Chapter 29: The Rebellion of the Sluts
The water from the tap ran clear and hot, but Nat scrubbed until her skin felt thin and scraped. The sound of the lock clicking shut in the hallway was a period at the end of her sentence. Her triumph had lasted less than five minutes.
She shut off the water. Listened.
Muffled voices through the bathroom door. A low, male laugh. Then, the distinct, rhythmic slap of skin against tile, wet and frantic. Annika. It had to be. A high, girlish gasp—Bambi?—then a shushing sound. The slap of flesh resumed, harder, faster.
Nat’s reflection in the dark window above the sink was a pale ghost superimposed over the city’s graffiti. She adjusted her glasses. Her heart was a cold, hard stone in her chest. They were in there, the three of them, erasing her command with their own wet, sticky collaboration. Her rules were just words. The real currency here was attention, and Chris’s attention was a feral cat that went to whoever fed it.
She didn’t move. She waited. The sounds from the bathroom built to a crescendo—a choked-off male groan, a sharp female cry that was pure satisfaction, a softer, whimpering echo. Then silence, broken only by the gurgle of the building’s pipes and the distant wail of a siren.
The door opened. Chris emerged first, a towel slung low around his hips, his hair damp. He looked spent, but his eyes when they met hers in the dim hallway were clear and unsettlingly calm. He gave her a small, tired smile that wasn’t an apology. It was a receipt.
Annika followed, wrapped in a bathrobe, her long black hair dripping dark spots onto the worn floorboards. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen. She didn’t look at Nat at all, gliding past her into the kitchen to pour a glass of water.
Bambi came last, clutching her clothes to her chest. Her eyes, wide and kohl-smudged, darted to Nat, then away, a flicker of something that might have been guilt or pity. She scurried into the living room and did not return.
Chris leaned against the doorjamb. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft.
The question was an insult. “Peachy,” Nat said, her voice dull.
He pushed off the wall and walked toward her. He stopped close enough for her to smell the sex on him—sweat, feminine arousal, the sharp tang of his own release. “What you did was intense,” he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “It fucked me up. In a good way.”
“I can tell. You seemed real broken up about it.”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “It’s just a different game, Nat. You made a move. They made a counter-move. It doesn’t mean your move wasn’t good.” His finger came up, touched her chin. She didn’t pull away. “It was fucking incredible.”
She hated how his validation could still warm the cold stone inside her. “I don’t want to play games.”
“Everyone here is playing,” he said simply. “The only choice is whether you play to win, or just let the game happen to you.” He dropped his hand. “I like how you play.”
He walked past her into the kitchen, leaving her alone in the hallway.
The next afternoon, the kitchen was a battlefield of passive aggression. Nat was methodically cleaning, attacking the grime on the stove with a viciousness it didn’t deserve. Annika sat at the table, painting her nails a violent shade of purple, the acrid smell of polish cutting through the lemon cleaner.
Bambi was buzzing around, trying to be helpful, putting away dishes that clattered too loudly.
“So,” Annika said, blowing on her nails. “You’ve decided you’re the queen of the castle now?”
Nat scrubbed a burnt-on stain. “I’ve decided I don’t like living in a brothel.”
Annika’s laugh was a short, sharp crack. “You moved into one. You just didn’t know the price of admission.” She capped her polish. “Chris isn’t a toy you can put on a shelf after you’re done. He’s communal property.”
Nat turned, leaning against the counter. “He’s a person. And last I checked, he came when I told him to, not you.”
“He came after you,” Annika corrected, her eyes glinting. “Big difference. We just… cleaned up the mess. Didn’t we, Bambs?”
Bambi flinched, dropping a spoon. “Yeah. I guess.”
“See?” Annika stood, unfolding her slim height. “You want to claim territory? That’s cute. But this isn’t your territory. You’re dating the ghost in the other room.” She gestured vaguely toward Micha’s closed door. “Chris is ours. He’s been ours. A new haircut and a bossy attitude doesn’t change the deed.”
Nat felt the anger, hot and precise, lance through her. She stepped away from the counter. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. It is.” Annika took a step closer. Bambi shrank back against the fridge.
Before Nat could speak, the kitchen door swung open. Chris walked in, barefoot, wearing only his low-slung basketball shorts again. He blinked at the tension, a grocery bag in his hand. “Hey. We out of coffee?”
“We’re out of a lot of things,” Annika said, not taking her eyes off Nat. “Like boundaries.”
Chris set the bag down. He looked from Annika’s defiant stare to Nat’s rigid posture, to Bambi’s nervous silence. A slow, understanding smile spread across his face. It wasn’t concerned. It was intrigued.
“Okay,” he said, his voice a lazy drawl. “So we’re doing this now.”
“Doing what?” Nat hissed.
“The negotiation.” He leaned back against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. His biceps flexed. He was utterly relaxed, a king observing a dispute over his crown. “You all want something from me. That’s fine. I’m a generous guy. But this sneaky shit, this backroom bathroom stuff… it’s messy. I don’t like messy.”
Annika scoffed. “You love messy.”
“I love fun,” he corrected. His eyes landed on Nat. “What do you want, Nat? You wanted Erna gone. She’s gone. You wanted to show me who’s boss. You did. What’s the next move?”
Nat’s mouth was dry. This was his talent. Turning conflict into a dialogue where he held the gavel. “I want it to stop being a free-for-all.”
“And what do you want, Anni?” he asked, turning his head.
Annika’s defiance softened into a pout. “I want my friend back. I want things how they were.”
“Bambi?” Chris’s voice was softer.
Bambi chewed her lip. “I… I don’t want anyone to be mad. I just want to… belong.”
Chris nodded, as if they’d presented very reasonable business proposals. “Okay. So. Here’s how this is going to go.” He pushed off the table and walked to the center of the kitchen. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts. “You’re all here. I’m here. We’re going to settle this. Right now.”
He looked at Nat. “You think you own this?” He pushed his shorts and boxers down in one fluid motion. His cock, half-hard already, swung heavily between his legs. “Prove it.”
He looked at Annika. “You think you have seniority? Back up your claim.”
Finally, he glanced at Bambi. “You want to belong? Then get in here and pick a side.”
The air left the room. The humming fridge was the only sound. Nat stared at the thick, familiar length of him. It was a dare, a challenge, a test she hadn’t studied for.
Annika moved first. With a smirk of triumph, she sank to her knees in front of him. Her small hand wrapped around his base, and she leaned forward, taking the head into her mouth with a practiced, wet slide.
Chris groaned, his head falling back. His hand came to rest on top of Annika’s head, not guiding, just present.
Nat watched, her blood pounding in her ears. This was the counter-move. Again.
But then Chris opened his eyes. He looked straight at Nat over Annika’s bobbing head. His gaze was dark, intent. He slowly, deliberately, lifted his hand from Annika’s head and extended it toward Nat.
An invitation. A choice.
Every instinct told her to walk away, to let him be their problem. But walking away was letting the game happen to her. It was surrender.
She stepped forward. She placed her hand in his. His fingers closed, warm and tight.
He pulled her gently, turning her so her back was to his front. Annika, deep-throating him now, gagging slightly, was just a spectacle below them. Chris’s other arm wrapped around Nat’s waist, his half-hard cock pressed against the seam of her jeans through Annika’s working mouth.
“You see her?” he murmured into Nat’s ear, his breath hot. “She’s good. She’s so fucking good. But she’s just servicing. You…” He bit her earlobe, not gently. “You give the orders. Remember?”
His hand slid down from her waist, over her hip, and cupped her between her legs through her jeans. She was already wet, a humiliating betrayal. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against her clit, making her jerk.
“Tell her to stop,” he whispered.
Nat’s vision swam. Annika’s slurping sounds were loud, obscene. Bambi was watching from by the fridge, her hands over her mouth, eyes huge.
“Stop,” Nat heard herself say. Her voice sounded weak.
Annika didn’t stop. She redoubled her efforts, taking him deeper, humming around him.
“She can’t hear you,” Chris taunted, grinding his palm against Nat. “You have to make her hear you.”
Nat reached down, her fingers tangling in Annika’s sleek black hair. She yanked, hard.
Annika came off with a wet, gasping cry, a string of saliva connecting her lip to the shiny, spit-slick crown of Chris’s cock. “What the fuck?!”
“I said stop,” Nat snarled. The fury felt clean, purifying.
Chris laughed, a low rumble against Nat’s back. “Good. Now tell her what to do.”
Nat’s mind raced. Her heart was a trapped bird. She looked at Annika’s furious, flushed face, at Bambi’s terrified awe. She looked at Chris’s hand, still working her through her jeans, bringing her to the edge in front of them all.
“Get up,” Nat commanded Annika. “Go stand with Bambi. And watch.”
For a second, Annika looked like she might spit. Then she looked up at Chris. His face was an unmoved mask of pleasure. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Defeated, Annika stood, wiping her mouth. She slunk over to Bambi, crossing her arms.
Chris released Nat. He turned her around to face him. “Now,” he said, loud enough for everyone. “What’s your order?”
Nat’s hands were trembling. She pushed him back until his ass hit the edge of the kitchen table. She dropped to her knees, taking his place on the floor still warm from Annika. She didn’t use her mouth. She wrapped her hand around him, slick with Annika’s spit, and began to stroke, fast and ruthless.
“You,” she said, looking up at his face, “don’t come until I tell her to make you come.” She jerked her head toward Annika.
Chris’s eyebrows shot up. A genuine surprise. A slow, delighted smile spread across his face. “Fuck. Yes. Okay.”
He was fully hard now, a brutal, throbbing weight in her fist. She worked him, using the same cruel, edging technique from the morning, but now it was a public performance. She brought him to the brink, his stomach muscles clenching, his breaths coming in sharp pants, then she stopped, squeezing the base until he shuddered.
“Now,” Nat said, without looking away from Chris’s straining face. “Annika. On your knees. Finish it.”
A beat of silence. Then the sound of Annika moving. She knelt beside Nat, their shoulders almost touching. Nat could smell her shampoo, her anger. Annika’s hand joined Nat’s on his shaft, their fingers interlacing around him in a twisted collaboration. Annika leaned in, taking just the head into her mouth, swirling her tongue.
“Both of you,” Chris groaned, his hands fistfuls of his own hair. “God, fuck…”
It was grotesque. It was intimate. Nat stroked the base while Annika sucked the head, their rhythms syncing out of sheer competitive need. Bambi whimpered from the sidelines.
Chris’s control shattered. “I’m gonna… fuck, I’m gonna—”
“Now,” Nat breathed.
Annika took him deep, and Chris came with a raw shout, his hips pumping off the table. Nat felt the pulsing throb through their joined hands. Annika sucked hard, swallowing, a greedy, audible gulp. When she pulled off, she was panting, her chin glistening.
Nat let go. She stood up, her knees aching. She looked at the two girls—Annika on her knees, spent and used; Bambi pressed against the fridge, looking like she might either cry or touch herself.
Chris slumped back on the table, a sated, sweaty mess. He grinned up at Nat, a boy who’d just been given the best present.
Nat pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened the camera. She pointed it at Chris, still sprawled on the table, softening cock lying on his thigh, at Annika wiping her mouth, at Bambi’s shocked face.
She took a picture. The flash was a shock of white in the dim kitchen.
“That,” Nat said, her voice cold and steady, “is the new deed. Any questions about the property lines now?”
No one spoke. The only sound was Chris’s slowing breath.
Nat turned and walked out. Her legs felt like water, but her head was clear. She had played his game. She had used his rules. And she had, for this moment at least, won.
But as she climbed the stairs to her room, the image on her phone screen burned behind her eyes: not a trophy, but a contract. And she had just signed her name in blood.