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The camera begins recording, and a shaky breath can be heard off screen.
It's hip height, looking in on an empty room–a mostly empty room, save the mirrored wall and the barre to the left–before it lowers suddenly, with a rustle of fabric; it is set gently on the hardwood floor, propped upright. Bare feet pad away from the stationary picture, the light on the far wall unchanging; the hushed rustling of clothing grows louder, briefly, before it goes silent.
Something jingles, out of frame. Chains and leather; it's distinctive, immediately recognizable.
Long, pale legs step back into the picture, patterns flickering where they wrap lovingly around the delicate arch of a foot, the gentle slope of a calf; pink-blue-pink-blue, as if the flesh beneath is undecided on the display. The legs are strong and well-muscled, the motion fluid and light.
A pause.
The legs turn, a pivot on the balls of the feet; a hand comes into view from above. The nails are painted but short, the fingers long–callused at their tips. The knuckles, too, are callused, though it has little effect on the dexterity of that grip, nor the flash of the patterns weaving between tendons and webbing.
The camera is adjusted, slid to the left.
The mirrored wall comes more into frame.
The toy comes more into frame.
The hand retreats.
Another shaky breath.
The steps–light, nearly dancing–resume. Walking away from the camera, towards the opposite wall, stopping in front of the toy. Turning ninety-degrees, the heel of one foot raised; hesitation.
The foot traces backwards: hesitation dismissed.
Rumi sinks to her knees.
Breathtaking; she's nude but for her patterns glowing fiercely, shimmering blue-pink and gold. Posture precise, back arched just so–just enough that her breasts are wholly visible, the patterns that lick up the undersides and nipples peeking around the muscular curve of her bicep. The skin of her breasts–and her chest, and her neck–is flushed, her breathing quick; she swallows, once, glancing at the camera (breath hitching, God, she's nervous) before returning her gaze to the neat bundle in her hands.
Silvery links of chain, D-rings catching the overhead light; soft, supple leather, stitched by an expert hand.
Rumi sets it down beside her gently, adjusting it–squaring it to the wall, probably, obsessed with perfection even in the state she's in–before straightening. The flush has climbed her neck in the intervening seconds, in the time between taking to her knees and now; it sits high and pretty on her cheeks, warm accompaniment to her pattern's flickering glow.
Her eyes–both gorgeous, soulful brown–train on the toy.
It isn't particularly long, but it is thick; turquoise blue and heavy, with a wide, flared base suctioned to the wall. There is no sack, no rounded simulacrum of testicles; instead, curling around the far side of the cock down towards the floor, is a clear plastic tube. A silicone bulb caps it.
Rumi's composure so far has been immaculate; without the patterns, or the flush, or the quick, shallow breaths, one might assume her perfectly calm. Where they rest in her lap, her hands don't shake; her face is smooth, serene. Practised in its stillness.
One might assume her perfectly calm, if one doesn't know Rumi.
It is readily apparent to someone who does.
The twitch of her muscles as she leans forward, the arch in her back–it speaks to the bleeding, gasping edge of her restraint; the deliberate care she takes, picking up and placing her knees as she shuffles forwards, is searing self-denial.
She is desperate.
She pauses again, just before the toy, parted lips hovering over its tip; for an eight-count of racing heartbeats, she hesitates. A twitch in her neck belies her desire to glance at the camera again; a desire conquered, in the end, as she breathes a laugh.
As she opens her mouth.
Closes her eyes.
Rumi swallows down the cock with little in the way of hesitation, gaze half-lidded as she pushes and pushes and pushes–pausing at the base, nose brushing the mirrored wall, jaw stretched tight; the clear plastic tube jostles with the movement of her throat as she swallows.
As she draws back, lips wrapped around the tip, and swallows again–
And whimpers–
And presses forwards, ducking her chin as she bobs her head, swirling the cock around her mouth, hands-free. She pulls back with a slurp that is obscene, pornographic–and ineffective, as saliva spills from the corner of her mouth, catching the light above where it tracks down her chin.
Faster, now, her breathing–the wordless whimpers a constant, quiet plea.
Again, swallowing the cock, again nose brushing the wall; eyes nearly shut, lashes long and thick and dry. Rumi has never had a gag reflex, and she's never been afraid to make use of that fact.
Pulling out with a pop. Panting, now, strings of spit connecting her lips to the tip of the silicone–the length of which shines with fluid, a sheen whose use becomes readily apparent as Rumi turns, facing the camera briefly–
Eyes, golden and flashing–lips quirked, a hint of a smirk–
–Before continuing through the turn, hands shaking as she reaches for the neat little bundle of leather and metal.
Her fingers have lost some of that dexterity, the calm of minutes ago fraying at the edges; she unfolds the leather mask–straightening the ears, adjusting the wire basket of the muzzle. Swallows thickly, breath hitching as she ducks her head.
Impatient.
She always gets so impatient when she's close.
The mask slides on over her hair, over the braid–custom made, just for her–and the muzzle slots into place gently, the soft leather at the base of the basket pressing against the skin of Rumi's jaw, hooked beneath her chin–a loving pressure against her throat, when the straps are fastened.
A whine escapes her. High, desperate–Rumi swallows it down belatedly when she realizes she's making it, but the camera has already done its work. The secret of her desperation–if ever it was a secret, if anyone watching this had ever had any doubt–is laid bare.
Her head tips back as she tugs the mask snug, fingers fumbling over snaps she rarely fastens herself; the patterns across her thighs and abs and breasts are a cyclone, a humming flicker that changes too fast for even the camera to record. The best it can hope to capture is the shimmer as Rumi reaches behind her head, back arching, breasts pushed out into the open air; she glows in jagged edges and whorls, in lines like nails drawn along her ribs, like fingers dipping between her legs.
She yanks–impatient–one last time.
As her hands fall away, so too does the calm demeanor, the disaffected air; in its place, a whimpering, feral desperation takes hold.
It's in the shivery, shuddering arch of her back as she stretches forwards–pushing up onto her knuckles, arms straightening, head cocking–and back–pushing low off her knuckles, arms reaching, nipples brushing the floor, ass high in the air. She is on hands and knees, shaking herself out, and she is gorgeous.
Muscles rippling beneath her skin, patterns flaring, throaty whimpers as she shuffles backwards–as she steps carefully, back-leg then foreleg then back-leg then foreleg, the uncoordinated, slow-motion prance of an animal accounting for claws on a slick surface.
She backs up–still panting, still shivering, still glowing–until the dildo brushes the patterns dancing like sunrise along her spine. When it does–leaving a smear of saliva on her skin, visible in the flickering glow of her patterns–she stops, poised on her haunches; her heels remain off of the ground as she settles her weight, knuckles beneath her forelegs as she cocks her head over her shoulder, peering at the heavy cock behind her.
She whines.
Her eyes are visible in the slits of the mask, golden and luminous above the open basket of her muzzle; even with the thin, metal bars obstructing the view, it's clear her tongue is lolling from her mouth as she pants, the flash of fangs visible as she faces front. Her movements are quick, now, excitable and shivery. The noises spilling from her as she leans down, pressing her breasts to the floor, are high and yipping.
And then she goes still.
Rumi presents herself beautifully–the perfect arch of her back, where sweat gathers in the valley of her muscles, over the gentle ridges of her spine; the trembling of her legs, where the toy brushes along the backs of her thighs as she tries to hold still; the breathless, whining whimpers that escape her with each desperate exhale, chin pressed to the floor and eyes slitted behind her mask.
Begging–
She is begging to be taken.
And she is clearly not accustomed to doing this part alone–she has always been cradled within the three part harmony of their souls, held by the gentle touch of their hands–and so, for a moment, Rumi does nothing but twitch and whine, trying to stay still, trying to wait–trying to be good, so good, like she knows she must–
But she is impatient. She is desperate.
And, as the camera rolls, she seems to realize she's allowed to be bad.
Just this once.
She raises herself on her forelegs, chest heaving as she glances around–as though she fears getting caught, as though she might be punished–before she looks back over her shoulder, circling her hips, deliberate despite the twitchy shaking of her muscles.
The camera angle–it isn't right to see this part, infuriatingly; Rumi's thigh and hip, with their glowing stripes and sliding muscle, are in the way with how she is turned, sliding and careful, until–
Until she tenses, and gasps, and relaxes.
Until the whine becomes a sigh, the panting evening out as she sinks back down to her chest.
Her knuckles are planted on either side of her ribs, chin resting on the floor–and the edge of one fang is visible behind the bars of her muzzle in a toothy, blissed out grin–as she circles her hips languidly, almost lazy. The thought alone is mouthwatering; Rumi, taking her pleasure slowly.
Savoring it.
Her knees have come to rest on the floor as well, thudding against the hardwood as she swirls-arches-swirls; though the tip of the toy is hidden, still, behind the curve of Rumi's patterned hip, it is readily apparent that it no longer hangs freely. The shaft of the cock flexes with Rumi's movement, dragged in achingly slow circles as her breathing hitches.
And she is whining again–as if she isn't doing this to herself–pushing back with her forelegs, the muscles of her thighs tensing, and releasing, and tensing–
And releasing, knees spreading wider and wider and wider as she sinks onto the cock behind her with a guttural, moaning growl.
Her voice is a tri-tone, high and desperate and low and dangerous in between gasps as the cock disappears inside of her; she pauses only halfway, shivering, before rocking forwards. The trail of slick she leaves on the dildo shines in the light, thick and dripping; Rumi whines when she stops her forward movement, breasts hanging heavy between her arms.
She rocks back.
Further, this time, and the slick slide of the cock spearing into her is loud, louder than the pathetic whimpers spilling from her lips, louder than the gasps as she takes it deeper, as it brushes something inside of her that makes her patterns flare once, brightly, before quiescing.
She rocks forward, and slick drips from the curve of the cock, sticking to the back of her thigh.
And back.
And forward.
And–
And Rumi adjusts, slightly; balancing on her knuckles, shifting her knees, head thrown back and muzzle high in the air, and–
God, thank God, thank fuck, because now the camera's angle is perfect–it's perfect to watch the cock slide thick and full inside of Rumi's cunt; perfect to see how soaked she is, and the proud little nub of her clit, poking out from between her swollen lips; perfect to devour her with the eyes of an entirely impartial observer (of course) as she shudders and rocks back and takes the cock all the way to the hilt.
She pauses like that, panting and whiny as she presents herself fully on the cock behind her, as she nuzzles the ground in front of her–unused to having nothing to do with her mouth at times like this, unused to the basket still being attached to the mask by its delicate straps when she's impaled on a cock–and when her breathing has calmed (because she is a good girl, and she knows she must be calm to get what she wants) she raises her hips, exposing a few inches of bright turquoise.
And she shoves herself back.
Forwards and back, forwards and back–slowly, at first, dripping and whining–but as she gains speed, her movements grow rhythmic; her sounds go deep and guttural.
She fucks herself hard, a brutal pace; the slide of the cock inside of her a constant sound, now, the slap of her ass against the mirrored wall muffled, but harsh. She no longer whimpers; each impact forces a grunt from her, as if the cock feels bigger than it actually is, pushing into her stomach, into her chest, bullying the breath from her lungs. She sounds fucked out and desperate; she sounds feral.
One hand–the far hand, hidden mostly behind the swinging of her breasts, the heaving of her stomach as she fucks the breath from her body–slaps the ground by her knee, by her calf, reaching–
Reaching.
For the clear, plastic tube.
For the silicone bulb.
She is having trouble finding it–on focusing, on not shivering every time she forces herself fully on the cock behind her, patterns flaring, the grunts and moans spilling from her lips warbling, high to low. She pauses like that as her hand grows more frantic–slap, slap, her palm against the hardwood–until the sound is partially muffled, and followed by the brush of plastic against the wall's surface.
Until Rumi relaxes, shoulders sinking to the floor as she spreads her knees again, arching, presenting.
Despite the quickness of her breath, she eases back into fucking herself languidly–nearly gentle–as her hidden hand works. A suctioning hiss can be heard, just barely, over the slick slide of Rumi's cunt.
At the base of the cock, a bulge is forming.
Rumi's hips circle with the cock inside of her, the forward-and-back motion limited as the knot grows; she could continue to fuck herself open, if she wanted to–she could draw all the way forward, until the whole of the slick-soaked cock is visible for the camera (and God, would that be appreciated), and she could force herself all the way back, playing with the knot, popping it in and out of her until it is too big–until she has to make a decision, one way or the other, if she will take it like a good girl–
But she is–
She is teasing herself.
(Just herself?)
Circling, pushing the toy inside of her to the knot, resting that huge bulge against her slick, fluttering entrance; pulling out just enough to drop her hips, to drag the bulbous head of the cock against the spot inside of her that makes her patterns flare.
Back.
And forth.
And back.
And–
And she can tease all she wants, but everyone–everyone who has ever seen her like this–knows the score. Everyone knows Rumi is impatient.
Everyone knows Rumi always gets what she wants, eventually.
And eventually comes quickly, now that the knot is fully inflated–once Rumi's self-imposed teasing brings her to her shaking, flickering edge; breathy grunts give way to keening moans, and the sweat that limns her body trails down her leg from the crease of her hip as she shifts one last time, spreading her knees, taking a deep breath–
As she sinks back against the knot.
Shaking, shivering–breath held–
A high pitched whine, half pain, half pleasure–a soprano moan, almost too soft to hear, pitchy and breathy and desperate–
And Rumi's cunt flutters, and swallows the knot whole, swallows the thick, bulging cock to its base.
A breathless pause, patterns flaring, Rumi trembling with her chin low and her ass high and her cunt locked around the knot of Zoey's favorite cock, taking it fully–
The slightest movement of her hips, rocking forward.
The stretch of the knot inside of her entrance, bulging as she pulls–
Rumi cums with a gasp and a long, low moan, so musical it's a melody, accompanied by the beat of the muzzle on the floor as she shudders; the choreography of her arching and shaking is primal, without Mira there to guide it.
She twitches bodily, jerking back and forth as her pleasure crashes through her, the flush on her chest burning bright, patterns blazing; her hands curl into fists, forcing herself back, forcing herself to take it, to cum on Zoey's knot, to be the good girl Mira knows she is, and she whines and she cries and she shakes–
The spray of her cum is loud where it hits the floor, wet where it squelches as her hips jog, fucking the knot inside of her deeper, fucking her own cum back into herself as she moans, as she curls into a ball–as much as she can, still impaled on the cock inside of her, still split open on the knot locking her in place–forehead resting on the floor. The rocking of her hips sends full body shocks along the curve of her spine, the waves reflecting in her muscles and her patterns; another spray of hot, wet cum spatters weakly, and then dribbles.
She is dripping on the floor as she comes down, shivering, arms curled beneath her.
She is beautiful.
It's maddening, to see her like this–to see the slowly relaxing arch of her spine, to watch the gentle spread of her legs–without actually being able to touch, to stroke and kiss and murmur praise; it is torture of the highest degree, cruel and unusual, and there will be consequences.
As if Rumi can hear this thought, she picks her head up off the floor–laboriously, patterns flaring as she shivers–before resting her cheek where her forehead had been, facing the camera.
Grinning lazily.
She hums, and it is a rough, growling sound–shivery with her breath, but low and long and–
And, actually.
Not a hum.
Not a hum, not just the sound of satisfaction and sated desire, but–
A name.
Her name.
Rumi grins wolfishly at the camera, and she circles her hips, and she drips onto the hardwood floor of Mira's dance studio.
And she winks.
–
Boy, if there was one thing Zoey loved, it was a nice, quiet, peaceful morning.
Watching the sun spill golden over the rooftops of Seoul, pouring herself a ginormous bowl of sugar-coated nostalgia–Zoey might not wake up early all that often, but the relaxy-time when she did was top-tier stuff, totally unma–
The front door to the penthouse crashed open with a bang, and Zoey choked on her Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
"Where is she?"
Across the room, Mira stood in the doorway like a vengeful goddess, summoned from on high; she was fury personified, red in the face and neck, dropping her designer bags and shoving her rolling suitcase with a push-kick she barely bothered to aim.
Zoey, still wheezing after inhaling her spoonful of cereal, pounded a fist against her chest as Mira threw the last of her things to the ground and kicked the door shut behind her. With the click of the lock echoing, she stalked to the kitchen island where Zoey was fighting for her life.
"Mira," she wheezed, "what the fuck–"
"Zoey," Mira growled–and oh, oh shit, she wasn't mad, she was worked up–there was a flush, high in her cheeks, teeth bared as she rocked up to loom over Zoey's shoulder. "Where. Is she."
"Where is–" A cough. A bit of cereal cleared her airway; Mira, the jerk, barely noticed. "Where is who?"
"Zoey." A growl, unreasonably hot. Zoey sputtered.
"Girl, you're supposed to be in Busan–"
"Fuck Busan."
"–doing a shoot for Vogue Korea–"
"Fuck Vogue Korea."
"–And–"
A firm grip on Zoey's chin stopped her rambling in its tracks; Mira leaned in close, breath ghosting over her lips, eyes dark and fiery and amused.
"Baby," she murmured–and that sharp edge was there, still; Zoey realized with a quickness the danger she was in, "when is the last time you checked your phone?"
Zoey blinked.
Mira's voice was violently rearranging the furniture in her brain, but she tried to pick up the pieces anyways.
"Um… This morning? I guess?"
"When, this morning?"
"When I woke up?" Fuck. She was starting to whine–and Mira heard it, judging by her growing smirk–but all she did was lean closer, brushing her lips over Zoey's, drinking in her shaky gasp.
"So you didn't see Rumi's… Text."
"No–? I, um, I think I–I think my phone's in my–"
Mira's voice was low and silken.
"We should go find her. Now."
Across the room, amusement.
"Find who, Mira?"
Mira's gaze snapped up in an instant, and Zoey's followed not long after–she was flustered, and she was quickly cottoning on to the fact that Mira was about to start biting people if she didn't get her way soon (definitely not a complaint from Zoey's end, of course–Mira could chew her like a squeaky toy and she'd ask for seconds, after), but at the sound of Rumi's voice, a lightbulb went off, right in Zoey's head.
Because Rumi had that burr in her tone–that rough edge she got when it was just the three of them–or the two of them, Mira and Zoey, and their sweet, playful, desperate puppy–
And when Zoey glanced back, she found Rumi.
Criminally short shorts and one of Mira's loose, sleeveless t-shirts left little to the imagination; Rumi's patterns flickered beneath the thin fabric as she stood, leaning against the couch. Hooked on her fingers, hanging by the straps, was her puppy mask.
Her grin was toothy and smug.
"I thought your shoot went for another two days, Mira?"
Mira straightened slowly, fingers still gripping Zoey's jaw–which proved useful, actually, because otherwise it would've fallen right off her head to land on the floor–as she growled, "It would have."
"But?"
"Cancelled."
Rumi hummed, voice scratchy, neck flushed. "Why?"
"Don't worry about why."
Rumi tsked, the edge of one fang peeking from her lips with her smirk.
Zoey was starting to see the shape of that text.
"You okay? You seem stressed, Mir." Rumi's voice was warm, now, sweet as honey; Zoey stood from her stool, cereal forgotten. "Want some help with that?"
"Playing a dangerous game, Rumi." The threat in Mira's voice was a sharp caress, silk over steel. Zoey shivered.
"What kind of help are you offering, Rums?"
Zoey didn't give much of a fuck at all that her own voice had gone all breathy–not when she could see the peaks of Rumi's nipples through her shirt, and not when Mira finally released her chin to trace her fingers down her throat.
Mira took a step forward, then, advancing on Rumi, tugging Zoey in her wake.
Rumi's laugh was low and teasing as she raised the mask, wagging it with her finger.
"I have a suggestion."