Chapter 4: In her mouth
The throne had a plan, a cold, detailed schematic of revenge that unfolded behind Chloe’s eyes as she stared at the vacant doorway. She pushed herself up from the rug, her muscles protesting, each movement a reminder of the weight they had so recently borne. The phantom warmth on her face was an insult.
She walked to her art desk, her steps deliberate. Her fingers brushed past the tubes of paint and settled on the bottle of super-heavy-duty acrylic adhesive. Then she looked at the limited-edition running shoes by the door, their pristine white mesh seeming to mock her from across the room. A smile, thin and sharp, touched her lips.
This would require precision, not frenzy.
The floorboard creaked again. Bethany stood back in the doorway, not for her phone this time. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a look of fresh amusement on her face. "You're still all pouty, aren't you? I could hear you scheming from the hall."
Chloe's hand closed around the glue bottle. "Just admiring your shoes. They're so… clean."
"Don't even think about it," Bethany said, her voice dropping to a playful warning. She pushed off the doorframe and took a step into the room. "I think you need a cooling-off period. Literally."
Before Chloe could react, Bethany closed the distance. This wasn't the slow, ceremonial dominance of before; it was a swift, practiced maneuver. She grabbed Chloe’s wrists, her grip like iron, and used her own momentum to spin her around and shove her backward.
Chloe landed on the beanbag with a soft whump of displaced pellets, sinking deep into its shapeless form. Bethany was on her in an instant, not with her full weight, but with a knee pressed firmly into her stomach, pinning her in the yielding fabric.
"Get off!" Chloe grunted, trying to buck her off, but the beanbag absorbed her movements, making them useless.
"Or what? You'll glue my shoes?" Bethany laughed, a short, sharp sound. She leaned forward, her face inches from Chloe's. "You need to accept your place. It's healthier."
With that, she shifted her weight, sliding down from her knee until she was sitting fully on Chloe’s torso. The beanbag compressed further, molding around them both. Bethany then leaned back, her hands braced on Chloe’s thighs, and settled her full weight.
The air left Chloe’s lungs in a puffed sigh. She was trapped, not by hard muscle against hard floor, but by a smothering softness that gave way yet offered no escape. She was buried in her own furniture.
"See? Comfy," Bethany said, her voice a model of casual cruelty. She wiggled slightly, sinking them both deeper into the bag.
Chloe squirmed, but it was like fighting quicksand. Every movement only seemed to tighten the hold the beanbag had on her. She could feel the individual pellets shifting under her weight and Bethany’s, a thousand tiny points of pressure.
Bethany just watched her struggle, a faint, bored smile on her face. She adjusted her position, a subtle shift of her hips that pressed down more directly on Chloe’s diaphragm.
A deep, internal gurgle echoed from within Bethany, a sound Chloe had come to dread. It was a low, liquid rumble that promised a specific kind of humiliation.
Chloe froze, her eyes widening. "Don't you dare."
"Or what?" Bethany repeated, her smile widening. She leaned back, a clear, deliberate signal.
The sound that followed was a long, low, bubbling exhalation that vibrated through the beanbag itself. It wasn't loud or sharp, but it was pervasive, a damp tremor that Chloe felt through her entire body. The smell rose instantly, a warm, familiar wave of digestive triumph that filled the air around their entangled forms.
Chloe gagged, turning her head to the side, but there was no escaping it this time. The funk settled around them, a private atmosphere of victory and defeat.
Bethany sighed, a sound of pure contentment. She didn't move. She made no attempt to get up, to gloat further, or to escalate the situation. She simply sat there, a solid, warm, and now fragrant weight.
The initial struggle drained out of Chloe, replaced by a simmering, impotent rage. She was pinned, humiliated, and forced to breathe the air her sister had so blatantly polluted. She stared at the ceiling, her jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Bethany reached over to the side table, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. A game show blared to life. She settled in, as if for a long viewing session.
She was just letting her breathe.
She continues to sit there, an immovable fact. The weight is constant, the smell a lingering taunt. Chloe’s hand, trapped at her side, slowly unclenches. Her fingers brush against a stray, hardened blob of paint that had flaked off a brush and embedded itself in the beanbag’s fabric. It was sharp. Her plan, momentarily shattered by this fresh subjugation, began to reform, harder and sharper than before. The glue was one option. This was another. She just had to wait.
The throne had a plan, a detailed and beautiful revenge sketched in her mind with the precision of a master illustrator. It involved that tube of industrial-strength adhesive, the fluorescent pink paint, and a very specific, biologically volatile burrito. But plans, especially beautiful ones, require a clear head and a body that isn’t currently being used as furniture. The memory of minty body wash and humid, suffocating heat was a fresh brand on her psyche.
She needed to move, to reclaim her space. Pushing herself up from the rug, her joints protested, stiff and aching from the prolonged pressure. She took a shaky step towards her sanctuary—the beanbag and its comforting nest of art supplies.
A shadow fell over her.
“Going somewhere?”
Bethany’s voice was like warm honey, a deceptive calm that didn’t match the predatory stillness in her stance. She hadn’t gone upstairs. She’d been waiting, leaning against the doorframe, watching Chloe’s feeble attempt at recovery. The phone was still in her hand, a prop in her ongoing performance of dominance.
“I’m done, Bethany. You won. It’s over.” Chloe tried to sidestep her, but Bethany shifted, a subtle blockade.
“Is it?” Bethany’s head tilted, her short blonde hair catching the light. “The contest is over. The consequences are still in play.” She gestured with her chin towards the center of the room. “I don’t think you’ve fully accepted your new role.”
A cold knot tightened in Chloe’s stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“The throne doesn’t get to decide when the queen is done sitting.” Before Chloe could process the words, Bethany’s hands were on her shoulders again. The shove was familiar, practiced, sending Chloe stumbling back until her legs hit the low, worn sofa. She collapsed into the cushions, a puff of dust motes dancing in the air.
Bethany was on her before the dust settled.
This time, she didn’t turn. She simply knelt, straddling Chloe’s lap, and pushed her backward until her head was pressed into the armrest. Then, with that infuriating, deliberate grace, she lowered herself. The soft, worn cotton of her sweatpants pressed against Chloe’s face, a déjà vu of suffocation.
“This is getting really old,” Chloe muttered, the words muffled and hollow against the fabric.
“And yet, here we are.” Bethany adjusted her weight, a comfortable, settling motion that pushed the air from Chloe’s lungs. She wasn’t just sitting; she was making herself at home. One of her hands rested casually on her own thigh, the other picked up the remote from the side table, clicking on the television.
A low, internal gurgle, deep and resonant, vibrated through Chloe’s skull. She flinched, her body tensing for the inevitable, foul release.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, Bethany just sighed, a contented little sound, and changed the channel. The low rumble subsided, a threat held in abeyance. The pressure on Chloe’s face was constant, a heavy, warm presence that allowed for thin, strained breaths. The air was warm and carried the faint, clean scent of laundry detergent from Bethany’s sweats, undercut by the subtle, musky hint of her body.
“You’re just… letting me breathe?” Chloe’s voice was a strained whisper.
“For now,” Bethany said, her attention seemingly on a cooking show. “A throne needs to be functional. Can’t have you passing out again. That’s no fun for anyone.”
This was different. This was worse. The outright assaults were violent and humiliating, but they had a beginning and an end. This was a sustained occupation, a casual, almost bored display of total control. Bethany wasn’t just punishing her; she was using her, as unthinkingly as someone would use a footstool.
Chloe lay trapped, the initial panic cooling into a simmering, impotent fury. She could breathe, but each breath was a reminder of her powerlessness. She could see the flickering light of the TV from the periphery, hear the inane chatter of a game show host. It was all so normal, so domestic, while she was buried alive beneath her sister.
Bethany shifted slightly, a minute adjustment that made the springs in the sofa creak. Another deep, internal tremor passed through her, a lazy, gathering pressure that promised a different kind of announcement. Chloe braced herself, her fingers curling into the sofa cushions.
The sound was softer this time, a low, prolonged sigh of air that wasn’t violent, but conversational. It was a dismissive puff, a casual period at the end of a sentence no one had spoken. The warmth that bloomed against Chloe’s face through the cotton was subtle, carrying a faint, earthy aroma that was undeniably Bethany’s.
“See?” Bethany said, her voice utterly unchanged, as if she’d just commented on the weather. “Perfectly civilized.”
She reached for her water glass from the coffee table, took a long sip, and placed it back down. The entire action was performed from her seated position on Chloe’s face, a seamless integration of dominance into her daily routine.
Chloe closed her eyes. The plan—the beautiful, detailed plan—was still there, locked away. But it felt distant, a theoretical blueprint for a future that might never come. The present was only weight, and warmth, and the slow, crushing realization that for Bethany, this wasn’t an event. It was just how things were now.
And she continued.
The throne had a plan. It was not a plan born of hot rage, but something colder and far more patient, crystallizing in the dark behind Chloe’s eyes as she finally pushed herself up from the rug. Her face felt raw, the phantom press of skin and the lingering, minty-foul air a brand on her memory. She walked on unsteady legs to the kitchen, not to escape, but to gather intelligence.
She filled a glass with water, the cool liquid a balm on her traumatized throat. Her eyes scanned the counter, cataloging the tools of her sister’s life: the blender for protein shakes, the tub of pre-workout, the specific brand of Greek yogurt Bethany was fanatical about. Each item was a piece of the puzzle. Revenge wouldn’t be a prank; it would be a systemic dismantling. A slow, subtle corruption of the very foundation of Bethany’s controlled, athletic world.
She heard the shower shut off upstairs. The pipes in the walls groaned their conclusion. Chloe placed the empty glass in the sink with a quiet, final click. Her gaze fell upon the trash can, and the empty can of baked beans she’d eaten for lunch yesterday. A slow, wicked smile touched her lips. It was a start.
The next morning, sunlight streamed into the chaotic living room, illuminating dust motes dancing over the battlefield. Bethany was already there, a vision of militant wellness in her matching athleisure set, pulverizing a kale and spinach smoothie in the blender. The aggressive whirring was a declaration of war.
“Sleep well?” Bethany asked without looking up, her voice a chirpy dagger.
“Like a baby,” Chloe lied, slumping at the kitchen island. She watched Bethany’s precise movements, the way she scraped every last green drop into her tall glass. “That looks… healthy.”
“It’s fuel,” Bethany said, taking a long, performative gulp. “You should try it sometime. Might clear out your pipes.” She delivered the line with a winking smile, then let out a sharp, crisp fart that cut through the smoothie’s whirring aftermath. It was a punctuation mark.
Chloe didn’t flinch. She just propped her chin on her hand. “Sounds productive.”
Bethany’s eyes narrowed slightly, thrown by the lack of reaction. She finished her smoothie and slammed the empty glass on the counter. “Right. I’m off to crush legs. Don’t burn the place down with your… art.”
The moment the front door clicked shut, Chloe moved. She wasn’t rushing; she was executing. She went straight to the blender pitcher, still flecked with green, and inspected it. Then she opened the fridge, her eyes landing on the single, crucial item: Bethany’s large, personal tub of plain Greek yogurt. She lifted the lid. It was three-quarters full, a pristine white landscape.
From the pocket of her baggy sweatshirt, she produced a small, unlabeled bottle of clear liquid. The super-strong, odorless laxative had been an interesting purchase. With the steady hand of a chemist, she squeezed a generous stream into the yogurt, then folded it in with a clean spoon until it vanished completely. She carefully smoothed the surface, erasing all evidence.
She was in her studio, feigning work on a canvas splattered with angry magenta, when Bethany returned hours later. Her sister was sweating, glowing with endorphins, and headed straight for the fridge.
“God, I’m starving,” Bethany announced, pulling out the yogurt tub. She scooped a huge portion into a bowl, added a handful of blueberries, and devoured it standing at the counter. “What did you do all day?” she asked between bites.
“Oh, you know,” Chloe said, wiping a brush on a rag. “Just mixing things.”
The first sign came about twenty minutes later. Bethany, who was scrolling on her phone on the sofa, suddenly stopped. A low, deep gurgle echoed in the quiet room, a sound very different from her usual confident reports. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Whoa,” she muttered, pressing a hand to her stomach.
Chloe looked up from her painting, her expression one of mild curiosity. “Everything okay? You look a little… green.”
Before Bethany could answer, her body answered for her. It wasn’t a fart, but a desperate, wet-sounding sputter that betrayed a complete loss of muscular control. A look of pure shock flashed across Bethany’s face, followed immediately by a wave of panic. She clenched her legs together, her knuckles turning white where she gripped the couch cushion.
“What did you do?” she hissed, her voice tight with a mixture of pain and dawning horror.
Chloe just gave a small, innocent shrug, turning back to her canvas. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Maybe that ‘fuel’ is finally refining your crude oil.”
Another, more urgent rumble tore through Bethany, and she shot up from the couch as if electrocuted. She moved toward the hallway bathroom with a stiff, hurried gait, a prisoner trying not to sprint to her cell. She didn’t make it. Halfway across the living room rug, her body betrayed her completely.
A long, groaning, liquid sound escaped, utterly beyond her control. It was followed by a hot, sharp smell that was unmistakably, humiliatingly different. It was the smell of failure.
Bethany froze, her back to Chloe, her shoulders rigid with mortification. The invincible queen had been dethroned by her own bowels.
Chloe set her brush down in a jar of murky water. The sound was soft, yet definitive in the stunned silence. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The putrid air hanging between them was her victory speech. She walked past her paralyzed sister, her footsteps silent on the rug, and ascended the stairs without a single glance back. The plan was only beginning.
The throne had a plan, and it began with silence. Chloe did not scream or throw things. She simply stood, walked to the kitchen, and ran a glass of cold water, drinking it slowly as she stared at the wall. Her mind was not a storm of emotion but a quiet, focused machine, assembling components. The super glue. The fluorescent pink paint. The ghost chili hot sauce she’d been too afraid to open.
She waited until the water upstairs stopped running, until she heard Bethany’s bedroom door click shut. Then she moved.
Her first stop was the entryway. Bethany’s limited-edition running shoes, bright cyan and silver, sat pristine by the door. Chloe picked one up, feeling the expensive, lightweight mesh. She unscrewed the cap of the super glue with a soft crack. With surgical precision, she ran a bead along the inside rim of the collar, where the ankle would rest. She pressed the fabric gently, ensuring a bond that would feel seamless until the first, desperate attempt to put them on.
Next, the paint. She didn’t squirt it. She dipped a fine-tipped brush into the neon pink and carefully painted the inside of the other shoe’s heel cushion, a hidden, shocking bloom of color that would transfer perfectly onto a sweaty sock.
“Comfy, right?” she whispered to the shoe, a hollow echo of Bethany’s taunt.
The final touch was the hot sauce. She pried the safety seal off the tiny bottle with a pop. Using an eyedropper from her art supplies, she drew up the viscous, crimson liquid. One, two, three drops into the vent holes along the sole of the first shoe. The heat would activate with moisture, with the pounding rhythm of a run. It was a time bomb.
She returned the shoes to their exact position, a soldier resetting a trap. Then she cleaned her tools, wiping every surface. The entire operation had taken less than ten minutes, and the living room was once again a scene of casual disorder, betraying nothing.
She slept deeply that night, dreaming not of revenge, but of satisfied silence.
The next morning, Bethany bounded down the stairs, already in her running gear. “Big one today,” she announced, stretching her hamstrings. “Ten miles. Maybe twelve.”
Chloe looked up from her sketchbook, feigning mild interest. “Don’t strain anything.”
“Oh, I plan to strain everything,” Bethany grinned, shoving her feet into the cyan shoes. She paused for a fraction of a second, a faint wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows as she wiggled her right foot. She tugged at the collar, then shrugged, tying the laces with practiced, aggressive pulls.
Chloe held her breath. The glue had held. The trap was set.
Bethany stood, bouncing on her toes. “Feels good. Ready to dominate.” She shot Chloe a wink that was all teeth. “Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone.”
The front door slammed shut, its vibration echoing through the quiet house. Chloe didn’t move. She counted the seconds, then the minutes, listening to the metronome of the kitchen clock. She pictured the run: the first mile, the glue warming against skin, the hot sauce sleeping. The fifth mile, sweat beginning to soak the hidden pink paint. The eighth mile, the real pain beginning to bloom.
Twenty minutes later, her phone buzzed on the couch beside her. Bethany’s name flashed on the screen. Chloe let it go to voicemail.
It buzzed again. And again.
On the fourth call, she picked up. She said nothing.
A ragged, pain-twisted breath came through the speaker, followed by Bethany’s voice, stripped of its confidence and raw with fury. “What did you do?”
Chloe remained silent, her thumb hovering over the end call button.
“My ankle is on fire,” Bethany hissed, the words tight. “It’s… it’s burning. And my sock is… it’s pink! What is this?!”
A small, cold smile finally touched Chloe’s lips. She brought the phone closer to her mouth.
“Mostly hot sauce,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “The pink is just for fun.”
She ended the call and placed the phone face down on the cushion. The silence in the house was no longer heavy. It was perfect. She picked up her charcoal and began to sketch, the lines sharp and confident. Outside, the distant wail of frustration was sweeter than any music.
The slam of the front door was a thunderclap that shook the framed pictures on the wall. Chloe didn’t look up from her sketchbook. She was adding delicate cross-hatching to a drawing of a beautifully detailed, poisonous flower.
Bethany’s footsteps were a violent stomp on the hardwood floor. She appeared in the living room archway, her face a mask of sweaty, crimson rage. One shoe was clutched in her white-knuckled hand; the other was still on her foot, its hidden glue job now a twisted, deformed cuff around her ankle. A violent, blotchy pink stain spread across her white sock.
“You,” she seethed, the single word vibrating with pure, undiluted fury.
Chloe finally lifted her gaze, letting it travel slowly from the ruined shoe to her sister’s enraged face. She kept her expression neutral, almost bored. “You’re tracking sweat on the floor.”
Bethany’s arm drew back, and she hurled the shoe she was holding. It wasn’t aimed at Chloe; it was a blast of pure frustration. It slammed into the tower of pizza boxes, sending them cascading across the floor in a greasy avalanche.
“You think this is funny?” Bethany took a step forward, her body coiled like a spring. The heat from the capsaicin seemed to radiate from her, a palpable wave of anger and pain. “You ruined my shoes. My skin is burning.”
“I didn’t ruin them,” Chloe corrected, setting her charcoal down with a deliberate click. “I accessorized them. They were always a little bland.”
With a roar of inarticulate rage, Bethany lunged. It wasn’t the calculated dominance of before; this was a raw, blind tackle. She crashed into Chloe, sending the sketchbook flying and the charcoal skittering under the sofa. They landed in a heap on the rug, a tangle of limbs and fury.
Bethany was stronger, always had been. She used her weight to pin Chloe’s shoulders, her knees digging into Chloe’s biceps. The smell of sweat and hot, angry skin filled the space between them.
“You pathetic little artist,” Bethany spat, her breath hot on Chloe’s face. “You can’t win a real fight, so you pull this cowardly crap?”
Chloe struggled, but it was useless. The pressure on her arms was excruciating, cutting off circulation. She was trapped again, but this time, the humiliation was different. It was laced with the acrid taste of her own failed gambit. She had provoked the beast, and now it was going to devour her.
Bethany’s eyes narrowed, the fury in them cooling into something more terrifying: absolute certainty. She leaned down, her mouth inches from Chloe’s ear.
“You wanted a reaction?” she whispered, the sound a venomous promise. “You got one.”
She shifted her weight, maintaining the brutal pin on Chloe’s arms with one hand while the other grabbed a fistful of Chloe’s colorful hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. It was a gesture of total control, a complete subjugation.
“Let’s see how you like breathing now,” Bethany said, her voice dropping to a low, menacing register.
She began to lower her body, not onto Chloe’s face, but down her torso, a slow, crushing descent. The intent was clear, a horrifying callback that promised an even more intimate and prolonged suffocation. The fight had gone out of Chloe, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. She had won a battle, but it seemed she was about to lose the war in the most degrading way possible.
Bethany stopped.
Her full weight wasn't on Chloe yet. She was poised, a predator savoring the final moment before the kill. She looked down at her sister’s terrified, resigned face, and a different, more complex emotion flickered in her eyes, buried deep beneath the anger. It wasn’t pity. It was calculation.
A long, tense silence stretched between them, broken only by their ragged breathing.
Then, Bethany slowly, deliberately, relaxed the pressure on Chloe’s arms. She didn’t let go, but the crushing force eased. She shifted her position just enough.
“Fine,” Bethany said, her voice quiet but firm. “You can breathe.”
She settled her weight more evenly across Chloe’s hips and stomach, a heavy, oppressive presence, but one that left her ribcage free. It was a confinement, not a suffocation. Bethany looked down at her, the raw rage now banked into a smoldering, watchful intensity. She was still in complete control, but the terms had changed.
She was just letting her breathe. She continues.