Chapter 12: Breakfast and Belly Rubs
The morning light in the Noceda kitchen was a liar. It streamed through the window over the sink, clean and yellow, promising normalcy. It gleamed off the stainless steel toaster, lit up the colorful cereal boxes, and tried its best to sanitize the air. But beneath the scent of brewing coffee and Amity’s slightly-charred cinnamon toast, the darker musk persisted. It was in the fibers of the kitchen chairs, in the subtle, sweaty salt on skin, a ghost of the night’s exertions that no amount of sunshine could bleach away.
Camila moved through the routine with the deliberate care of a bomb disposal expert. Her body ached in a symphony of specific pains: the deep, stretched soreness between her legs, the pleasant weight of her full breasts, the persistent, low pull in her lower belly. She poured orange juice, her hand only trembling slightly. Every movement felt performed, a pantomime of motherhood she was no longer qualified to enact.
Luz was already seated, pushing soggy cereal loops around her bowl with a listless spoon. She wore a high-necked sweater, though the day was warm, hiding the love bites Camila knew dotted her collarbones and throat. Her eyes were distant, fixed on some point beyond the refrigerator.
“You’re up early, cariño,” Camila said, her voice thankfully steady. She set the juice glass in front of Luz.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Luz mumbled, not meeting her eyes.
The back door swung open, letting in a blast of cool morning air and The Collector. He was barefoot, his white hair tangled with leaves and twigs, his clothes—a pair of Luz’s old shorts and a threadbare tee—smudged with dirt. He looked, for all the world, like a kid who’d been exploring the woods. The illusion shattered the moment he smiled, his star-pupiled eyes taking in the kitchen tableau with predatory delight.
“Mornin’!” he chirped, skipping to the table. He didn’t sit so much as flow into the chair next to Luz, pressing his thigh firmly against hers. He snatched a piece of toast from the plate in the center and took a huge, crunching bite. “Busy night,” he said through a full mouth, crumbs tumbling down his front. “Lots of interesting noises. Owls, mostly.”
Camila felt her face grow hot. She turned quickly to the stove, fussing with the already-off burner.
Amity floated in then, her nose in a thick, leather-bound tome, her lavender hair still damp from the shower. She was the only piece of pure, undiluted normalcy in the room, and her presence was a needle of guilt plunged straight into Camila’s heart. The young witch hummed to herself, absently summoned a floating abomination hand to pour herself a cup of coffee, and finally sank into the chair opposite Luz.
“Hey, batata,” she said, smiling warmly at her girlfriend over her book. “You look tired.” Her gaze shifted to Camila, taking in the older woman’s posture, the way she lingered by the stove. “You too, Ms. Noceda. Everything okay?”
“Just the weather, mija,” Camila said, the lie as easy as breathing now. “It makes you restless.”
“Tell me about it,” Amity said with a sympathetic grimace. She closed her book and finally took a proper look at them both. Her golden eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept over Luz’s pale face, then down to the subtle but undeniable swell of Camila’s stomach beneath her robe. A teasing grin touched her lips. “You know, I have to say, you guys are really packing on the pounds lately. I guess human metabolism just… grinds to a halt in the fall?” She nudged Luz’s foot with her own under the table. “We might need to get you some new pants soon, huh?”
Luz’s spoon clattered loudly against her ceramic bowl. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice strained. “Maybe.”
Under the table, hidden by the checkered tablecloth, The Collector’s hand landed on Luz’s denim-clad thigh. He patted it twice, a blandly comforting gesture. Then his fingers began to walk inward, slow and deliberate.
Camila saw the change in her daughter’s face. A slight hitch in her breathing. A dilation of her pupils. A faint tremor in the hand holding the spoon. Camila’s own breath caught in her throat. She stood frozen by the counter, a prisoner to the scene, her own body responding with a traitorous, warm throb.
“You okay, babe?” Amity asked, her teasing fading into genuine concern. She reached across the table, her hand covering Luz’s trembling one. “You’re all clammy.”
“Just… indigestion,” Luz choked out, forcing a tight, brittle smile. “Pancakes sat wrong.”
The Collector’s expression was one of innocent curiosity as he watched Amity, but his hand was working with brutal precision. Camila knew, because she could picture it. He would have found the button of Luz’s jeans, popped it open. The zipper would have been eased down, tooth by quiet tooth. His cool fingers would be slipping inside now, beneath the waistband of her panties, seeking the heat they’d helped create hours before.
Luz’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. Her free hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles bleaching white.
“You sure?” Amity pressed, her thumb stroking Luz’s hand. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I’m fine,” Luz gasped. The words were too quick, too high.
The Collector leaned in, his mouth close to Luz’s ear. His whisper was a silken thread of sound, meant for her and, knowingly, for Camila’s straining ears. “Tell her you’re fine, starlight. Tell her you’re just getting nice and fat with my baby growing in your tummy. Tell her it makes you happy.”
A low, desperate moan caught in Luz’s throat, morphing into a cough. She pulled her hand from Amity’s grasp to cover her mouth. “I’m good, Amity. Really.” Her eyes were screwed shut.
Camila watched, her cunt clenching empty air. She could almost feel it: the thick intrusion of his fingers, the way they’d be plunging into that soaked, hairy cleft she’d felt against her own last night. Two fingers, curling deep, scissoring, stretching. His thumb, a relentless circle on her clit. Luz’s body was betraying her, responding violently to the violation even as her mind screamed in shame. Her chest was heaving, shallow little breaths she tried to mask.
Amity, frowning, turned her attention to her coffee. “If you say so.” She took a sip, then her eyes lit up. “Oh! I almost forgot. Eda sent a message-orb last night. She and Raine think they might have a lead on a stabilizer for the portal door. Something about crystallized Titan’s blood? It could mean more stable, long-term passages between realms. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
She chatted on, her voice a bright, normal stream against the tense, thick silence of the other two. She spoke of magic, of research, of a future. All the while, under the table, her girlfriend was being finger-fucked to the edge of insanity.
The Collector’s movements became more vigorous. Luz’s chair gave a faint squeak against the linoleum with each tiny thrust of her body. A deep, rosy flush spread from her neck up to her cheeks. She bit her lower lip so hard Camila thought it might bleed.
“He’s gonna make you come,” The Collector whispered, his voice a singsong taunt. “Right here. Right in front of your sweet, clever witch. All over my hand. You’re so close, I can feel your little cunt trying to suck my fingers in deeper. Such a greedy hole.”
Luz shook her head, a minute, frantic motion. A tear escaped her clamped eyelid and traced a path through her freckles.
“Don’t fight it,” he crooned. “Show your Mami what a good girl you are. Show her how well you can come on command.”
Camila’s legs were weak. She had to brace herself against the counter. Her own panties were soaked. She watched her daughter’s face, a mask of agonized pleasure, and felt a corresponding peak tightening in her own gut. She was complicit. She was aroused. She was damned.
With a final, brutal curl of his fingers and a sharp press of his thumb, he pushed her over the edge.
Luz’s orgasm was a silent, catastrophic event. Her entire body locked, rigid. Her eyes flew open, staring at nothing, seeing everything. A sharp, choked squeak escaped her, which she covered with a coughing fit. Her abdomen tightened, her back arched slightly in the chair, and a hot, sudden gush of fluid soaked through her jeans, her panties, and onto The Collector’s hand. The squirt was copious; Camila, from her angle, saw the dark, spreading wetness bloom on the denim between Luz’s legs and heard the distinct, damp drip onto the floor beneath the chair.
The Collector held his fingers inside her, letting her pulse and clamp around them through the last waves. Then, slowly, he withdrew.
Amity, mid-sentence about spectral harmonics, paused. “Luz? You’re… sweating. And is that… did you spill your juice?”
Luz was beyond speech. She was a puppet with cut strings, slumped in her chair, breathing in ragged, shuddering gulps. The evidence of her climax was a blatant, dark stain on her crotch.
The Collector brought his hand into his lap. Then, with a theatrical flourish, he raised it above the table, fingers glistening with Luz’s clear, sticky arousal. He made a show of examining it, turning his hand this way and that in the sunlight. He locked eyes with Camila, a wicked smile playing on his lips. Then he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, one by one, with loud, obscene pops of his lips.
“Mmm,” he announced, his voice carrying clearly. “Breakfast of champions.”
Amity glanced over, confused. “Huh? Did you get into the syrup, Collector?”
“Something like that,” he said, grinning. He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, the picture of satisfaction. “So, a stabilizer, huh? That sounds boring. Stability is so… static.”
Camila finally found the strength to move. She grabbed a dishcloth and walked stiffly to the table. “You did spill, mija,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She bent, placing the cloth strategically on Luz’s lap, hiding the stain. As she did, her face was close to Luz’s. She saw the devastation there, the shattered glass of her daughter’s spirit. She also saw, flickering beneath it, the dark, sated glow of physical release. It mirrored her own.
“Thanks, Mami,” Luz breathed, the words trembling.
The moment was shattered by the blaring ringtone of Camila’s cell phone, still charging on the counter. The jarring, cheerful sound made everyone jump. Grateful for the distraction, Camila hurried to it. The screen read CLINIC - EMERGENCY.
“Hello? Yes, this is she.” She listened, her professional demeanor slamming into place like a suit of armor. “A hit-and-run? Oh, the poor thing. Yes, I have my kit in the car. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” She hung up. “A dog. Critical. I have to go.”
It was an escape. A blessed, temporary reprieve. She didn’t look at Luz or The Collector. She addressed Amity. “Hold down the fort, por favor?”
“Of course, Ms. Noceda,” Amity said, already concerned about the dog. “Go! We’ll be fine.”
Camila fled. She grabbed her keys and her bag, not even changing out of her robe, throwing a coat over it. The last thing she saw as she closed the front door was The Collector, still lounging at the table, his hand now resting possessively on the back of Luz’s neck. Amity was clearing the bowls, her back turned, humming once more.
The drive was a blur. The clinical, sterile smell of her vet clinic was a shock to her system after the humid, sexual musk of her home. The poor, broken-bodied spaniel on the table required all her focus, all her skill. For an hour, she was Dr. Noceda again. She set bones, sutured lacerations, monitored vitals. The pain here was clean. It had a source, a treatment, a prognosis. It wasn’t a labyrinth of complicity and shame.
But when the dog was stabilized, resting under sedation, the silence of the empty clinic crowded in on her. She leaned against the cold stainless steel table, the smells of antiseptic and blood failing to erase the memory of Luz’s taste, of The Collector’s smell, of the feel of her daughter’s climax shuddering through the kitchen chair.
She was cleaning instruments when the bell on the front door jingled. It was too early for her receptionist. A chill, unrelated to the air conditioning, traced her spine.
She walked out to the waiting room, and there he was.
The Collector stood in the middle of the cheery, poster-covered room, looking profoundly out of place. He had changed into one of her late husband’s old flannel shirts, which hung open, revealing his slender chest. He was barefoot on the linoleum.
“You left in a hurry,” he said, his head tilting. “I got bored.”
“This is my workplace,” Camila said, her voice hushed but firm. “You can’t be here.”
“Why not?” He took a step forward, then another, until he was at the threshold of her examination room. He peered in, his eyes alighting on the sedated dog. “Oh. A little broken thing. You like fixing broken things, don’t you, Camila?”
He said her name like it was a private joke. He stepped into the room, ignoring her, and trailed a finger along the edge of the surgical tray. “You try to fix everything. Your daughter. Me. This mutt.” He looked at her, his starry eyes gleaming. “But some things aren’t meant to be fixed. Some things are more fun when they’re broken in.”
“Please leave,” she said, but the command had no force. Her heart was hammering. The clinic, her sanctuary, was now just another room he could invade.
He ignored her. He walked around the table, coming to stand behind her. She felt his warmth, the strange, static-electric energy that always surrounded him. His hands came to rest on her hips.
“You were so wet this morning,” he murmured into her hair. “Watching her. I could smell you from across the table. You wanted it to be you, didn’t you? You wanted my fingers in your fat, hairy cunt while your dulce niña talked about magic.”
Camila shook her head, a weak denial. Her body was betraying her again, melting back against him.
“You’re a bad mother,” he whispered, the words sweet as poison. “A glorious, terrible, wet-dream of a bad mother.” One hand slid around to her front, dipping beneath the belt of her robe, pushing through the curls at the junction of her thighs. She was, as he’d said, still soaked. His fingers slid through her folds with obscene ease. “See? Still thinking about it.”
He found her clit, swollen and sensitive, and pinched it hard. A sharp cry tore from her, echoing in the tiled room. She clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Quiet,” he chided playfully. “You’ll wake the patient.” He worked his fingers, not with tenderness, but with a clinical, exploring curiosity. He parted her lips, pushed two thick fingers deep inside her, and curled them, searching. “So roomy in here now. All stretched out from taking my cock. And from squeezing out a human brat years ago.” He added a third finger, stretching her, his thumb rubbing punishing circles on her clit. “You’re my best work, Camila. My favorite broodmare.”
The degradation was absolute. Here, in her clinic, on the floor where she healed innocent creatures, he was fingering her like a common whore, and her hips were pushing back against his hand, her cunt greedily swallowing his digits. The contrast shattered her. She came quickly, violently, biting down on the fabric of her own coat sleeve to muffle her screams as her thighs shook and another flood of slick release coated his hand.
He held her up as she sagged, pulling his wet fingers from her with a slick sound. He turned her around to face him. Her vision was blurred with tears of shame and pleasure. He licked his fingers clean, just as he had with Luz’s.
“Tastes like guilt,” he mused. “And amniotic fluid. Delicious.”