Chapter 3: Ass to Mouth, No Mercy
The plan was a cold, sharp shard of glass in her mind, cutting through the residual humiliation. She would wait until Bethany was at work, then she would execute her designs with the precision of a master restorer fixing a botched painting. The super glue was for the ventilation holes in those obnoxiously bright running shoes. The hot sauce, a different, more insidious brand than the one on the burrito, would go inside the lining.
But first, she had to breathe air that didn't taste of her sister.
She pushed herself up from the rug, her muscles protesting, and stumbled toward the kitchen for water. The tap ran cold, and she gulped it directly from the stream, letting it wash the phantom tastes from her tongue. The back of her throat still felt raw. She heard the floorboards above her creak under Bethany’s confident weight, a sound that now felt like a deliberate taunt.
A fresh wave of heat, entirely her own this time, bloomed low in her abdomen. It was a familiar, gurgling pressure, a direct consequence of the stress and the cheap burrito. She clenched, trying to force the sensation down, to deny it any existence. Denial was her first and only line of defense.
The kitchen door swung open. Bethany stood there, now dressed in sleek gym leggings and a tight tank top, her damp hair slicked back. Her eyes, sharp and perceptive, scanned Chloe’s tense posture, the way she was slightly hunched over the sink.
“Holding in a cloudburst, Chlo?” Bethany asked, her voice light and mocking. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “You know, for someone who claims her gas doesn’t stink, you spend a lot of time looking like a bomb disposal expert.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chloe muttered, turning off the tap. Her stomach let out a low, audible groan that contradicted her completely.
Bethany’s grin was instantaneous and predatory. “Your guts are singing the song of our people. Don’t be ashamed of your heritage.” She pushed off the doorframe and took a few steps into the kitchen, her presence immediately shrinking the room. “Let it out. I’ll even rate it for you. Judging from your diet, I’m expecting a solid, paint-peeling eight out of ten.”
“Just leave me alone, Beth.” Chloe tried to sidestep her, but Bethany moved with her, a mirror of obstruction.
“Nope. You’re all tense from losing. You need to relax.” Her tone was that of a condescending personal trainer. “And I know just the exercise. It’s called ‘unclenching’.”
She moved fast, grabbing Chloe’s shoulders and spinning her around. Before Chloe could even process the maneuver, Bethany had seated herself on a kitchen chair and pulled Chloe backwards, down onto her lap. It wasn't a straddle this time; it was a reverse, with Chloe’s back pressed against Bethany’s front, Bethany’s arms locking her in a firm, inescapable hold.
“What are you doing?” Chloe gasped, squirming against the unyielding grip.
“Helping you,” Bethany purred right next to her ear. She tightened her arms, applying pressure to Chloe’s midsection. “Sometimes you need a little external motivation to… release the pressure.”
Chloe bucked and struggled, but it was useless. Bethany was stronger, her hold expert. The more Chloe fought, the more the internal pressure built, a trapped, bubbling vortex demanding escape. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing all her will on containment.
“Fight it all you want,” Bethany whispered, her breath hot on Chloe’s neck. “You can’t win. Your body’s betraying you. I can feel it.”
And then, with a final, crushing squeeze from Bethany’s arms, the battle was lost.
It escaped not with a bang, but a long, defeated sigh of air that seemed to go on forever. The sound was soft, almost weary, but the smell that accompanied it was anything but. It was a complex, acrid wave, a testament to processed cheese, beans, and simmering resentment.
Bethany didn’t flinch. She actually leaned in, inhaling deeply with an exaggerated, theatrical appreciation. “Oh, wow. That’s a nine. A real masterpiece of misery.” She gave Chloe a final, patronizing pat on the stomach before releasing her. “See? Don’t you feel better?”
Chloe scrambled off her lap, her face burning with a fresh layer of shame. She stared at her sister, who looked immensely pleased with herself.
“You’re disgusting,” Chloe breathed, the words lacking any real force.
“I’m not the one who just weaponized a bean burrito,” Bethany said, standing up and stretching. She headed for the front door, grabbing her keys from the hook. “I’ve got a client. Try not to asphyxiate any small pets while I’m gone.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Chloe alone in the silent, contaminated kitchen. The humiliation was a live wire, but it was now fused with a new, cold certainty. The plan for the shoes was good. It was a start. But it wasn't enough. Not nearly.
She needed something more profound, something that would strike at the core of Bethany’s invincible confidence. She looked around the room, her artist’s eye seeing not objects, but possibilities. The nearly full bottle of olive oil on the counter. The loose floorboard near the fridge she’d been meaning to fix.
A slow, grim smile touched her lips. The throne was done being sat upon. It was time to become a trapdoor.
The throne had a plan. It was a detailed, beautiful thing involving the super glue and a very precise application of chili oil to the inner lining of Bethany’s favorite running shoes. But plans, like sisters, could be unpredictable. Chloe’s moment of strategic clarity was shattered by the returning squeak of bare feet on the floorboards.
Bethany reappeared in the doorway, not for her phone this time, but with a lazy, predatory curiosity. Her eyes scanned the room and landed on Chloe, still on the floor, her breathing not yet steady. "You're still down there? I thought you'd be sketching your revenge or something."
"I'm contemplating the structural integrity of your sneakers," Chloe muttered, pushing herself up. Her legs felt like over-cooked spaghetti.
Bethany’s laugh was a short, sharp bark. "Cute." She took two swift steps forward and placed a foot on Chloe’s chest, not with brutal force, but with the casual authority of a climber claiming a foothold. The pressure was firm, insistent, pushing her back down. "But the contest is still in session. I decide when it's over."
"Get off," Chloe grunted, trying to shove the foot away. It was like trying to bend a tree trunk.
"Or what? You'll deny me your company?" Bethany leaned her weight forward, her balance perfect. The sole of her foot was warm and slightly damp from the shower. She looked down, her head tilted. "You know, for a throne, you're remarkably uncooperative."
She shifted her weight, and the pressure on Chloe's sternum became a dull, constant ache. Then, with a sigh of mock exasperation, Bethany began to lower herself. It wasn't the dramatic, crushing descent from before; this was slower, more methodical, a deliberate resumption of a known position. She turned, her movements economical, and settled back onto Chloe’s face.
The world compressed once more to the intimate, oppressive reality of skin and weight. The clean scent of eucalyptus was gone, replaced by the simple, warm smell of Bethany herself. Chloe’s hands came up, but her push was weaker now, fueled by exhaustion and a dawning, grinding despair.
Bethany adjusted her seat with a small, comfortable wiggle. "There. Now, breathe."
It was a command, not a permission. The weight was absolute, but calibrated. It was heavy enough to be inescapable, yet just light enough to allow a shallow, strained inhalation. Chloe’s chest hitched, pulling in a thin stream of air that was hot and tasted of salt and skin.
Bethany remained perfectly still, a statue of dominance. She wasn't trying to suffocate her now. This was different. This was about control, about dictating the very rhythm of Chloe's breath. Each labored intake was a concession, each exhale a surrender.
Seconds bled into a minute. The initial panic subsided, replaced by a numb, degrading rhythm. In, out. In, out. Each breath was a transaction she had to pay for with her dignity. She was a living, breathing piece of furniture, and her function was to be sat upon.
Then, Bethany shifted minutely. A low, internal tremor gathered deep within her, a familiar, dreadful prelude. Chloe froze, her body tensing in anticipation of the vile eruption. But it didn't come. Instead, Bethany let out a soft, almost conversational sigh of air.
It was a small, dismissive puff, a punctuation mark on her control. The air was warm and carried a faint, earthy sharpness that made Chloe’s nostrils flare in protest. It was a reminder of what she was capable of, a held threat.
"See?" Bethany’s voice was a calm, vibrating hum. "I can be reasonable."
She held the position for a moment longer, letting the utter totality of her command sink in. Then, with the same quiet finality, she stood. The pressure vanished, leaving Chloe’s face feeling cold and exposed.
Bethany looked down at her, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips. She didn't say another word. She simply turned and walked away, her footsteps retreating up the stairs, leaving behind the sound of Chloe's ragged, free breaths and the cold, hard certainty of a plan that now needed to be perfect.
The throne had a plan, cold and precise as a surgical needle. It unfurled in the dark behind Chloe’s eyes as she lay there, the phantom weight of her sister still pressing down on her soul. Each humiliating detail—the damp skin, the mocking eucalyptus scent, the volcanic gurgle—was a component to be reverse-engineered and weaponized.
She waited until the pipes in the walls stopped groaning, signaling the end of Bethany’s shower. Pushing herself up from the rug, her muscles protested, stiff with lingering shame. She walked to her art desk, her movements deliberate and quiet.
Her fingers closed around the tube of industrial-strength acrylic adhesive. She weighed it in her palm. Then her gaze slid to the pair of garish, limited-edition running shoes by the door, the ones Bethany treated like holy relics. A slow, thin smile touched her lips. “Let’s see how fast you can run,” she whispered to the silent room, “when your feet are glued to the floor.”
The next morning, sunlight stabbed through the kitchen window, too cheerful for the tension simmering in the air. Bethany, already in her workout gear, was chugging a protein shake that smelled like chalk and artificial berries. “Big session today,” she announced, slamming the empty blender cup into the sink. “Leg day. Gonna go for a new squat PR.”
Chloe didn’t look up from her cereal. She pushed a single, sodden oat loop around the bowl with her spoon. “Sounds thrilling.”
“Everything alright? You’re quiet.” Bethany’s tone was laced with a knowing, predatory sweetness. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “You seem a little… deflated this morning.”
Chloe’s spoon stilled. She could feel the ghost of that naked weight on her face, the memory of struggling for air. She took a slow, controlled breath, the kind she used when focusing on a fine detail in a painting. “Just thinking.”
“Careful, that’s dangerous.” Bethany pushed off the counter and strode toward the living room, toward her precious shoes. “Alright, time to fly.”
This was the moment. Chloe held her breath, listening.
The first sound was a rustle as Bethany shoved her foot in. Then a pause. A confused shuffle. “What the…?”
A sharp, tearing sound ripped through the apartment, followed by a string of guttural curses. Chloe finally looked up, allowing herself to witness the scene.
Bethany was hopping on one leg, her face a mask of furious confusion. The brilliant orange shoe was stuck fast to the floorboard, a long, stretched strand of super glue webbing between the sole and the wood. The other shoe was half-on her foot, also adhered. She looked like a bird trapped in tar.
“What did you do?” Bethany snarled, her voice cracking with rage.
“Me?” Chloe asked, her voice dangerously calm. She took a deliberate bite of her cereal, the crunch obscenely loud. “I’m just eating my breakfast.”
Bethany yanked her foot again, a brutal, grunting effort. The shoe didn’t budge, but the sound of stretching glue was sickening. “You little— I’m going to kill you! These were limited edition!”
“I know.” Chloe set her spoon down. “I think they look better as modern art. A commentary on being stuck in one’s ways. Don’t you?”
With a final, furious roar, Bethany committed all her strength to one last pull. There was a loud, ripping crack. The shoe came free, but a sizable piece of the finished wood floor remained glued to its sole. She stumbled backward, clutching the ruined footwear, her chest heaving. Her eyes, when they found Chloe’s, held a pure, undiluted promise of vengeance.
Chloe simply stood, picked up her bowl, and carried it to the sink. She turned on the water, the mundane act a deliberate counterpoint to her sister’s apoplectic silence. She could feel Bethany’s glare burning into her back, a physical heat.
“You have no idea what you’ve just started,” Bethany said, her voice low and shaking.
Chloe turned the water off. The drip from the faucet was the only sound. She turned around, leaning against the counter, and met her sister’s gaze without a flicker of fear.
“I think I do.”
She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Bethany standing amidst the wreckage of her pride and her shoes. The victory was small, a skirmish, but it was hers. The air in the apartment was different now, charged and brittle, the temporary truce shattered into a million sharp pieces. The war was officially, and irrevocably, underway.
The throne had a plan, cold and precise as a surgical needle. It involved the super glue, the hot sauce, and a profound understanding of delayed consequences. But first, she had to breathe this poisoned air a little longer.
Bethany’s shadow fell over her again. “You’re still on the floor? Pathetic.” She nudged Chloe’s hip with her bare foot. “I said I was done. You can get up now.”
Chloe didn’t move. She focused on the grain of the wooden floor, memorizing its patterns. “Just… enjoying the view,” she muttered, her voice hoarse.
A laugh, sharp and loud, cut through the room. “The view of my feet? I knew you were desperate, but wow.” Bethany stepped over her, a deliberate stretch of toned leg, and retrieved her shoes. “Don’t stay down there too long. You’ll start to smell like loser.”
She dropped onto the sofa, the leather sighing under her weight, and began lacing up the prized running shoes. Each pull of the lace was a smug, final tug on her victory.
Chloe finally pushed herself up, her joints protesting. She leaned against the wall, watching. Her face felt raw, and the phantom warmth of Bethany’s skin was a brand on her memory. She said nothing.
“What’s the matter?” Bethany asked without looking up, her fingers working deftly. “Cat got your tongue? Or did I sit on it too hard?”
“Something like that,” Chloe whispered.
She pushed off the wall and walked slowly to her art desk, her back to her sister. Her fingers trailed over the chaos of her supplies—the dried brushes, the squeezed tubes of paint. They stopped next to the tube of industrial-strength adhesive.
“I’m going for a run,” Bethany announced, standing and bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Gotta work off that pizza. Don’t burn the place down with your… creative frustration.”
The front door clicked shut, leaving a sudden, heavy silence in its wake.
Chloe didn’t turn around. She stood perfectly still, listening until the sound of Bethany’s footsteps faded completely down the street. Then, and only then, did she pick up the tube of glue. It was cool and heavy in her hand.
She crossed the room to where Bethany’s second-favorite pair of trainers, worn and smelly, were tucked by the door. She knelt, a priestess at an altar. With steady hands, she unscrewed the cap and squeezed a thick, clear line of glue inside each shoe, right along the inner seam where the toe would press.
It was a start. A small, sticky promise.
A key rattled in the lock. The door swung open. Bethany stood there, a sheen of sweat already on her brow, her breathing slightly elevated. “Forgot my water bottle,” she said, her eyes scanning the room and landing on Chloe, who was now innocently examining a paintbrush.
“You’re back fast,” Chloe said, her voice carefully neutral.
“Felt inspired.” Bethany’s gaze was a physical weight, probing, looking for cracks. She strode to the kitchen, grabbed her bottle, and took a long swallow. Her eyes never left Chloe.
She walked back towards the door, but paused right in front of her sister. The space between them crackled with unspoken threats. Bethany leaned in, her voice a low, intimate whisper. “You’re thinking really loud over there. It’s annoying.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She turned and left again, the door closing with a softer, more definitive click.
This time, Chloe waited a full five minutes, counting the ticks of the clock on the wall. The house was utterly still. She walked to the window and watched the empty street, ensuring her sister was truly gone.
Then she moved.
She went to the fridge and pulled out the bottle of extra-hot chili sauce, the one with the skull and crossbones on the label. She took it and the glue to the bathroom. Bethany’s expensive, seaweed-infused shampoo was in the shower caddy. Chloe unscrewed the cap.
She squeezed a generous amount of glue into the thick, green liquid. Then she added a long, careful stream of hot sauce. She screwed the cap back on and shook the bottle gently, watching the contents swirl into a vile, lumpy concoction.
A slow, genuine smile finally spread across her face. It was a small, contained thing, but it reached her eyes. She placed the bottle back exactly as she found it.
Her work was done for now. The seeds were planted. She walked back into the living room, the ghost of eucalyptus and defeat finally receding from her nostrils, replaced by the sharp, clean smell of vengeance. She picked up her half-finished burrito from where it had been abandoned and took a large, determined bite. The war was far from over.
The throne had a plan, cold and precise as a surgical blade. It involved the super glue, the fluorescent pink paint, and a meticulous understanding of her sister’s pre-dawn running ritual. Chloe pushed herself up from the rug, her muscles protesting, the phantom warmth on her face a persistent brand. She would wait. She would be patient. This required artistry, not a messy brawl.
Bethany’s voice sliced through her plotting from the top of the stairs. “You gonna mope down there all night, or are you finally admitting my digestive system is superior?”
“I’m admitting it has a distinct personality,” Chloe called back, her tone carefully light. She brushed stray threads from the rug off her sweater. “It’s assertive. Like a territorial badger.”
Bethany’s laugh echoed, rich and unconcerned. “It knows its queen.” Her footsteps descended, not with threat, but with a casual ownership of the space. She entered the living room, now wearing loose sleep shorts and a tank top, her damp hair tousled. She surveyed Chloe, who was deliberately arranging her paintbrushes in a jar, projecting an air of calm defeat.
“You’re being weirdly quiet,” Bethany noted, her eyes narrowing a fraction. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. “Plotting your pathetic revenge with glitter and hope?”
“Just appreciating the complexity of the ecosystem in this room,” Chloe said, not looking up. She tapped a brush against the glass. “It’s evolved since the pizza.”
Bethany pushed off the doorframe and walked over, the space between them crackling with unspent energy. She stopped directly in front of Chloe, so close that Chloe could smell the faint, clean scent of soap on her skin, a stark contrast to the memory she carried. “You know, for a cushion, you’re not very comfortable. You need to learn to relax into the role.”
Before Chloe could formulate a retort, Bethany’s hands were on her shoulders. The push was firm, deliberate, and utterly expected. Chloe stumbled back, her legs hitting the edge of the sofa, and she fell into the soft cushions with a grunt. This was part of the script, she told herself. Let her think she’s still in control.
But Bethany wasn’t following the old script. She didn’t turn or straddle her. Instead, she simply leaned over, bracing her hands on the sofa back on either side of Chloe’s head, caging her in. Her face was inches away, her expression unreadable. “You still smell like me,” she murmured, her voice low.
Chloe’s heart hammered against her ribs. “It’s a difficult scent to wash off. It has… staying power.”
“Good.” Bethany’s gaze dropped to Chloe’s lips, then back to her eyes. Then, with a slow, inexorable pressure, she began to lower herself. Not onto her face, but down, her body aligning over Chloe’s, until she was lying fully on top of her, pinning her to the sofa. It was a full-body weight, a heavy, warm blanket of muscle and intent. She rested her head on Chloe’s shoulder, her breath warm against her neck.
“See?” Bethany whispered, her body completely relaxed, a dead weight. “This isn’t so bad. I’m just letting you breathe.”
And she was. Chloe could draw air, but every inhalation was filtered through the reality of her sister’s body pressed against hers. She could feel the steady, slow rise and fall of Bethany’s chest, the solid line of her thighs, the entire, unyielding length of her. It was a different kind of suffocation, a smothering intimacy that was somehow more terrifying than the outright assaults. This was possession, not punishment.
Bethany let out a long, soft sigh, her body sinking even deeper into Chloe’s. She nuzzled her face against the fabric of Chloe’s sweater. “Much better than the floor.” A deep, low gurgle traveled from her core, a seismic event that vibrated through both their bodies. It promised a future release, a held threat. “Just breathe,” Bethany repeated, her voice drowsy with power. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Chloe lay frozen, her own plans seeming small and distant. The weight was absolute. She could only stare at the ceiling, each breath a conscious effort, waiting for the next tremor, trapped not by fabric or force, but by the sheer, crushing intimacy of the victory.