Chapter 7: The Claiming
The taste of Anne on his fingers was still sharp on his tongue, a metallic, musky tang that was entirely her. Harry’s head was spinning, his blood a hot, thick pulse in his veins. He was poised over her, ready to claim her again, when Anne’s voice cut through the heavy air, thin but sharp as a shard of glass.
“Wait.”
Her blue eyes, previously clouded with pleasure, were now fixed on Signe. They held a strange, new light—a flicker of challenge.
“Why are you still dressed?” Anne asked, her voice gaining strength. “You’ve been watching this whole time. Telling us what to do. Don’t you think it’s a little… unfair?”
Signe, who had been kneeling by the couch like a patron at a private viewing, froze. The smug, knowing smile vanished from her face, replaced by a flash of pure, unguarded shock. She actually leaned back on her heels, her hands coming up in a faint, defensive gesture. “What?”
“You heard her,” Anne said, pushing herself up on her elbows. The movement made her breasts shift, and Harry’s gaze dropped to them instinctively. “You got me naked. You got him hard again. But you’re sitting there in your little black dress like you’re the director. Show us. Show us your pussy.”
Harry’s breath hitched. The shift in power was dizzying. He watched, mesmerized, as a blush crept up Signe’s neck. The unflappable Signe was flustered.
“I… I don’t think that’s…” Signe stammered, her eyes darting from Anne’s determined face to Harry’s rapt attention.
“Why not?” Anne pressed, a cruel little smile playing on her lips. “Scared?”
The taunt landed. Signe’s spine straightened. The vulnerability was shoved aside, replaced by a brittle pride. “I’m not scared of anything.”
“Then prove it,” Anne whispered.
Harry watched, his cock throbbing with a painful intensity, as Signe’s hands went to the hem of her dress. She moved slowly now, without her earlier theatrical grace. The fabric whispered up her thighs, revealing the pale skin of her stomach, then the black lace of her bra. She pulled it over her head and let it fall to the floor. She was naked.
And she was breathtaking.
Her body was leaner than Anne’s, all sharp angles and taut muscle. Her breasts were small, with dark, erect nipples. But Harry’s eyes, like lasers, were drawn lower. To the neat, dark triangle of hair between her legs. It was smaller, tighter than Anne’s, the lips tucked neatly away, a stark, closed contrast to Anne’s glistening, swollen openness.
“Damn,” Harry breathed, the word leaving him like a punch to the gut.
Anne’s hand snaked out and wrapped around his shaft. Her touch was firm, possessive. She began to stroke him, her eyes locked on Signe’s naked form. “See? It’s not so hard, is it?” she said, her voice a low purr aimed at Signe.
Signe stood there, exposed, her arms held slightly away from her body as if unsure what to do with them. The confidence she had wielded like a weapon was gone, leaving a raw, beautiful vulnerability in its place. She was watching Anne’s hand work Harry’s cock, her own breath coming quicker.
Anne’s thumb smeared the bead of moisture that had gathered at his tip, spreading it down his length, making her strokes slick and easy. The sound was obscene in the quiet room—a soft, wet friction that seemed to amplify the tension.
“She’s even tighter than I am, Harry,” Anne murmured, her gaze analytical, like she was assessing a piece of art. “Look at how closed up she is. I bet she’s so fucking tight inside.”
Harry groaned, his hips bucking slightly into her fist. The visual was too much. The two women, both naked, both utterly different—one his longtime fantasy, soft and yielding; the other a sudden, shocking temptation, compact and severe. Anne’s hand on him, demanding his pleasure, while Signe stood there offering a new, uncharted territory.
His hand moved of its own volition, reaching out not for Anne, but towards Signe. His fingers brushed the inside of her thigh. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. Her skin was hot.
“Go on,” Anne encouraged him, her strokes becoming faster, more urgent. “Touch her. See if I’m right.”
Harry’s fingers trailed higher, through the fine dark hair, until he found her. Signe let out a sharp, choked gasp as he parted her. She was, as Anne had predicted, incredibly tight. His finger met with resistance, a hot, silken clasp that made his own cock jump in Anne’s hand.
“Fuck,” he growled, the word ragged.
He pushed one finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. The sensation was like nothing he’d ever felt—a perfect, agonizing pressure. Signe’s eyes rolled back, her head falling forward, a curtain of dark hair hiding her face. Her body was rigid, every muscle taut.
Anne watched, her own arousal a fresh, slick heat between her legs. She quickened her pace on Harry’s cock, her fist a blur. “She’s going to come, Harry. Just from your finger. Look at her.”
Signe was trembling, her knees buckling. A low, desperate moan escaped her lips. She was close, teetering on the edge, her controlled world completely shattered by a single invading touch.
Harry looked from Signe’s trembling form back to Anne’s fierce, triumphant eyes. He was trapped between them, a conduit for their sudden, electric power struggle, his own release building into an unavoidable storm.