fic: Proxy (Pairelle, NC-17)
Title: Proxy
Author:
nmidian- Nick Midian
Rating: NC-17 (Graphic Sex between 3 consenting adults)
Pairings & Characters: Pairelle (Peter/Claire/Elle). Canon in the sense Peter and Claire are related.
Spoilers: None, really.
Summary: You can't always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you just might find, you get what you need...
Feedback: It's Christmas Eve and I'm working until 8am. What do you think?
Author's Notes: This is probably the worst day of the year to post a sexually graphic and angsty fic with a threesome in it, but hey, this is me who we're talking about. King of faux passes, missteps and all that. Anyway, this is dedicated to
cheerhealer and
ever_obsessed, who asked (demanded) for some Pairelle smut. And also because they are really awesome people all over. Girls, I know this turned out a bit sadder than what you probably wanted to read, so I'm working in another, fluffier one, ok?
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes
You just might find
You get what you need
The Rolling Stones
Peter stands behind her, his gentle hands softly kneading her pert breasts over the fabric of her blouse as he rains her neck with feathery kisses and runs his lips down the line of her pulse. She can feel his manhood throbbing even through the layer of clothing separating them. His excitation is intoxicating.
Claire, always shocking in her eagerness, is already on her knees in front of her body. Her nubile hands are taking care of the lower buttons of her blouse in order to expose the creamy softness of her taut belly. She’s kissing her there, with hungry open-mouthed kisses that set her skin on fire. Her lust is overwhelming.
And yet, even sandwiched as she is between the beautiful uncle and niece duo, even as she moans their names with passion-ridden whispers, Elle Bishop can’t help but feel she is the loneliest person in the world.
She wonders how it has all come to this. She questions how come having sex with two of the most gorgeous people she has ever met makes her feel like she is standing alone and naked in the middle of the desert.
Claire’s fingertips dance around the sides of her torso, down until they grasp the waist of her trousers while Peter gets rid of her shirt, almost ripping it open in his haste to get in contact with her skin. Elle whimpers, a curious sound like a little animal, as the handsome young man cups her breasts and pulls the cups of her bra to expose her nipples. She can feel her smug grin as he sucks at the nape of her neck and his nimble fingers tease the puffy, already excited nubbins.
This is not right. This is not…
But Claire is laughing her crystalline laughter while she pulls down her lacy panties along with her jeans, and then she growls - and hers is a definitively animal sound - when the darker curls at the apex of her tights are exposed. Elle needs no coercion to step outside the garments when the younger blonder makes them fall to her ankles. She offers no resistance when, with a gentle caress, the cheerleader parts her legs and kisses the smooth flesh in the interior of her tights.
Yet, this is not what she wants.
Not the same way they do, at least.
Elle does her best to give herself into the physical sensations, like always with them. She lets her mind float adrift into the stimuli of four hands and two mouths worshiping her body. She tries not to think. She tries not to analyze.
She hears Peter whispering how beautiful she is low enough for the compliment to be intimate, loud enough for two women to hear it.
It’s not a lie. But it is not the truth either.
Claire moans in lust and delight, her lips and tongue drawing a wanton path up to her wet core to finally lick her nether lips. She flickers her clit once, in maddening, teasing promise. Her southern twang is husky and dark as she says ‘I want you so much.’
Elle feels like she could cry.
They talk to her, but she knows their words are not really meant for her.
How can they be so blind? How can they be so mean to her?
She’s pretty sure they don’t realize their own cruelty themselves, and that’s only one of the few reasons why she allows this to continue, why she lets this happen again and again. Their twisted innocence is why she lets them take her to bed, and the taste of their shared passion is why she falls on it, naked and without anything more than a groan of protest.
She lies with legs obscenely parted and the petite cheerleader devouring her moist sex while a tall and dark hero hurriedly undresses by the bed. There’s molten lava running through her veins. There’s electricity setting her nerves on fire.
There’s a large chunk of ice in her heart.
Peter’s cock comes into view, engorged and excited. It throbs with his heartbeat and the power of his desire. A bead of precum gleams at its point as he accommodates close to her, his muscled back to the bed’s headboard. Claire only darts a brief look at him, but the mere sight of his naked, aroused uncle is enough to send her into overdrive.
Her lips and tongue go from hungry and teasing to frenzied despair. She sucks and licks, probes and laps, drinking the nectar of her pussy like it’s a gift from the gods themselves. Her green eyes are on her blue ones as she lavishes her burning core, but the passion in them only serves to remind Elle of what she does not have.
So, when Peter gently makes her head turn to him and offers her his rock-hard manhood, the slightly older blonde feels grateful. Anything but looking into those emerald pools and seeing the love that is not meant for her.
She wraps her slender fingers around the base of the dark-haired man’s penis, feeling and almost bursts out laughing when she thinks that his cock is just like him, smooth velvet encasing uncanny steel.
So like his niece.
So unlike her.
Elle kisses the purple head softly, licks and tastes the clear droplets of his precome. He caresses her hair and gently accompanies the movements of her head as she takes him deep into her hot mouth. For a few seconds, she closes her eyes and inhales his manly scent, allowing herself to pretend.
She pretends this is for her. She pretends they are her lovers. She pretends they love her.
But then Peter moans, nearly growls, ‘Oh baby, that is so good… you do it so well…’ and all pretension is gone. She doesn’t need to raise her eyes to know he’s not looking at her when he speaks.
Claire penetrates her slick folds with one finger, and begins fucking her at a leisure pace. Elle’s pelvis begins to buck in response, especially when a particularly sensitive spot of her inner walls is hit. The other girl grins, devilishly, when she notices and adds a second finger, quickly sucking on her hardened clit to add even more pleasuring stimuli.
It’s almost too much to bear.
But, at the same time, it’s not nearly enough.
Elle’s body is on fire. Her nipples are diamonds, her creamy skin is flushed with the rush of the burning blood running through her veins and sweat, like pearls, has broken all over her skin like she is in a fever. She is so wet that she is probably drenching Claire’s chin and neck. She groans around Peter’s cock as the other blonde reaches for one of her breasts and pinches its pink promontory.
She does her best not to miss the pace as she fellates the young man, one hand toying with his ball sac and the marbles inside, the other wrapped around his waist, her fingers digging in a perfect male ass cheek as she urges him to feed her more of his manhood.
Elle’s losing her mind like she’s already lost her heart, and she knows it.
She scrapes him with her teeth and he hisses in rapture, she squeezes his testicles gently and he groans as the bums of his ass clench. Her bare legs are now over Claire’s shoulders, drawing an invisible tattoo on her back as the youngest of the trio - yet the most daring of them three, possibly - goes for the kill. Her fingers find again her secret spot and more than tease, they dig on it. Her lips surround the hooded nubbin and she bites, then sucks on it hard.
Her orgasm explodes like a supernova, her back arching on the bed as her eyes close again and shooting stars tracing golden paths behind her closed eyelids. She cannot fully define the sensation; she doesn’t even really understand it.
Elle is not as proficient in the ways of love as she is in the ones of sex, but she knows - even when Peter and Claire don’t - that they are different things. They’re beautiful together, but this has parts of one and measures of the other, and the blue-eyed blonde feels that she is always spared from the one she truly desires.
Peter shudders when her tongue brushes the sensitive underside of his spongy head, his fingers tighten their grasp on Elle’s hair and, with a wolfish howl he spends himself in the moist cavern of her mouth. She accepts his ejaculate like it’s the most delicious ambrosia she has ever tasted.
And it is, somehow, but it’s also bitter.
Elle has almost no time to savor it, only to kiss the meaty crown goodbye as it softens, because Claire is already crawling over her, tearing at her own clothes as she does so. The petite cheerleader falls on her turned into a savage wildcat, mashing her mouth to her and kissing her hard and deep.
She knows what is that the younger girl wants and she gives it to her with abandon, pretending Claire is just kissing her instead of craving for the taste of Peter’s fresh come in her lips. Their bodies mold together, soft skins rubbing against each other, hands roaming in search for dark secrets, tongues probing and dueling in a fevered war in which quarter is neither asked nor given.
There’re growls and groans, moans and hisses. They become something barely subhuman, and Elle takes delight on it. On not thinking, on not questioning, on just feeling these few seconds stilled in time.
Claire takes the lead and she allows her to dominate her. She relents all control and empties herself from thought and will. She just lets it be.
There’s not much she can do against it, anyway. She’s just as addicted to this game as they are, although maybe hers is a more desperate and hopeless need. More conscious too, more acknowledged.
She can’t help but be once again reminded of it when she feels Peter’s hands on her, caressing her, running over her back and her buttocks, mouth kissing the sweaty nape of her neck, his tongue running down the length of her spine. The sensation sends darts made of pure erotic pleasure to every nerve ending of her body, envelopes her into a haze from which she doesn’t want to be released.
But Peter only touches her. Peter doesn’t reach for his niece. She knows he won’t. She knows he can’t.
Claire makes them roll as they continue making out like mindless teenagers, makes the other blonde stay on top of hers and scissors her legs open for Elle to accommodate between them. The blue-eyed girl humps against her, ripping a moan from her mouth that gets buried into her own. Claire is wet, Claire is horny, Claire is consuming and healing and exhilarating and driving her crazy to the point she wants to scream her lungs out.
But Claire is not for her.
The dark-haired young man positions himself behind her. His large hands run down her sides, his fingertips gentle and his nails severe until his iron grasp settles on her waist. She feels his reawakened erection rubbing her peach-shaped ass and she parts her legs slightly to concede him entrance. Peter is darkness and light, Peter is a calm storm, Peter is the fury of one thousand angels singing battle cries.
He stabs her drenched folds with one smooth and powerful stroke; he penetrates her like a sword made of raging fire reaching to her very soul. He burns and cauterizes her desire, then inflames and sooths it with ever thrust of his pelvis.
Claire claws at her hair, forces her face into the crook of her own neck. Elle sucks at the other girl’s pulse, her eyes obscured by the gold of her hair, her sight mercifully spared from the view of the two people that she can’t have looking into each other’s eyes as they fuck her.
She sneaks an arm between hers and Claire’s bodies and finds the younger girl’s overexcited pussy. Her deft fingers slither between her moist petals as her thumb uncovers and rubs her clitoris. Claire moans and asks for more, asks for it to be harder.
The full weight of Peter’s lean frame falls on Elle, squeezing and sandwiching her between the gorgeous couple as his pelvis becomes a blur of movement. He fills and empties her again and again. He doesn’t have mercy on her or her sanity.
She is trapped between uncle and niece. Trapped into this sort of heavenly hell she can’t find an escape from.
Peter won’t touch his niece. Claire won’t kiss her uncle. They won’t tell ‘I love you’ to each other. They can’t.
So they do it through her.
They fuck her, yes, but in reality they are just making love by proxy.
She’s a human-shaped condom against incest.
It would be laughable if it wasn’t so… so what? Pathetic? Twisted?
No, she decides as Peter’s cock brings her to yet another powerful climax and the humping of her body against Claire’s sex triggers the cheerleader’s own.
So sad.
There’s not in their nature to be malicious. They don’t really want to hurt her even when they do. They just think she is along for the ride just for the fun of it. That her reward is the pleasure she obtains from their lovemaking.
They don’t realize their forbidden love is radioactive and that anyone exposed to it gets eventually burnt and scarred. Because theirs is an absolute love, unquestionable and pure even if it cannot be named or expressed in a conventional way.
Because their love leaves no space for anything or anyone else.
Because it’s like looking into the face of God, and realizing He prefers another.
Because all Elle can have of it is the crumbs that fall from their bodies as they allow her to share their passion.
Peter becomes rigid, cries and explodes into her, his scalding seed bathing her boiling core in searing molten metal. She finds herself pushed over the edge again, even when the waves of her previous sexual zenith haven’t subsided yet. She bites into Claire’s shoulder to stifle a cry she’s afraid won’t come in pleasure, but in sorrow.
She tastes blood.
Claire screams, but not in pain. Her body shudders underneath her own and her fingers, still buried into the younger blonde’s sex, are flooded by her slick release. She cries something incoherent, something that might be Peter’s name but then might be not.
They lay limp, one on top of the other. It’s anything but uncomfortable.
Panting in exhaustion, hands lazily caressing bodies slick with perspiration, mouths gently kissing and nipping tender flesh, incomprehensible whispers of devotion and heartbeats synchronized into one single serene thunderstorm… this is the twisted paradise Elle finds solace in. This afterglow is the only thing that prevents her from breaking down.
In this amorphous heap of tangled bodies is unavoidable that uncle and niece get eventually in contact, nude flesh to nude flesh. Elle knows when that happens because their bodies shiver when a hand touches a hip or a leg brushes against another. It makes her want to scream again, this time in frustration.
Because, you see, she loves them. She wants them to be happy. But she’s also so scared of that happening, of the moment they will come to the realization that they don’t really need her. Of becoming an unneeded accessory to their love.
Peter murmurs something in a kind voice, something about being sorry for crushing them. Claire chuckles and says that it feels good despite the oxygen deprivation. She agrees, but he is already moving off her. Peter’s sperm drips between her legs. She can still taste Claire in her lips.
The dark-haired young man lies on one side of the bed, softly making her turn so she is cuddled to him, her back to his chest. His hand rests on her naked hip. Claire kisses her on the lips, a grateful if slightly dizzy smile on her as she comfortably nestles herself face to face with her. Elle kisses the younger girl’s forehead and hugs her tight to her.
Claire’s hand is around her chest, tracing circles on her back that grow slower and slower as she drifts into tired sleep.
Peter’s breathing becomes even and relaxed as he lets himself go into slumber.
Elle is trapped between them.
She can feel herself surrendering to oblivion, and doesn’t fight it. She knows that she will be the one waking up first, like always. And she knows than when she does, she’ll find that Peter and Claire have reached for each other in their sleep, and their hands will be together, fingers crossed as they rest on her body.
And she knows that it will be only at this moment, when they can’t see her, that she will allow herself to cry quietly.
She is trapped between them.
But she is not a prisoner because she can’t get away. She is a prisoner because she doesn’t want to escape.
Because there’s no better place to go.
Author:
nmidian- Nick Midian
Rating: NC-17 (Graphic Sex between 3 consenting adults)
Pairings & Characters: Pairelle (Peter/Claire/Elle). Canon in the sense Peter and Claire are related.
Spoilers: None, really.
Summary: You can't always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you just might find, you get what you need...
Feedback: It's Christmas Eve and I'm working until 8am. What do you think?
Author's Notes: This is probably the worst day of the year to post a sexually graphic and angsty fic with a threesome in it, but hey, this is me who we're talking about. King of faux passes, missteps and all that. Anyway, this is dedicated to
cheerhealer and
ever_obsessed, who asked (demanded) for some Pairelle smut. And also because they are really awesome people all over. Girls, I know this turned out a bit sadder than what you probably wanted to read, so I'm working in another, fluffier one, ok?
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes
You just might find
You get what you need
The Rolling Stones
Peter stands behind her, his gentle hands softly kneading her pert breasts over the fabric of her blouse as he rains her neck with feathery kisses and runs his lips down the line of her pulse. She can feel his manhood throbbing even through the layer of clothing separating them. His excitation is intoxicating.
Claire, always shocking in her eagerness, is already on her knees in front of her body. Her nubile hands are taking care of the lower buttons of her blouse in order to expose the creamy softness of her taut belly. She’s kissing her there, with hungry open-mouthed kisses that set her skin on fire. Her lust is overwhelming.
And yet, even sandwiched as she is between the beautiful uncle and niece duo, even as she moans their names with passion-ridden whispers, Elle Bishop can’t help but feel she is the loneliest person in the world.
She wonders how it has all come to this. She questions how come having sex with two of the most gorgeous people she has ever met makes her feel like she is standing alone and naked in the middle of the desert.
Claire’s fingertips dance around the sides of her torso, down until they grasp the waist of her trousers while Peter gets rid of her shirt, almost ripping it open in his haste to get in contact with her skin. Elle whimpers, a curious sound like a little animal, as the handsome young man cups her breasts and pulls the cups of her bra to expose her nipples. She can feel her smug grin as he sucks at the nape of her neck and his nimble fingers tease the puffy, already excited nubbins.
This is not right. This is not…
But Claire is laughing her crystalline laughter while she pulls down her lacy panties along with her jeans, and then she growls - and hers is a definitively animal sound - when the darker curls at the apex of her tights are exposed. Elle needs no coercion to step outside the garments when the younger blonder makes them fall to her ankles. She offers no resistance when, with a gentle caress, the cheerleader parts her legs and kisses the smooth flesh in the interior of her tights.
Yet, this is not what she wants.
Not the same way they do, at least.
Elle does her best to give herself into the physical sensations, like always with them. She lets her mind float adrift into the stimuli of four hands and two mouths worshiping her body. She tries not to think. She tries not to analyze.
She hears Peter whispering how beautiful she is low enough for the compliment to be intimate, loud enough for two women to hear it.
It’s not a lie. But it is not the truth either.
Claire moans in lust and delight, her lips and tongue drawing a wanton path up to her wet core to finally lick her nether lips. She flickers her clit once, in maddening, teasing promise. Her southern twang is husky and dark as she says ‘I want you so much.’
Elle feels like she could cry.
They talk to her, but she knows their words are not really meant for her.
How can they be so blind? How can they be so mean to her?
She’s pretty sure they don’t realize their own cruelty themselves, and that’s only one of the few reasons why she allows this to continue, why she lets this happen again and again. Their twisted innocence is why she lets them take her to bed, and the taste of their shared passion is why she falls on it, naked and without anything more than a groan of protest.
She lies with legs obscenely parted and the petite cheerleader devouring her moist sex while a tall and dark hero hurriedly undresses by the bed. There’s molten lava running through her veins. There’s electricity setting her nerves on fire.
There’s a large chunk of ice in her heart.
Peter’s cock comes into view, engorged and excited. It throbs with his heartbeat and the power of his desire. A bead of precum gleams at its point as he accommodates close to her, his muscled back to the bed’s headboard. Claire only darts a brief look at him, but the mere sight of his naked, aroused uncle is enough to send her into overdrive.
Her lips and tongue go from hungry and teasing to frenzied despair. She sucks and licks, probes and laps, drinking the nectar of her pussy like it’s a gift from the gods themselves. Her green eyes are on her blue ones as she lavishes her burning core, but the passion in them only serves to remind Elle of what she does not have.
So, when Peter gently makes her head turn to him and offers her his rock-hard manhood, the slightly older blonde feels grateful. Anything but looking into those emerald pools and seeing the love that is not meant for her.
She wraps her slender fingers around the base of the dark-haired man’s penis, feeling and almost bursts out laughing when she thinks that his cock is just like him, smooth velvet encasing uncanny steel.
So like his niece.
So unlike her.
Elle kisses the purple head softly, licks and tastes the clear droplets of his precome. He caresses her hair and gently accompanies the movements of her head as she takes him deep into her hot mouth. For a few seconds, she closes her eyes and inhales his manly scent, allowing herself to pretend.
She pretends this is for her. She pretends they are her lovers. She pretends they love her.
But then Peter moans, nearly growls, ‘Oh baby, that is so good… you do it so well…’ and all pretension is gone. She doesn’t need to raise her eyes to know he’s not looking at her when he speaks.
Claire penetrates her slick folds with one finger, and begins fucking her at a leisure pace. Elle’s pelvis begins to buck in response, especially when a particularly sensitive spot of her inner walls is hit. The other girl grins, devilishly, when she notices and adds a second finger, quickly sucking on her hardened clit to add even more pleasuring stimuli.
It’s almost too much to bear.
But, at the same time, it’s not nearly enough.
Elle’s body is on fire. Her nipples are diamonds, her creamy skin is flushed with the rush of the burning blood running through her veins and sweat, like pearls, has broken all over her skin like she is in a fever. She is so wet that she is probably drenching Claire’s chin and neck. She groans around Peter’s cock as the other blonde reaches for one of her breasts and pinches its pink promontory.
She does her best not to miss the pace as she fellates the young man, one hand toying with his ball sac and the marbles inside, the other wrapped around his waist, her fingers digging in a perfect male ass cheek as she urges him to feed her more of his manhood.
Elle’s losing her mind like she’s already lost her heart, and she knows it.
She scrapes him with her teeth and he hisses in rapture, she squeezes his testicles gently and he groans as the bums of his ass clench. Her bare legs are now over Claire’s shoulders, drawing an invisible tattoo on her back as the youngest of the trio - yet the most daring of them three, possibly - goes for the kill. Her fingers find again her secret spot and more than tease, they dig on it. Her lips surround the hooded nubbin and she bites, then sucks on it hard.
Her orgasm explodes like a supernova, her back arching on the bed as her eyes close again and shooting stars tracing golden paths behind her closed eyelids. She cannot fully define the sensation; she doesn’t even really understand it.
Elle is not as proficient in the ways of love as she is in the ones of sex, but she knows - even when Peter and Claire don’t - that they are different things. They’re beautiful together, but this has parts of one and measures of the other, and the blue-eyed blonde feels that she is always spared from the one she truly desires.
Peter shudders when her tongue brushes the sensitive underside of his spongy head, his fingers tighten their grasp on Elle’s hair and, with a wolfish howl he spends himself in the moist cavern of her mouth. She accepts his ejaculate like it’s the most delicious ambrosia she has ever tasted.
And it is, somehow, but it’s also bitter.
Elle has almost no time to savor it, only to kiss the meaty crown goodbye as it softens, because Claire is already crawling over her, tearing at her own clothes as she does so. The petite cheerleader falls on her turned into a savage wildcat, mashing her mouth to her and kissing her hard and deep.
She knows what is that the younger girl wants and she gives it to her with abandon, pretending Claire is just kissing her instead of craving for the taste of Peter’s fresh come in her lips. Their bodies mold together, soft skins rubbing against each other, hands roaming in search for dark secrets, tongues probing and dueling in a fevered war in which quarter is neither asked nor given.
There’re growls and groans, moans and hisses. They become something barely subhuman, and Elle takes delight on it. On not thinking, on not questioning, on just feeling these few seconds stilled in time.
Claire takes the lead and she allows her to dominate her. She relents all control and empties herself from thought and will. She just lets it be.
There’s not much she can do against it, anyway. She’s just as addicted to this game as they are, although maybe hers is a more desperate and hopeless need. More conscious too, more acknowledged.
She can’t help but be once again reminded of it when she feels Peter’s hands on her, caressing her, running over her back and her buttocks, mouth kissing the sweaty nape of her neck, his tongue running down the length of her spine. The sensation sends darts made of pure erotic pleasure to every nerve ending of her body, envelopes her into a haze from which she doesn’t want to be released.
But Peter only touches her. Peter doesn’t reach for his niece. She knows he won’t. She knows he can’t.
Claire makes them roll as they continue making out like mindless teenagers, makes the other blonde stay on top of hers and scissors her legs open for Elle to accommodate between them. The blue-eyed girl humps against her, ripping a moan from her mouth that gets buried into her own. Claire is wet, Claire is horny, Claire is consuming and healing and exhilarating and driving her crazy to the point she wants to scream her lungs out.
But Claire is not for her.
The dark-haired young man positions himself behind her. His large hands run down her sides, his fingertips gentle and his nails severe until his iron grasp settles on her waist. She feels his reawakened erection rubbing her peach-shaped ass and she parts her legs slightly to concede him entrance. Peter is darkness and light, Peter is a calm storm, Peter is the fury of one thousand angels singing battle cries.
He stabs her drenched folds with one smooth and powerful stroke; he penetrates her like a sword made of raging fire reaching to her very soul. He burns and cauterizes her desire, then inflames and sooths it with ever thrust of his pelvis.
Claire claws at her hair, forces her face into the crook of her own neck. Elle sucks at the other girl’s pulse, her eyes obscured by the gold of her hair, her sight mercifully spared from the view of the two people that she can’t have looking into each other’s eyes as they fuck her.
She sneaks an arm between hers and Claire’s bodies and finds the younger girl’s overexcited pussy. Her deft fingers slither between her moist petals as her thumb uncovers and rubs her clitoris. Claire moans and asks for more, asks for it to be harder.
The full weight of Peter’s lean frame falls on Elle, squeezing and sandwiching her between the gorgeous couple as his pelvis becomes a blur of movement. He fills and empties her again and again. He doesn’t have mercy on her or her sanity.
She is trapped between uncle and niece. Trapped into this sort of heavenly hell she can’t find an escape from.
Peter won’t touch his niece. Claire won’t kiss her uncle. They won’t tell ‘I love you’ to each other. They can’t.
So they do it through her.
They fuck her, yes, but in reality they are just making love by proxy.
She’s a human-shaped condom against incest.
It would be laughable if it wasn’t so… so what? Pathetic? Twisted?
No, she decides as Peter’s cock brings her to yet another powerful climax and the humping of her body against Claire’s sex triggers the cheerleader’s own.
So sad.
There’s not in their nature to be malicious. They don’t really want to hurt her even when they do. They just think she is along for the ride just for the fun of it. That her reward is the pleasure she obtains from their lovemaking.
They don’t realize their forbidden love is radioactive and that anyone exposed to it gets eventually burnt and scarred. Because theirs is an absolute love, unquestionable and pure even if it cannot be named or expressed in a conventional way.
Because their love leaves no space for anything or anyone else.
Because it’s like looking into the face of God, and realizing He prefers another.
Because all Elle can have of it is the crumbs that fall from their bodies as they allow her to share their passion.
Peter becomes rigid, cries and explodes into her, his scalding seed bathing her boiling core in searing molten metal. She finds herself pushed over the edge again, even when the waves of her previous sexual zenith haven’t subsided yet. She bites into Claire’s shoulder to stifle a cry she’s afraid won’t come in pleasure, but in sorrow.
She tastes blood.
Claire screams, but not in pain. Her body shudders underneath her own and her fingers, still buried into the younger blonde’s sex, are flooded by her slick release. She cries something incoherent, something that might be Peter’s name but then might be not.
They lay limp, one on top of the other. It’s anything but uncomfortable.
Panting in exhaustion, hands lazily caressing bodies slick with perspiration, mouths gently kissing and nipping tender flesh, incomprehensible whispers of devotion and heartbeats synchronized into one single serene thunderstorm… this is the twisted paradise Elle finds solace in. This afterglow is the only thing that prevents her from breaking down.
In this amorphous heap of tangled bodies is unavoidable that uncle and niece get eventually in contact, nude flesh to nude flesh. Elle knows when that happens because their bodies shiver when a hand touches a hip or a leg brushes against another. It makes her want to scream again, this time in frustration.
Because, you see, she loves them. She wants them to be happy. But she’s also so scared of that happening, of the moment they will come to the realization that they don’t really need her. Of becoming an unneeded accessory to their love.
Peter murmurs something in a kind voice, something about being sorry for crushing them. Claire chuckles and says that it feels good despite the oxygen deprivation. She agrees, but he is already moving off her. Peter’s sperm drips between her legs. She can still taste Claire in her lips.
The dark-haired young man lies on one side of the bed, softly making her turn so she is cuddled to him, her back to his chest. His hand rests on her naked hip. Claire kisses her on the lips, a grateful if slightly dizzy smile on her as she comfortably nestles herself face to face with her. Elle kisses the younger girl’s forehead and hugs her tight to her.
Claire’s hand is around her chest, tracing circles on her back that grow slower and slower as she drifts into tired sleep.
Peter’s breathing becomes even and relaxed as he lets himself go into slumber.
Elle is trapped between them.
She can feel herself surrendering to oblivion, and doesn’t fight it. She knows that she will be the one waking up first, like always. And she knows than when she does, she’ll find that Peter and Claire have reached for each other in their sleep, and their hands will be together, fingers crossed as they rest on her body.
And she knows that it will be only at this moment, when they can’t see her, that she will allow herself to cry quietly.
She is trapped between them.
But she is not a prisoner because she can’t get away. She is a prisoner because she doesn’t want to escape.
Because there’s no better place to go.