“Mia,” says Noelle. Amaya feels a fluttering in her stomach and a clench further south.
“Mia,” he repeats, tasting the name on his tongue like a snake. “I like that. It means ‘mine’.”
Amaya shivers. The Ram gives her the creeps. Whatever he has planned, it isn’t meant to end well.
“Yeah,” Amaya says, at a loss for what to add to the conversation. She looks to Noelle for a clue.
Noelle keeps her attention on The Ram as she speaks to Amaya. “Come stand here, Mia,” bids Noelle. Amaya obeys willingly and stands on trembling legs and wobbling ankles. She’s surprised her knees aren’t knocking together. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she reaches for Noelle’s. The older woman readily accepts. “Take off those shoes, darling. You’re too young to walk in shoes like those.” With her other hand, Noelle strokes down her thighs toward the inside of her ankle and helps her step out of one and then the other high heel. Noelle continues to caress her legs.
Pulsing heat radiates from Amaya’s pussy. What had begun as a simmer of excitement the moment she walked through the front door of the masquerade has been stoked to an adrenaline-fueled roil. Noelle coaxes Amaya onto her lap and spreads her legs, urging her feet up on her throne. She’s frightened of how ready and willing she is to follow the vigilante into the depths of her depravity. VV has warned her, but in her heart, Amaya can’t help but have faith that VV is incapable of causing her harm despite all she knows. VV has a code, she called it a movement; but whatever it is, Amaya trusts it to keep her safe in the end.
“Lean back, Mia. Let him see you,” says Noelle.
Amaya obeys and commits herself to the cause.
4
Constantine Mansion, 2020
Bishop’s Landing, New York
The younger woman trembles on her lap, whether from excitement or fear remains to be seen. Regardless, Amaya is brave, pliable, and receptive to her touches; it makes it easier not to waste time on seduction. They are both professionals, after all.
With one arm firmly around Amaya’s dainty middle, she uses her other hand to free Amaya’s breasts over the top of her corset. Her nipples are the color of maple syrup; her areolas shrivel and pucker in the cool air. They’re young breasts, plump and high—not yet softened by time. She holds one pebbled nipple between her thumb and forefinger and pinches gently. The way Amaya keens makes her wish she could suck her tits through her mask. “You’re beautiful,” she whispers near Amaya’s ear, and the younger woman turns her head toward the sound of her voice and shivers.
The Ram watches them from the floor of the altar. Even with his unnatural contact lenses, she can see who he truly is beneath the mask. She’s seen those eyes thousands of times. She looks at them in the mirror every morning. They both worship Chaos/Opportunity. He’s a devil set to devour the meal in front of him. She knows the look. She has the look. Power is an addiction, and like all addictions, it must be fed…feed it enough and only the hunger matters. They see each other, she and The Ram, for what they are. She loves this part of the hunt—when neither of them knows who will emerge as the hunter and the hunted.
Using both hands, she holds Amaya’s breasts and pinches both nipples until Amaya cries out in pleasure or pain. The sound of her cries has The Ram breathing heavy. “Come and suck on these for me,” she says to him.
He charges toward them in three heavy steps and stands between Amaya’s spread legs. Brushing aside her hands, he viciously pinches Amaya’s nipples until she screams and struggles to push him away. The more Amaya screams and struggles, the harder he holds on.
Evolving her plan, she takes hold of Amaya’s hands and pins them behind her. The younger woman is openly crying, but her struggles die down as The Ram eases his torture. When he lets go, Amaya’s nipples are stretched and deeply red.
“Fuck!” Amaya sobs. “Please. Rub it. Please.” She wriggles in her lap, simultaneously trying to pull her arms free and push her chest out into the air for relief.
The Ram places his leather-gloved palms against Amaya’s nipples and gives them a rough massage. “Hear that, Noelle?” he growls. “That’s a real scream.”
She inhales deeply. She can smell Amaya’s tears and her fear. Her hatred of her own arousal is evidence she hasn’t banished her moral compass for good. That her arousal exists—is a different kind of evidence. “There’s more than one way to torture,” she says. “I prefer pleasure.” She pulls Amaya’s arms farther back, thrusting the younger woman’s chest toward The Ram. Amaya sniffles but doesn’t resist.
The Ram pulls his hands away and flicks Amaya’s nipples to force another cry out of her. His chest rises and falls in a quicker rhythm. “I want to see the rest.”
“And you will,” she says, “when it’s yours. For now, I think it’s best if you look and don’t touch.”
“Show me,” he snarls, having no obvious intention to keep his hands to himself.
As soon as her arms are free, Amaya holds her tender breasts in her hands and shields them from view. She turns her body toward her as much as she is able with her legs spread. “That hurt,” she sniffles in her ear. Now is not the time for comfort.
“Hands down, Mia, on the armrests,” she commands and isn’t surprised to have her comply. Years of trauma have shaped Amaya. A part of her hopes she’s wrong and Amaya does have what it takes to pass her test—cruel as it might be to hope. She must learn how to separate her mind from the things she must do. “Bueno, mi amor. I’m proud of you.”
Now that she has her on display again, it’s easy to resume her seduction of The Ram. She uses her hands to rub, tease, and massage Amaya’s tits until she feels her relax into her touches with a deep sigh and a roll of her hips. She trails her hands down her corset and over her hips to her inner thighs where her fingers meet with damp fabric. Slowly, she hooks the panties aside with two fingers and gently slides the fingers of her other hand up and down her furry slit. She can appreciate a woman who doesn’t shave. Plucking gently at her wet, inner curls has Amaya hissing and pleading with her body for a firmer touch.
Amaya is a sweet girl. She’s kind and funny. If the odds had treated her better, allowed her to keep her parents, and kept her off the streets, she wouldn’t be here now. She doesn’t deserve what’s happened to her and everything that is yet to come. However, uncertainty is something she cannot entertain.
“Fuck her,” demands The Ram. “Or I will.”
Amaya whines her dissent but remains in place over her thighs with her pussy on display. Her respect and admiration for the younger woman grow. As a reward she swirls her finger around her clit, her other fingers drifting up and down her slit, slowly spreading her labia to get the warm, wet heat inside. “In or out, Mia?” She’s talking about more than fingers and Amaya knows it.
“In,” she sighs and nods her head. Sweat beads and races down her neck and between her tits. Beneath her mask, her hair is a bedraggled mess.
“Bellísima,” she whispers, and means it. She turns her hand to rub Amaya’s clit with her palm as she slides her center fingers into her heat. She holds her there, unmoving, and reveling in the contractions of her inner walls.