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Cristina wonders why she does this, finds solace in sin, lets her body be used like doll, a marionette.
Fingers trail along her collarbone, reading the ridges like Braille, trying to decipher what she'll never say. A kiss gets planted at the base of her spine just as another set of teeth sink into the flesh of her shoulder. She whimpers. A porcelain hand wraps around her throat completely and coils, burying itself in her hair. She raises her own hand, tugs at the arm because having it around her throat makes her nervous. The mouth at her ear rasps out a warning and she allows the person in front of her to pull her into a bruising kiss, tongue tangling with the heady scent of sex and fear.
She's broken from the bruising embrace and her head is manipulated and devoured by another mouth leaving her feeling filthy. The hand around her neck is still tight and heavy like the body of a constrictor, choking the air from her lungs. Between the filthy, desperate kisses, and the hand around her throat, her breaths are reduced to a pitiful asthmatic wheeze. She sees galaxies explode across her vision like strobe lights and the color behind her eyelids is a deep scarlet with the veins threading like a dream catcher. Another bite lands on her shoulder, harder than the other and she knows it's a different mouth. She knows they love playing, hurting her and she bites her tongue because it's a thin fucking line between suffering and bliss.
"Please," she says, choking around the word. She's not used to begging, she's used to getting what she wants, but these to make her beg. She wonders why, and if it's to train her in more ways than one. A low, throaty chuckle sounds through the bedroom, only dimly lit by naked bulbs flickering every now and then. The clawing smell of sex and sweat fills her nostrils, chest burning. A plea for air sputters from her mouth.
The hand finally leaves her throat and she gulps greedily at the oxygen, pressure ignited just beyond the pale skin of her temples. She's pushed onto the dirty sheets, clings desperately to them, and she thinks she might just be a slut because she's never been this wet in her life.
They loom over her now, like the gods she'd stopped searching for long ago. A hand lands on her stomach, rising and lowering as it pleases. She moans, breathless and begging. They fuck around with her body, nimble fingers fluttering, teasing, being assholes because they know they can, because they know she needs it just as much as they do.
When they finally touch her where she wants, her body feels like it's been struck by a jagged lightning, a rusty blade. Then things really hit the fucking fan.
It's a mess of pulled hair and nails ripping apart skin, slicing it like cloth. Blood that isn't hers fills her mouth, making her cough copper. Sweat, and spit and arousal coat her tongue like syrup. They scream and cuss and blaspheme, uttering her name like just another piece of profanity.
She wonders how they manage this, screwing each other into a private oblivion. She screams as she comes, the sound aching and lonely. The world whitens along the edges she arches off the bed then collapses, chest heaving and bones screeching. Her mind drifts away, leaving her pleasantly stupid.
She takes deep breaths and feels bruises rise on her skin.
They shift around her, adjust to different positions, the bed whining under their weight.
A hand brushes through her hair, softer, gentle. It's Teddy that brings her back to reality. Erica's limb snakes under her naked back, separating her spine from the sticky sheets and makes her rise. She obeys without thought and a shirt is thrown over her messy hair. Her bones ache as she pulls it over her head and forces her arms through the sleeves.
Erica smirks tiredly at her, cocking an eyebrow at Teddy and communicating in the damp silence. The other woman nods and suddenly they seize their lover on both sides, wrapping their arms around her, sandwiching her body between them. Their bodies are slick and saturated.
They know they'll have to leave soon, leave the seedy motel they always meet in because their own homes are too personal. Melt into the pissing rain beating against the cracked windowpanes, become one with the thunder. But for now they lay there in their humid sin, reeking of content and half-hearted lies that "it was the alcohol " and "this was a mistake".
They take gulping breaths and try to contemplate what this means, but their brains are fried from post-coital oxycodone that makes their tainted souls feel displaced from their bodies.
They dress silently, trading mistaken clothes, dusky blushes on their cheeks. The rain has let up some, nothing but lazy dribbles, like God was simply drooling all over Seattle. They kiss languidly, tasting each other's teeth and tongues, no rush or hesitation. Erica and Teddy finger the forming bruises on Cristina's skin, faces contorted in a combination of apology and possessiveness.
Erica looks out the window after pulling on her shoes and smiles sardonically. She gazes at her two occasional lovers both now completely dressed. One word comes to mind.
"Beautiful," she says and actually means it. Teddy grins at her while Cristina looks down at her feet, blush crawling up her neck and inflaming her cheeks. The other women are amused that she can still be modest after what they'd just done. She looks up at them cautiously, blush disintegrating and nods.
Once outside, the drizzle hits Cristina's exposed arms like needle pricks. She shivers in the cold, wrapping her leather jacket tighter around her small body, missing the warmth of soiled sheets and two other women. She gazes over her shoulder back at the motel, mounts her motorcycle, and drives away.
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A/N: Should I continue? Please review.