Chapter 4: Lesson continues
The taste of her lingered on his lips, metallic and sweet. Eve watched, mortification a cold sludge in her stomach, as Jule’s tongue touched his finger where it had been inside her. He seemed to be savoring it.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words scratching her raw throat. She tried to draw her knees up, to hide the mess she’d made. “I couldn’t… I thought I…”
“You thought you pissed yourself,” Dun finished, flopping onto the bed beside her with a grin. He wasn’t repulsed. He was fascinated.
“It’s not that,” Jule said, his voice cutting through her humiliation. He leaned over her, caging her with his arms. His expression was intense, but not angry. Instructional. “That was something else. You squirted. It’s a release. A purely physical response.” He lowered his mouth to hers in a sudden, claiming kiss. She could taste herself on him, a strange and intimate violation. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. “It’s a good thing. It means you’re ready.”
“Ready?” The word was a breath.
“For us,” Rhys clarified from the foot of the bed. He was watching her like a subject, his head tilted. “All of us. That delicate little body needs to be ready to take what’s coming. And for that, it needs to be open. Sloppy.”
A fresh tremor went through her. They hadn’t been inside her yet, not really. The reality of what the contract implied, which had been a foggy abstraction of medical procedures and distant futures, crashed into the present. It was about this. Them. Here. Now.
“She’s still tight,” Jule observed to the room, his hand smoothing over her stomach, making her flinch. “Innocence is a physical constraint. We need to fix that.”
He didn’t ask. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Dun moved first, his hands closing around her ankles. They were warm, his grip firm but not painful. He gently pulled her legs straight, away from her attempted curl of defense. Rhys’s longer fingers encircled her thighs, just above Dun’s hold, and he eased them apart, exposing her completely to the cool, cologne-scented air and their collective gaze.
“Just relax into it,” Rhys murmured, though it wasn’t a comfort. It was a directive.
Jule settled between her spread legs. He didn’t rush. He looked at her, watched the panic flit across her face, the quick rise and fall of her chest. He traced a single finger through the wetness on her inner thigh, then brought it to the heart of her.
The touch was clinical at first. A press, a circling exploration of her entrance, already swollen and sensitive from the relentless attention. She gasped, her hips trying to shift away, but Dun and Rhys held her fast. Jule’s finger pressed inward, just past the tight ring of muscle.
It was a blunt, stretching sensation, so different from the lapping of tongues. It was a claiming. He worked it slowly, in and out, a shallow mimicry of a greater threat. Her breath hitched, a whimper trapped behind her teeth.
“See?” Jule said, his voice low. “Tight. But wet. That’s what we need.”
He withdrew his finger, glistening. “Rhys.”
A switch. Rhys took Jule’s place, his artist’s fingers slender but insistent. Where Jule had been methodical, Rhys was probing, curious. He pressed one, then a second finger alongside it, stretching her further. A sharp cry escaped her.
“Shhh,” Rhys soothed, but his eyes were bright with a kind of cold fire. He scissored his fingers gently, the burn a bright, white-hot signal in her nerves. “It’s just anatomy. Tissue giving way. Beautiful, really.”
He pulled out, and Dun was there before she could even process the emptiness. Dun’s fingers were thick, his push less measured. He let out a low grunt as he sank two fingers into her, his other hand stroking himself absently as he watched his own hand disappear into her body. “Fuck, she’s hot inside. Like a fist.”
They traded places again. And again. Jule, then Rhys, then Dun. Each man’s touch was a signature—Jule’s dominating stretch, Rhys’s precise, cruel manipulation, Dun’s greedy plunge. The initial burn was subsiding into a deep, full ache, a sense of being hollowed out and filled in a rhythm she didn’t control.
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracking into her hairline. She was moaning now, a continuous, low sound of overwhelmed sensation. It wasn’t pleasure, not the clean kind from before. It was something murkier, a compulsory unlocking of her own body.
“Good,” Jule breathed, watching Dun’s fingers move. “Look at her take it.”
Then Jule’s hand joined Dun’s. Not replacing him. Alongside him. Two of Jule’s thick fingers pressed in beside Dun’s two. The stretch was impossible, agonizing. Eve’s back arched off the bed, a silent scream on her lips.
Rhys made a choked sound. He added his own, sliding his two fingers in alongside the others.
For a second, there was a blinding, seizing pressure. She was impossibly full, stuffed, the stretch bordering on a sharp, tearing pain. Six fingers, three different men, moving in a slow, torturous unison inside her. The sound was obscene, wet and sucking.
Rhys leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. His voice was a heated rasp, mirroring the brutal fullness below. “Imagine it’s our cocks instead.”
A collective groan vibrated through the room, from all three of them. The image, his words, combined with the violating fullness, broke something inside her. A final, surrendering sob wracked her chest as her body, traitorously, clenched around the invading hands, another hot gush of release slicking their wrists.
They stopped moving. Just held there, buried in her, letting her pulse around them. The statement hung in the air, a promise and a threat.
It wasn’t imagination anymore. It was a blueprint.