Chapter 72: The Nectar's Price
A week of mountain air did little to scrub the memory of Martha’s stare from my skin. It lingered, a greasy smudge on the mind. But we needed the dresses. The simple, sturdy things Bev was making for us were a claim of normalcy, a uniform for our forays into a world that reacted to us like dry tinder to a spark.
The bell over the door of Bell’s Dressmaking jingled with a brittle cheer.
The shop was unchanged: the bolt of floral cotton on the counter, the headless mannequin in the corner, the sweet, stale scent of fabric softener and dust. But Bev was different.
She stood from her sewing machine, her hands smoothing her apron. A week ago, her blush had been frantic, a wave of crimson. Now, it was a permanent fixture, a faint rose patina beneath the skin of her cheeks and throat. Her eyes, behind their glasses, didn’t dart away. They landed on us and held, dark and unwavering. The nervous flutter was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettling stillness.
“They’re ready,” she said. Her voice wasn’t a whisper. It was low, thick, like honey left in the sun.
She had three garments draped over her arm. Simple shifts, a pale linen. She handed them out, her fingers brushing mine. They were hot. Slightly damp.
“Fitting room’s in the back,” she said, pointing a thumb towards a heavy velvet curtain. “All three can go in. Space is tight.”
We filed behind the curtain into a cramped, mirror-lined cubicle. The air was close, smelling of old perfume and new cloth. We shed our cloaks and our bindings with the practical ease of routine. The cool air on my skin was a relief. I caught Cora’s eye in the mirror, saw the faint sheen of golden dampness already misting my own chest. The scent of it, of me, bloomed instantly in the confined space: cinnamon, pine, wet earth.
We pulled the shifts on. The linen was soft, cool. It fell straight from our shoulders, a stark, simple frame for the bodies it concealed and failed to conceal. On Elara, it hung from the dramatic shelf of her breasts before skimming her powerful torso. On Cora, the fabric pulled taut across the monumental swell of her bosom, the curve of her belly and hips a revolutionary declension beneath the plain cloth. On me, it was looser, but everywhere it touched, it hinted at the wiry, restless shape beneath.
The curtain rustled.
Bev stepped in.
She hadn’t waited to be called. The cubicle, tight for three, became a suffocating cell with four. She didn’t look at our faces. She stared at our reflections in the mirror, her breath coming in short, sharp pulls through her nostrils. The permanent blush on her face darkened to a bruised plum.
“Needs… a tuck,” she muttered, but the words were airless, meaningless. Her eyes were fixed on Cora’s reflection, on the way the linen strain across the front.
She had a pincushion strapped to her wrist. She didn’t reach for a pin. Her hands, those clever seamstress hands, rose. They hovered in the air, trembling, before she pressed her palms flat against Cora’s back, feeling the muscle and warmth through the fabric.
Cora went very still. Not rigid, but poised, like a tree before a storm.
“The fit… here,” Bev breathed. One hand slid slowly, agonizingly, around Cora’s ribcage, coming to rest not on the side, but high on the curve of her breast. Her thumb rubbed a slow, deliberate circle over the linen, directly over the nipple.
A shock went through me, a sympathetic jolt. Heat flooded my core, a sudden, pulsing rush. I felt the leak between my breasts become a trickle, then a steady, warm seep. The golden scent intensified, cloying, undeniable.
Bev moaned. It was a raw, gut-deep sound. Her other hand abandoned all pretense and grabbed a fistful of linen at Cora’s hip, pulling her backwards, arching her body.
“I can smell it,” Bev hissed into Cora’s shoulder. “I dreamt of that smell. It’s in my sheets. In my bread.”
Elara moved, not to intervene, but to lean against the mirror, watching, her arms crossed over her own impressive chest, a dark, approving smile on her lips.
Bev was beyond seeing. She was a woman drowning. Her glasses fogged. She pressed her face into the nape of Cora’s neck, inhaling violently. Her hand on Cora’s breast kneaded, rough and frantic. The linen was soaked there now, a dark patch from my nectar, from Cora’s own excitement, from Bev’s sweating palm.
“You’re not real,” Bev sobbed, her voice breaking. “You’re a feast. You’re a fuckin’ banquet.”
She spun Cora around, her strength fueled by a year of repressed hunger. Cora let herself be spun, her face serene, her eyes half-lidded. Bev’s hands clawed at the neckline of the shift.
“Need to see,” Bev panted. “Need to taste it.”
She yanked. The soft linen, half-pinned, gave way with a brutal rip. Cora’s breasts spilled free, immense and heavy, the nipples dark and taut. Beads of golden nectar glistened on the curves, welling from the faint, sparkling dampness that always coated my skin and, by proximity, now often touched theirs.
Bev made a sound like a dying animal. She fell on Cora, not with a kiss, but with a devouring open mouth. She latched onto a breast, sucking fiercely, her tongue slathering over the areola, lapping at the nectar.
Cora’s head fell back against the mirror with a thud. A shuddering sigh of pure pleasure left her lips. “Oh, that’s it, sweetheart,” she murmured, her hands coming up to tangle in Bev’s mousy brown hair, holding her closer. “Drink it up. It’s for you.”
Bev sucked and slurped, one hand mauling the other breast, pinching and pulling at the nipple. Her other hand shoved down, under the torn shift, pushing between Cora’s thighs. Cora’s legs fell open willingly.
The cubicle was a furnace of panting, slick sounds, and the overpowering, sweet-rut stench of my essence. I felt dizzy with it, my own body throbbing in time with Bev’s frantic motions. I glanced at Elara. She had one hand down the front of her own shift, touching herself, her eyes locked on the scene.
Bev released Cora’s breast with a wet, popping sound. Nectar, saliva, and sweat shone on her chin. She looked deranged, glorious. “Get on the floor,” she growled, her voice shredded. “Now. I need to fuck you. I need to get inside that perfect, goddamn cunt.”
Cora, with effortless grace, slid down the mirror to sit on the worn carpet. Bev was on her in an instant, ripping the shift up around Cora’s waist. She didn’t bother with her own clothes. She wrestled her practical trousers and underwear down to her knees, revealing pale, thick thighs.
She mounted Cora, straddling her hips, and slammed herself down. There was no finesse, no seeking. It was a collision.
“Fuck!” Bev screamed, as she impaled herself on Cora’s fingers, because Cora had been ready, her hand already there, slick and waiting. Bev rode that hand, her hips pistoning, her own wetness mingling, creating a filthy, rhythmic squelch that filled the tiny room. She bent forward, taking Cora’s nipple back into her mouth, biting now, sucking like a starved infant.
Cora met her thrust for thrust, driving her fingers up hard, using her formidable strength to hold Bev’s bucking body in place. “Come on, shopkeeper,” Cora grunted, her composure finally cracking into fierce, open lust. “Is that all you’ve got? You’ve been storing this up for a year. Don’t you fucking dare hold back now.”
It was a command. Bev shattered. Her body went rigid, a wire pulled taut. A guttural, wrenching cry was torn from her throat, muffled by Cora’s flesh. She convulsed, once, twice, her inner muscles clutching violently at Cora’s fingers. A hot rush flooded over Cora’s hand.
Bev collapsed forward, a dead weight, her face buried between Cora’s breasts, her body shuddering with aftershocks. The only sounds were our ragged breathing and the slow, steady drip of nectar from my body onto the floor between my feet.
Slowly, Bev pushed herself up. She looked spent, emptied, her eyes hollow. She looked at the torn dress, at the nectar-smeared, magnificent woman beneath her, at us watching. The reality crashed in. Mortification flickered, but was instantly swallowed by a deep, satiated awe.
She climbed off, pulled her clothes up with trembling hands. She couldn’t look at us.
“The dresses…” she whispered, her voice wrecked.
“We’ll take them as they are,” Elara said, her voice smooth as oil. She handed Bev a wad of cash from our stash, far more than the dresses were worth.
Bev took it, her fingers brushing Elara’s, flinching at the contact like a shock.
We dressed in silence, pulling our cloaks over the ruined shifts. We left her there, kneeling on the carpet of her fitting room, surrounded by pins and scattered thread, the taste of another world on her tongue.
Outside, the town seemed quieter, smaller. The bell on the door hadn’t jingled on our exit. It felt like we’d broken something. Or perhaps, we’d finally made it real.
Cora adjusted her cloak, a serene, deep satisfaction settling on her features. “Well,” she said, licking a last trace of gold from her own lips. “I’d say the fit is just fine.”