Chapter 7: The Morning Feast
Natasha stirred from sleep to the sensation of Hannah’s tongue lapping at her wet folds, the girl already having pulled her underwear aside. The room was still dark, the silk sheets cool against her back. A soft, desperate sound escaped her lips before her brain could fully engage.
Hannah’s mouth was relentless. She sucked Natasha’s clit with a cool, precise pressure, her tongue flicking over the swollen bud in a rapid, clever rhythm that sent jolts of electricity straight up Natasha’s spine. Then she trailed down, lower, her tongue a wet, insistent point circling Natasha’s asshole, licking in tight, maddening circles that made Natasha gasp and arch off the mattress.
“Fuck, Hannah,” Natasha breathed, her hands finding the girl’s grey hair.
Without a word, Hannah moved. She positioned herself between Natasha’s spread thighs, the smooth, harnessed silicone of the strap-on pressing against Natasha’s dripping entrance. Hannah pushed into her pussy with one smooth, deep thrust, filling her completely.
Natasha cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound. Hannah fucked her with deep, steady, piston-like strokes, a rhythm that was both mechanical and deeply intuitive. Her thumb found Natasha’s clit again, circling in time with her thrusts, the dual stimulation a perfect, overwhelming calculus.
“Right there, god, right fucking there,” Natasha moaned, curses falling from her lips like prayers. Her hands fisted the crimson sheets, knuckles white. The pleasure built, a tight coil in her belly, winding tighter with every drive of Hannah’s hips. It wasn’t gentle. It was thorough.Consuming.
Her climax broke over her, a violent, shuddering wave that tore a ragged scream from her throat. Her body locked, convulsing around the intruding length as Hannah’s breath never faltered, her thrusts never ceasing, dragging the orgasm out into a long, wrenching spasm of pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.
Only then did Hannah slow. She nuzzled into Natasha’s neck, over the healing bite mark, her cool skin damp with sweat. She pulled out slowly, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet room.
For a moment, they just breathed, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Natasha’s mind, fuzzy with endorphins, began to clear. A cold, sharp reality seeped in through the warmth.
She rolled onto her side, facing Hannah. She reached out, her hand stroking the smooth curve of Hannah’s ass, a final, possessive touch. Then her fingers found the harness straps, and with practiced ease, she began to unfasten them.
“This can’t happen again,” Natasha said, her voice hoarse but firm.
Hannah watched her, eyes wide and unblinking. “Why?”
“Because I’m married. And you… you’re supposed to be our daughter. That was the plan.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth.
Hannah gave a slow, lazy shrug, a gesture of profound indifference. “That plan’s probably ruined now.” She yawned, a wide, childlike gape, and shuffled closer, cuddling into Natasha’ Extracting her warmth. “Doesn’t feel ruined.”
Natasha sighed, a heavy exhale that held the weight of her crumbling integrity. She checked the clock on the nightstand. The digital numbers glowed: 4:17 AM.
“Wanda will be back in a few hours,” she said, her lawyer’s mind already calculating, compartmentalizing. “You should go. To the toilet. And then… feed. In the forest now. Do you understand? Don’t be seen.”
Hannah nodded, already sliding out of bed. Her naked form was a pale ghost in the dark room. “Can I have a shirt? To wear out there?”
“Take one from the laundry room. A dark one.” Natasha couldn’t bear the thought of another struggle over clothes. Not now.
Hannah padded out silently, leaving Natasha alone in the wreckage of her sheets. She lay there, the deep ache between her legs a mocking reminder. Mother. The word Hannah had whispered echoed. What a grotesque parody she’d made of it.
She got up, her body moving on autopilot. She showered in water so hot it scalded, scrubbing at her skin until it was pink, as if she could wash the feeling of Hannah’s mouth, her hands, her… everything, down the drain.It didn’t work. The phantom pressure of the strap-on seemed etched into her muscles.
Wrapped in a robe, she stood before the vast vanity mirror. She looked at her reflection—the sharp green eyes, the perfectly composed face that commanded courtrooms. A fraud. She leaned closer, her fingers tracing the two small, scabbed punctures on her neck. The mark of possession. She had allowed it. She had craved it.
With a decisive click, she opened the hidden panel beside the mirror, revealing the safe. She input the code—Wanda’s birthday—and the heavy door swung open. Inside, next to neat stacks of encrypted ledgers and a sleek, matte-black pistol, lay a simple, polished wooden box. She took it out, carrying it to the bed.
She opened it. Inside, nestled on velvet, was a silver locket. It was old, a delicate filigree piece. She clicked it open. On one side, a tiny, faded photo of a woman with kind eyes and red hair—her own mother, long gone. The other side was empty. It had been meant for the child they would adopt. A welcome gift.
She snapped it shut, the sound final in the silent room. The plan was ruined. Hannah was not a child to be soothed with lockets. She was a hurricane they had invited into their home, and Natasha had just let the eye of the storm pass directly over her.
Downstairs, she heard the faint, almost imperceptible sound of the side door closing. Hannah was gone, hunting.
Natasha made coffee. She sat at the kitchen island in the sterile glow of under-cabinet lights, the locket cold in her hand. The house was too quiet. She rehearsed speeches in her head, explanations, lies.Nothing happened. She’s adjusting. It’s difficult. Wanda would see through every syllable. Wanda knew the shape of her guilt better than anyone.
The first grey light of dawn was bleeding into the sky when she heard the front gate activate. Her pulse spiked.Too early. Wanda wasn’t due for hours.
Natasha froze, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. She heard the familiar, confident click of heels on marble in the foyer. Then Wanda’s voice, tired but warm, calling out. “Nat? You up?”
She was home.
The sound of Wanda’s heels stopped in the kitchen doorway. Natasha didn’t turn. She stared into her black coffee, the locket a cold, guilty weight in her other palm.
“You’re home early,” Natasha said, her voice strangely flat.
“Wrapped up the Berlin deal ahead of schedule. Caught the red-eye.” Wanda’s tone was light, but it held a question. She moved into the periphery, setting down her leather weekender. “You’re up before dawn. That’s my thing.”
Natasha finally looked at her. Wanda looked tired, elegant in a tailored travel coat, her dark hair perfectly in place. The sight of her was a physical ache, a longing so sharp it felt like nausea. She was the anchor, and Natasha had just cut the line.
“Hannah’s out,” Natasha said, the words blunt.
Wanda stilled, her dark eyes scanning Natasha’s face, then dropping to the robe clutched too tightly at her throat. “It’s four-thirty in the morning, Natasha.”
“I told her to go. To feed.” Natasha’s knuckles were white around the coffee cup. “She listened.”
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Wanda slowly unbuttoned her coat, her movements deliberate. She draped it over a stool. “Okay,” she said, a single word that held immense space.
“It’s not okay.” The confession tore out of Natasha, jagged and raw. She stood up, the stool scraping harshly against the floor. “Nothing about this is okay. I fucked it up. I fucked her.”
The vulgarity hung in the sterile air, stark and undeniable. Natasha watched the words land, watched Wanda’s expression shift from fatigue to sharp, total focus. There was no anger yet. Just a deep, unsettling stillness.
“Tell me,” Wanda said, her voice low.
And Natasha did. She told her about the training, the speed, the eggs. She told her about the story of the lab, the guard, the blood. She told her about the word ‘mother’ and the bite on her neck, which she now pulled the robe collar aside to reveal, the twin scabs dark against her skin. Her voice broke only once, describing the feel of Hannah’s mouth there, the dizzying pull.
She saved the worst for last, the words tumbling out in a rushed, shameful whisper. “Last night. And again, just now. She… she used the strap. From the drawer. I let her. I more than let her.” She couldn’t meet Wanda’s eyes. “The plan is ruined. She’s not a daughter. I made her something else.”
Wanda didn’t speak for a long moment. She walked to the island, poured herself a glass of water, and drank it slowly. Natasha felt the verdict looming, a lifetime of carefully built trust crumbling.
“Look at me,” Wanda said.
Natasha forced her head up. Wanda’s gaze was complex, searching her face, weighing the devastation there. Then, to Natasha’s shock, a slow understanding seemed to soften the line of her mouth. “You lonely little thing,” Wanda murmured, not with pity, but with a profound, startling compassion.
She closed the distance between them. Her hands came up, framing Natasha’s face, her thumbs wiping away tears Natasha hadn’t felt falling. “You were holding a tornado all by yourself.”
Then Wanda kissed her. It was deep and searching, a reclamation. Natasha absolutely melted into her wife’s arms, a sob catching in her chest. God, she had missed her so incredibly much. The solid reality of Wanda, the familiar scent of her perfume and travel, was the only solid ground left in the world.
Wanda held her close, swaying them softly right there in the kitchen. “If she comes for you again,” Wanda said, her lips brushing Natasha’s temple, “I would like to be there.”
Natasha’s breath hitched. She nodded her head, nuzzling close to her dominant wife, the submission a relief so profound it felt like salvation.
“Good,” Wanda said, giving her a final, firm squeeze before releasing her. She reached for her weekender, pulled out a small, black bag with delicate ribbon handles, and placed it in Natasha’s hands. “Now go change. You’re wearing despair, and it doesn’t suit you.”
Natasha obeyed without a word. In the bedroom, under the glow of her vanity lights, she drew out the contents. It was a set of red lingerie, exquisite and severe: a lace bralette and matching high-waisted briefs, the color of fresh blood. She put it on.
The cool silk and lace settled against her skin. She looked in the mirror. Her stunning body looked so good in it, the red a violent contrast to her pale skin and fiery hair, a deliberate armor of Wanda’s choosing.
She heard the side door click open and shut downstairs. A moment later, a familiar, liquid sound—the faucet in the mudroom sink turning on.
Natasha walked out to the top of the staircase. Hannah stood in the foyer below, her naked body slick and glistening with blood. It was smeared across her chest, her thighs, matted in her grey hair. She looked up, saw Wanda first, and knelt on the marble floor without being asked.
She smirked, a flash of white in a crimson mask. “Hi again.”
Wanda looked down at her, her expression unreadable. “You’re making a mess of my floor,” she said, her voice calm. “Clean up. Then go to bed.”
Hannah’s smirk didn’t falter. She rose, padded to the mudroom, and the sound of scrubbing followed. Minutes later, she passed through the foyer again, skin pink and raw from cleaning, wearing one of Natasha’s old t-shirts. She flashed a grin up the stairs at Natasha, then disappeared down the hall to her room.
Natasha descended the stairs. Wanda was waiting by the living room archway, her back to her.
Before Natasha could speak, Wanda said, her voice carrying softly, “You did a good job with her while I was away.” She turned, her eyes dark and warm, taking in the red lingerie. A slow smile touched her lips. “She’s calm. Fed. And you…” She stepped closer. “You haven’t looked this settled in months. Maybe you should let her continue to fuck you, if it makes you so calm.”
Natasha felt a thrill, hot and immediate, curl in her stomach. She closed the distance and climbed into Wanda’s lap as she sat on the plush arm of the sofa, moving with a seductive, deliberate grace. She raised a brow, her green eyes gleaming. “Are you sure about that?”
Wanda smirked, her hands coming to rest on Natasha’s hips, her thumbs stroking the lace. “I’m sure about you,” she said, and pulled her in for a kiss that was both loving and fiercely possessive. She broke it, then delivered a sharp, stinging smack to Natasha’s ass that echoed in the quiet room. “We’ll figure out the rest.”
Natasha buried her face in Wanda’s neck, breathing her in. They had missed each other so much.
They had missed each other so much. Wanda’s hands, familiar and demanding, traced the lace of the crimson lingerie before sliding beneath it. The touch was a language Natasha understood perfectly, a silent command that unraveled her completely. “Bedroom,” Wanda murmured against her lips, her voice leaving no room for argument. It wasn’t a question. Natasha just nodded, her breath already shortening.
Wanda stood, taking Natasha’s hand and leading her upstairs. As they passed the closed door to Hannah’s room, Wanda paused. She released Natasha’s hand, stepped to the door, and with a quiet, definitive click, slid the old-fashioned brass bolt into its housing. Natasha watched, a flicker of unease passing through her, but Wanda was already turning, guiding her down the hall. “She needs to rest,” Wanda said simply, as if that settled it.
In their bedroom, Wanda’s hands were everywhere at once. She pushed the robe from Natasha’s shoulders, her mouth finding the bite mark on her neck, worrying the scabs with her tongue until Natasha gasped. “You let her mark you,” Wanda whispered, her voice a mix of awe and dark approval. She spun Natasha around, bending her over the foot of the massive bed, the cold silk of the duvet sharp against her heated skin.
Wanda took her with a focused, relentless intensity that spoke of ownership. There was no strap, just Wanda’s own body, her hands, her teeth. She re-mapped every inch Natasha had given away, claiming it back. Natasha cried out into the bedding, her fingers clutching crimson silk, each thrust a punctuation mark in a sentence of reclamation. She was so deep inside her own need, the world narrowed to the weight of her wife and the pounding rhythm of her own heart.
Later, they lay tangled and damp, breathing in the dark. Wanda reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, taking a long drink before handing it to Natasha. It was in that momentary quiet, the liquid sound of swallowing, that Natasha heard it.
A thump. Then another. Rhythmic, frantic.
It was coming from down the hall.
Natasha froze, the glass halfway to her lips. The sound solidified into knocking—rapid, panicked fist-strikes against a door. Then a muffled, high-pitched keen, the sound of an animal in a trap.
“Hannah,” Natasha breathed. She was off the bed in an instant, the glass forgotten, water sloshing onto the marble floor.
She tore down the hallway barefoot, the cold floor searing her soles. The brass bolt on Hannah’s door was thrown, a stark, physical barrier. Natasha fumbled with it, her hands shaking, the metal cold and unyielding until it finally screeched sideways.
The door swung open. Hannah was on the floor just inside, curled into a tight ball, naked and shuddering. Her grey hair was plastered to her scalp with sweat. In the sliver of light from the hall, her eyes were wide, black pools of pure terror, seeing something far worse than the walls around her.
“Hey, hey, it’s me,” Natasha said, her voice cracking as she dropped to her knees.
Hannah uncoiled with a violent jerk, scrambling backward until her spine hit the wall. She stared at Natasha, but the recognition was slow, fighting its way through whatever nightmare held her. A broken, wheezing sob escaped her. She was trembling so hard her teeth chattered.
Natasha moved slowly, her hands open. “You’re safe. It’s Natasha.”
The words seemed to land. Hannah’s wide, terrified gaze locked onto her face. Her mouth worked silently for a second before a choked, wet sound pushed out. “M-Mommy.”
The word was a shattered thing. It undid Natasha completely. She surged forward, gathering the trembling girl into her arms. Hannah clung to her, her grip bruising, her face buried in Natasha’s neck as violent, silent sobs wracked her thin frame. Her skin was ice-cold.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Natasha whispered, rocking her. She stood up, Hannah’s naked body light and limp in her arms, and carried her into the hall.
Wanda stood in the doorway of their bedroom, wrapped in a robe, her expression unreadable.
“You locked her in,” Natasha said, her voice low and vibrating with a fury she hadn’t known she possessed. She held Hannah closer, feeling the girl flinch at the tone. “You bolted the door. Look at her, Wanda. Look what it did.”
Wanda’s gaze flicked from Natasha’s furious face to the catatonic girl in her arms. Her jaw tightened. “I thought she might wander. Get into things.”
“She was having a nightmare. She couldn’t get out.” Natasha’s voice broke. “That’s not keeping her safe. That’s… that’s what they did to her. In the cages. In the labs.”
The truth of it hung in the hallway, ugly and unavoidable. Wanda’s practiced composure faltered for just a second, a flicker of something like shame in her dark eyes. She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Without another word, Natasha carried Hannah past her, back into their bedroom. She laid the girl in the center of the big bed, climbing in after her and pulling the duvet over them both. Hannah immediately pressed her entire frozen body against Natasha’s side, her face tucked under her chin.
Wanda watched from the doorway for a long moment. Then, silently, she walked to the other side of the bed. She slid in, her body a warm line against Natasha’s back. She didn’t apologize. She just shifted closer, her arm coming to rest over Natasha’s waist, her hand splaying possessively on Natasha’s stomach.
Her fingers drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of the ruined lingerie briefs Natasha still wore. She pressed her palm flat against the damp warmth there, a wordless claim in the dark. Natasha sighed, tension bleeding from her shoulders. She adjusted her arm, curling it more securely around Hannah’s shivering form.
The girl’s breathing slowly evened out, the tremors subsiding into the deep, trusting stillness of sleep. Wanda’s hand remained, a steady, grounding heat. Natasha lay between them, suspended between the desperate child clinging to her chest and the dominant wife warming her from behind. The three of them fell asleep like that, a tangled equation of need and possession that defied any simple answer.