folds, barely brushing, just tracing the mess she made during worship. Then she presses one finger - just one - against my tight, twitching rim.
I gasp, hips arching.
“You’re so ready,” she murmurs, circling slow. “And you’ve barely even been touched.”
“I - I want it,” I pant. “Please. Start slow. Make me beg. Then - take me.”
She smirks. “Oh, I will.”
Her finger slips in to the first knuckle, and my eyes roll back. The stretch is perfect. My body clenches around her automatically, instinctively, like I’m trying to suck her in. She waits - just a moment - then slides in the rest of the way.
Her free hand strokes up my thigh again, then across my stomach, and finally to my chest - fingers teasing my breast, lightly circling a nipple while the other hand fucks me, just with that one finger, deliberate and deep.
"You feel this?" she whispers. "That’s just one. You think you’re ready for more?"
“Yes,” I breathe, desperate. “Please. More fingers. Fill me.”
Two now - slow, wide, stretching me open. I moan loudly, grabbing the sheets. Her fingers curl just a little inside me, stroking the way she knows I love, and the way her palm presses against me sends little shocks of heat up my spine.
“I know what you want, Zoey,” she whispers. “You want to be ruined. You want me to spread you wide, watch you twitch and leak and take everything I give you. Don't you?”
I nod frantically. “Yes. Yes, fuck, I want it - I want you to stretch me open and make me feel it for days.”
And just when I think I’m adjusting to her fingers, she pulls out and grabs the toy.
It’s thick. Silicone, curved, sleek and shiny with lube. She holds it over my stomach, right between my breasts, and presses the base down like she’s marking me with it.
“This one,” she says, breath hot against my ear. “It’s going in you. Slowly. And you’re going to watch it disappear. Understand?”
I nod, wide-eyed, helpless.
She slides the tip to my hole, lets me feel the cool of the toy before it warms up. I can feel the pressure. The stretch. She’s patient - just a little, then back out. A little more, then hold. Then deeper. Every inch sends a moan tearing from my throat, and every time I look down, I see it sinking into me, my body parting for it like I was made to be taken.
“You’re taking it so well,” she whispers. “Look at your face. You love being opened like this.”
I whimper. “It feels so good - oh god, please, fuck me with it. Harder - please - don’t stop - more.”
She slides it deeper, one hand on my hip to pin me down as I writhe, the other moving the toy in slow, full strokes. My whole body is shaking. I'm moaning uncontrollably, incoherent, flushed and dripping. The toy hits just the right spot, again and again.
“I’m going to fist you soon,” she purrs. “But not yet. First, I’m going to break you on this. Then I’ll stretch you wider.”
The toy is still buried inside me, thick and unforgiving. My body pulses around it, slick and shivering, my legs useless, my arms spread, fingers curling into the sheets like I might float away if I let go. I’m a mess - flushed, ruined, gasping - and she’s watching me from between my knees like I’m art she just finished.
But then she crawls up.
Slow, deliberate, like a wolf circling its prey - but the look in her eyes isn’t hunger anymore. It’s awe. Reverence. The kind of gaze that melts your guts and makes your chest ache with how badly you want to be held.
Her thighs slide around my hips as she straddles me, her slick skin sticking to mine. Her heat presses against my lower belly. I can still feel the toy inside me, shifting with every tiny movement. But she doesn’t thrust. Not yet.
Instead, she leans down. Her hair falls like a curtain around our faces, and her lips hover above mine.
“Look at you,” she whispers, brushing her fingers across my cheek. “Fucked open, twitching, breathless. And you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
I blink up at her, heart pounding. I don’t know what to say. I feel fragile - not weak, but raw. Like my whole body’s been peeled down to nerve endings and soul. And she’s right there, watching every microexpression.
She kisses me.
Not rough. Not dominating. Soft. Gentle. Lips sliding against mine with unbearable care, like she’s memorizing the texture, the taste, the sigh that escapes me as I melt into her. Her tongue brushes mine - slow, exploratory - loving. She kisses like she knows exactly what I need, because she does. She is me.
One of her hands cups my jaw, thumb stroking lightly beneath my eye. The other presses low on my belly - just above where the toy is still snug inside me - holding me still. Reminding me that I’m filled. Owned. Kept.
Our mouths part only slightly as she speaks, her breath mingling with mine.
“You don’t have to perform for me,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to pretend. You’re safe. You’re held. I know every part of you - and I want all of it.”
Tears sting my eyes.
She kisses me again, deeper this time. More insistent. Her hips start to roll gently, just the barest movement, but the shift of pressure inside me makes my whole body tremble. I moan into her mouth and she swallows it - turning it into fuel.
The rhythm builds slowly. Her kisses grow hungrier. Her fingers dig into my hips. She’s grinding down onto me now, pushing the toy deeper, circling her hips to feel every reaction my body gives her. But it’s not about the fucking anymore. It’s about this. The closeness. The way our bodies fit. The way she kisses me like I’m sacred while she ruins me completely.
“I love you,” she whispers. “No one’s going to love you like I do. Not this deeply. Not this perfectly.”
And in that moment, I believe her. Because she’s me. She knows how my scars feel from the inside. She knows what it means to be touched right. She knows how much I need to be held after.
And she’s doing it. All of it.
My whole body is warm. Loose. That floaty, gelatinous place where everything’s soft and wet and glowing. The toy still sits inside me - no longer fucking, just resting - a constant, gentle reminder of what she’s already taken.
She leans up on one elbow and tilts her head, hair messy, lips swollen, eyes gleaming with something feral and fond. Then she says it:
“You ready for more?”
I blink slowly, breath catching. My ass clenches instinctively around the toy, and the sensation sparks up my spine like fire. I nod. Wordless. Willing. Desperate.
She leans down to kiss my cheek, my jaw, my collarbone. Her voice is a rumble just under the skin.
“I want you open, baby. I want to see how much of me you can take.”
The toy slides out with a slick, heavy sound that makes me shudder. My hole flutters at the sudden emptiness, already aching for the next thing. She doesn’t keep me waiting. Her fingers - lubed and warm - press gently against me, circling, teasing, worshiping.
I gasp when she slides one in. Then two. Then three.
Her pace is slow, patient, but unrelenting. Every thrust spreads me wider. Every movement sinks deeper. She curls them just right, watching my face with rapt attention.
“You’re doing so good,” she whispers. “So fucking perfect for me.”
By the time four fingers are inside, I’m trembling. My thighs shake. My eyes are glassy. I feel massive around her hand. Stretched to my limit - and somehow, not even close to full enough.
Then her thumb presses in.
A whimper escapes me, helpless. She pauses, letting me adjust, kissing my temple like I might break - but I won’t. I can’t. I’m made for this. Made for her. My clone. My twin. My self.
Then it happens.
Her whole hand slides in.
I cry out - raw, primal, overwhelmed - and she’s there, kissing me, grounding me, telling me I’m safe, I’m beautiful, I’m taking her so well. My ass clamps down around her wrist, pulsing, desperate, and she just keeps going. Slow pumps. Deeper thrusts. Her knuckles twist inside me, rubbing places no toy ever could.
“You’re gonna take my arm if I let you,” she purrs, grinning against my ear. “God, you’re so greedy.”
And I am.
I moan, nodding, sobbing with need, hips grinding down to meet every motion. My guts are liquid heat, my mind gone. There’s no more shame, no more fear - just fullness. Connection. The filthy, divine oneness of it all.
And when I come - God - it’s not like any orgasm I’ve ever known.
It’s not sharp or explosive. It’s deep. Like something tectonic shifts inside me. Like my whole being cracks open and spills light and wet and heat and devotion. I’m crying. Shaking. Clutching at her arms like I’ll fall through the bed without her.
She doesn’t stop until I beg.
The water’s already running when she comes back to the bed. I can barely move - my legs are jelly, my hole still twitches with every tiny movement. I’m floating somewhere between bliss and brain fog, but she picks me up like I’m the most precious thing in the world. Not fragile. Not broken. Just… sacred.
She carries me.
The bathroom is warm and full of steam, light golden from the overhead glow. The sound of water pattering against tile is soothing, grounding. She steps in with me and we’re instantly wrapped in heat again, but it’s not the hungry, devouring kind - it’s safe. Soothing. Like being in a womb of light.
She sets me down on the little bench, careful, slow, brushing hair from my face.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod, still dazed. “More than okay. I think I saw God.”
She laughs, but her eyes are soft. That post-orgasm glow, that look of being entirely devoted to the person in front of her.
She kneels.
Takes the detachable shower head and sets it to warm, gentle pressure. She starts at my feet, rinsing off the sweat and slick, then moves up - slow, rhythmic strokes over my calves, my thighs, my soaking core. She’s careful around my ass, like it’s holy ground, like I’m something that needs reverence now, not ruin.
“I stretched you so wide,” she murmurs, not as a boast, but like it awes her. Like she can’t believe someone so beautiful could handle so much and still look this soft in her arms.
She uses a loofah next, lathering up a soft, fragrant soap - lavender and vanilla. It smells like comfort. Like bedtime stories and safe homes and kisses on foreheads.
She washes me everywhere.
Behind my ears.
Under my arms.
My belly.
My breasts.
My thighs.
My hole, tender and swollen, gets the gentlest touch of all. She hums a little while she works, a soft tune I don’t recognize but never want to forget.
When she finishes, she sets the loofah aside, rinses me again, and kisses my knee. Then my hip. Then my lips.
“Let me dry you,” she whispers, and I just nod. Boneless. Grateful.
She wraps me in a thick towel and pats me dry like I’m the most important thing she’s ever touched.
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