Author’s Note: This is the first chapter in a title I plan to be roughly 40-50 chapters of 5000-7000 words each. This is an extreme story of increasing transformation, addiction and self-destruction, featuring explicit depictions of drugs, extreme body modification, consensual and questionable consent scenarios, and is not for the faint of heart or those of tender sensibilities. This story is intentionally offensive, the acts are wholly intended to be sexual fantasy, and no one should try this at home. All characters are over 18, all characters, scenes and locations are fictional. If there is a disclaimer not mentioned, here you feel should be here, assume that disclaimer is also here. Tags are meant to be story-wide and are not spefic to any one chapter - it will all be central to the story as it progresses. OK? Ok.

CHAPTER ONE: A Chance Meeting

Emily stands naked in front of the bathroom glass, steam still curling from the shower she’s just stepped out of, and lets her gaze travel the full length of herself. Her face first: her eyes, blue, gazing back at her assessingly, then downward to the sharp cut of her cheekbones. Her mouth, lips thinner than she would like, but pretty enough - men never complain when she has them wrapped around their manhood. Still, she thinks about filler at least once a week... should she, shouldn’t she...? She shakes her head and her eyes continue downward: her neck, long and exposed, the skin smooth and tight. She says a silent thanks to sunscreen, lotions, creams, she spends a small fortune on them. Her collarbones, straight, pronounced. She runs her fingers along them, feeling the architecture of her own body - like Marcus never does... never did, she corrects herself.

Emily’s breasts are full, high, firm, the nipples still tight and erect from the cool air hitting her wet skin. She cups them, feeling the weight of them in her palms, the way they fill her hands. Still, she is self conscious about them perhaps being a bit too large.

“Some girls would kill for a D-cup like this.” she reassures herself, turning sideways and raising her arms to look at the profile of her body, admiring the results of all those boring mornings at the gym. Her stomach is flat, the faintest suggestion of muscle definition beneath skin still flushed pink from hot water. She has always loved her showers scalding - Marcus used to say she was showering in lava. Her eyes drop to the line of her waist where it curves inward and then flares at her hips, the way the little black dress will cling there later and make men at the bar forget what they were saying. She likes that she can do that to men. Make them unable to think, to speak. She wishes she had the power to make them more interesting, though.

Her pubis, a dark triangle against pale skin. She keeps it trimmed but full. A deliberate choice, the kind that feels increasingly countercultural in an era of waxing salons on every corner. She likes the way it looks: unashamed, adult, like something from a painting in a museum. Classy. She smiles at the thought. Yes, classy.

Her eyes drift to her thighs. She squeezes them together - solid, the muscle answering back - and thinks of Marcus still asleep when she’d leave for the gym, his soft belly rising and falling under the duvet like something beached. She’d come home to find him in the same position. She turns slightly in the mirror, watching the light change across them. She turns her back to the mirror and looks over her shoulder, the way photographers always ask models to in the movies, and thinks.

“Yes. Those are the thighs. The ones that make the personal trainer lose his place mid-sentence.”

Her feet. God, her feet. She wiggles her blue-painted toes against the bathmat, admires the arch, the clean lines of her ankles. She’s always had good feet. She remembered jerking Marcus off with her newly pedicured feet, how he'd cum, semen dripping down her painted toes. He'd actually been embarrassed. Well, he wasn’t her problem anymore - and she was going to find someone actually interesting. She was going to have an interesting life, no more Milquetoast losers.

She reaches for the dress.

It’s the one - the black dress that is maybe one square yard of cloth, and yet somehow cost her a week’s salary. But it fits like it was stitched onto her body by someone who knows her measurements better than she does - worth every damn penny. The fabric slides over her skin, cool and whispering, and settles against her curves. She doesn’t need a bra. The dress doesn’t allow one, and her breasts sit exactly where the cut demands, the neckline plunging just far enough to make a bartender’s eyes flick downward and then guiltily back up. She knows, because it happens every damn time.

She does her makeup in the mirror - dark liner, a bit extra on the corners, some added red to make her look... interesting - no - sophisticated. Red lips, adding a bit more above and below to make them look just a bit bigger. She spritzes perfume at her throat, between her breasts, the inside of each wrist. The scent rises around her like a second skin: vanilla and musk, edible and fuckable at the same time, the woman behind the counter had whispered when Emily bought it.

Her phone buzzes on the counter. Sarah. So sorry babe something came up with the kids, rain check?

Emily reads it twice. The bathroom, which felt expansive and theatrical a moment ago, suddenly feels smaller. She’s alone. She’s been alone for three weeks, technically, since she told Marcus it was over in the parking lot of the Thai restaurant where he’d ordered the same thing he always ordered, pad see ew, no spice - just like his fucking personality - and she’d watched his face crumple like a paper bag and felt absolutely nothing.

She types back: No worries. Going anyway.

She means it. She’s going anyway.

The Uber drops her half a block from the bar because the driver, a man with a thick accent and no interest in conversation, refuses to navigate the one-way street that would have put her right at the door. Emily doesn’t argue. She steps out into rain that hits her bare shoulders like cold needles, and the little black dress turns into a sponge in approximately four seconds.

By the time she pushes through the door of "Over a Barrel". That’s the name of the place, she’d seen it on some moody Instagram post, dark wood and low lighting and the promise of something that wasn’t a sports bar. She’s soaked. Her hair is plastered to her neck. The dress clings to every contour of her body, her braless nipples erect from the cold plainly visible through the dark fabric, people pretend not to stare. Water trickles down her calves and her feet in her black sandal, and she can feel the fabric of her underwear - black as well, because she’d planned for this, or at least for something - saturated and cold against her skin.

The warmth of the bar hits her like a wall. Woodsmoke and leather and something sweet underneath. The lighting is amber and low, candles in glass cylinders throwing fractured light across dark tabletops. The sound is a murmur, the kind of noise that expensive places are supposed to make: clinking glass, low laughter, quiet jazz.

She finds a stool at the bar. The leather is warm under her thighs, still holding someone else’s body heat, and she doesn’t mind.

“Irish Coffee, ” she says to the bartender, a tall man with a silver beard and the kind of calm that suggests he’s seen everything and judged none of it. “Double the whiskey.” He glances at her breasts beneath the little black dress, as they always do.

He sees her catch him looking, sees her lips turn up in a knowing smile, and he pretends she didn’t catch him, coughing, a quick nervous nod. He turns and begins making the drink as she watches him work. He sets it in front of her on a copper coaster. The glass is almost too hot to hold, but she wraps both hands around it anyway, gratefully pressing her palms against the heat, absorbing the warmth. It feels good, after the cold rain.

“May I join you?” Emily hears the woman’s confident voice behind her and turns. For the first time in recent memory, Emily was at a loss for words. The woman was stunning.

“Holy shit - I mean ‘hi’, I mean, yeah, sure!” Emily immediately felt like an idiot, stumbling over her words as the woman’s beauty disassembled her composure into quivering pieces.

The woman slides onto the stool beside her, and Emily’s brain simply stops working. She is... Emily doesn’t have a word. She has words for beautiful women. She’s used words for beautiful women. She’s been words for beautiful women. But this woman exists in a category that Emily’s vocabulary doesn’t reach.

Her skin is the color of warm honey poured over polished wood, a rich golden-tan that glows in the amber candlelight like something lit from within. Emily can’t tell if she’s Asian or Latina—the features seem to belong to both and neither, high cheekbones that catch shadow and light in equal measure, a sharp jawline ending in a strong but feminine chin, full lips that rest in a natural, unhurried curve. Her eyes are dark— more than brown, something deeper, with flecks of red and orange. Her hair falls past her shoulders in waves the color of old copper, bronze shot through with threads of gold and auburn, and it moves when she turns her head like something alive.

Her outfit is simple, like she didn’t even have to think about how her clothes would affect her beauty: a cream-colored blouse, the top two buttons undone, and dark jeans that fit her like they were painted on. Emily’s gaze drops involuntarily and then snaps back up, but not before taking inventory: the curve of the woman’s breasts beneath the thin fabric, the narrowness of her waist, the flare of her hips, the way she crosses one leg over the other and the muscle in her thigh shifts beneath the denim. She is, in the most clinical sense Emily can muster through the fog, built like a goddamn Ferrari.

Emily has been with women. College, sophomore year, the lacrosse player with the crooked smile who’d kissed her in the bathroom at that party on Locust Street, and then the girl in her Shakespeare seminar who’d come back to her dorm room and stayed until dawn, and then a few more after that, experiments, curiosities, the kind of thing you do when you’re twenty and your whole life is a question you haven’t answered yet. She’d enjoyed it. She’d found women attractive. She still does. But she realized now that perhaps part of the reason she found men so boring was the reason she found this woman was so fucking enthralling.

But this woman is not a fling from college. This woman is standing in front of her—sitting, technically, on the barstool beside her—and Emily’s mouth has gone dry and her palms are sweating against the hot glass of her Irish Coffee and she cannot, for the life of her, form a complete sentence.

The woman orders something from the bartender—Emily doesn’t catch what, because she’s too busy trying to remember how breathing works—and then turns those dark, unreadable eyes back to Emily.

“So, ” the woman smiles and bites the corner of her lip, clearly aware of the effect she is having on Emily, “Come here often?”

Emily shakes herself, trying to bring some level of function back to her mouth.

“Uhm, yes, er, uh, I mean, no - it’s my first time, I just got here, that’s why I’m all wet.” The woman raises her eyebrow and looks Emily up and down with a sly expression on her face.

“Oh, you are all wet, are you?” the woman asks, taunting her.

“I mean - from the rain! The - I’m wet from the rain, my taxi stopped too far - I had to run, I’m, you can see, I’m all... I’m soaked.” Jesus Christ she can’t even fucking talk, this woman has her so flustered. The woman grins widely, and taking mercy on Emily, extends her hand - of course it’s perfect too, nails manicured her long tanned fingers delicate as she offers a handshake.”

“My name is Nyla. Nice to meet you...?”

Emily, ” she manages, and takes Nyla’s hand. The woman’s grip is warm and firm and precise, and Emily feels the contact travel up her arm like a current. She holds on a beat too long, she knows she does, and Nyla doesn’t pull away. Those dark eyes - flecks of red and orange, Jesus, how does someone have eyes like that - stay on Emily’s face with the kind of attention that makes Emily feel like she’s the only person in the bar.

“Emily, ” Nyla repeats, and the way she says it - slowly, like she’s tasting the syllables - makes Emily’s stomach do something complicated. “That’s a lovely name.”

“Thanks. It’s... it’s just a name. Emily. Plain old Emily.” She’s babbling. She hears herself babbling and she can’t stop. “You have a beautiful name too. Nyla. That’s, uhm, that’s really pretty. Is it, err, does it mean something? I’m sorry, that’s probably—”

“Oh, probably.” Nyla laughs, rich, warm, and she leans in towards Emily and asks, almost conspiratorially, “So, what brings you, Emily, to this fine establishment on a Wednesday night? Are you here to meet someone?”

“Just you.” Emily almost says it, but not quite. Instead, she says, “My girlfriend and I were supposed to go out for drinks, but something came up with her kids, so now I’m on my own for the evening. I needed a night out of my apartment - my roommates won’t leave me alone about getting back on the dating scene, and I just wanted to let off some steam.”

Nyla leans in further, and Emily’s heart skips a beat as the beautiful woman places a warm hand on Emily’s thigh, still damp and cold from the rain.

“Dating is so over-rated, don’t you think?” Nyla muses, as her hand squeezes Emily’s thigh. “Why go on dates when we all know what we really want?” she looks Emily in the eyes, orange flecks hypnotizing, “Do you know what you want, Emily?”

The rain-streaked windows of the Uber turned the city into something impressionistic, smeared lights and wet reflections, and Emily couldn’t have told you a single street they turned down because her entire world had contracted to the space between her mouth and Nyla’s.

Nyla’s lips are warm and slightly parted, and when her tongue finds Emily’s, Emily makes a sound she doesn’t recognize as her own, something low and desperate that vibrates in her chest. Nyla tastes like the whiskey she’d been drinking and something sweet underneath, something that makes Emily’s fingers curl into the fabric of that cream blouse like she’s trying to anchor herself to the woman.

The driver. Emily catches a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, a man with dark eyes fixed on them with the kind of rapt attention that should make her self-conscious but doesn’t, because she is beyond self-consciousness now, she is somewhere past that. He watches them with his mouth slightly open, and Emily doesn’t care. Let him watch. Let the whole city watch. She’s been invisible for so long, buried under Marcus’s indifference and her own careful curation, and now someone is looking at her like she’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen, and she is going to let herself be looked at, and kissed.

Nyla’s hand slides up Emily’s thigh, and the wet fabric of the dress offers no resistance. Her palm is warm through the soaked cotton, and Emily feels every finger individually, each one leaving a trail of heat that spreads upward like a slow fuse. When Nyla’s hand reaches the apex of Emily’s thighs and presses flat against her through the saturated black underwear, Emily yelps - a sharp, startled sound that is half surprise and half something far more animal. The pressure is firm and deliberate, Nyla’s palm cupping her exactly where the ache has been building since the bar, since the hand on her thigh, since the first moment those dark eyes locked onto hers.

“Oh-” Emily gasps against Nyla’s mouth, and her hips push forward involuntarily, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of that devastating warmth. Her own hands are everywhere - tangled in Nyla’s copper-bronze hair, sliding down the strong column of her neck, gripping the back of her blouse, pulling her closer, closer, as if the inches between them are an unbearable distance.

The car slows. Emily barely registers it. Nyla’s thumb moves in a slow circle through the wet fabric, and Emily’s vision whites out at the edges.

“We’re here, ” Nyla murmurs against her lips, and the words vibrate through Emily’s mouth like a second kiss.

The Uber stops. Emily blinks, disoriented, her body still thrumming with the aftershock of Nyla’s touch. The driver says something - a number, a fare, she doesn’t process it - and Nyla is already pulling her out of the car, one hand clasped around Emily’s wrist, the other fumbling in her purse.

They stumble onto the sidewalk and the rain hits Emily’s flushed skin like a shock, cold needles against the feverish heat that’s been building since the car, since the bar, since that first touch on her thigh. She gasps, but Nyla is already pulling her forward, one hand locked around her wrist, the other fishing keys from her purse with the practiced efficiency of someone who doesn’t break stride for anything. The building is tall, glass and steel, the kind of place that costs more per month than Emily’s entire apartment, and Nyla leads her to a heavy black door with a brass handle that catches the streetlight.

Nyla giggles - actually giggles, a bright, unguarded sound that Emily hasn’t heard from her yet, and it does something devastating to Emily’s chest, makes her feel like she’s the one who caused it. Then the key slides into the lock, and then they’re inside, and the door is barely closed before Nyla’s mouth is on hers again.

This kiss is different from the car. In the car it was discovery, the first tentative mapping of territory. This is claiming. Nyla’s tongue finds Emily’s and there is nothing tentative about it. It’s searching, exploring, caressing the roof of Emily’s mouth, the inside of her lower lip, the sensitive ridge behind her teeth, and Emily’s knees buckle. She makes a sound against Nyla’s lips that is half moan, half surrender, and her hands come up to grip Nyla’s shoulders because the floor has become unreliable beneath her feet.

Nyla’s hands are already moving. One slides up Emily’s ribcage beneath the still-damp dress, and the wet fabric offers no resistance - it might as well not exist - and when Nyla’s palm finds Emily’s bare breast, Emily cries out. The sound bounces off the walls of the foyer, louder than she intended, and she doesn’t care. Nyla’s thumb circles her nipple, slow and deliberate, and Emily’s back arches into the touch like a bow being drawn.

“Oh God, ” Emily breathes, and her head falls back, exposing her throat, and Nyla’s mouth follows: hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of her neck, teeth grazing the tendon, tongue pressing against her pulse point. Emily can feel her own heartbeat hammering against Nyla’s lips.

Nyla pushes the door closed with her foot. Emily hears the click, distant, unimportant. And then Nyla’s hands are at her own blouse, the cream silk, and she pulls it over her head in one fluid motion and lets it fall to the floor, discarded. Emily’s breath catches. Nyla’s breasts are spectacular: full, heavy, the nipples dark against honeyed skin, and Emily’s mouth goes dry. She reaches for them instinctively, and Nyla lets her, standing still while Emily’s trembling fingers trace the curve of each one, feeling the weight of them, the heat of the skin, the way the nipples harden under her touch.

But Nyla doesn’t stay still for long. Both hands are on Emily now - one cupping her breast, thumb still working that devastating circle, the other sliding down Emily’s stomach, fingers splayed, mapping the topography of her body through the soaked dress. Nyla’s mouth finds Emily’s again, and she begins to walk backward, pulling Emily with her, guiding her down a hallway that Emily registers only as dark wood and the smell of sandalwood and something floral.

Emily’s body is electric. Every nerve ending is firing at once - the pressure of Nyla’s hand on her breast, the heat of Nyla’s palm against her stomach, the wet fabric of the dress clinging and shifting with every step, the taste of whiskey and sweetness on Nyla’s tongue. She is aware of everything: the texture of the hardwood beneath her sandals, the sound of rain against windows she can’t see, the way Nyla’s breathing has changed: deeper, more deliberate, the controlled rhythm of someone who is letting the control slip.

They reach a door. Nyla pushes it open without looking, her eyes never leaving Emily’s face, and then they’re in the bedroom.

It’s dim, a single lamp on a nightstand casting warm amber light across dark walls, and the bed is enormous, a king-sized expanse of white linen that looks like it belongs in a magazine. Emily barely has time to register any of it before Nyla is turning her, pressing her backward, and Emily’s calves hit the edge of the mattress and she falls.

She lands on her back, the linen cool against her rain-chilled skin, and her eyes go upward instinctively.

The ceiling is mirrored.

She can see herself, sprawled across the white sheets, her damp black dress rucked up around her hips, her hair fanned out in wet tangles, her lips swollen and parted, her chest heaving. She looks like someone she doesn’t recognize. She looks like someone she’s been waiting her whole life to meet.

And then Nyla is above her, and Emily watches it happen from above in the mirror - watches Nyla’s naked body lower itself onto the bed, the muscles in her arms flexing as she braces herself on either side of Emily’s head, the copper-bronze hair falling around them like a curtain, the dark eyes finding Emily’s in the mirror and holding them.

“Look at you, ” Nyla says, and her voice is rough, stripped of its usual precision. “Look at how beautiful you are.”

Emily can’t speak. She can only watch as Nyla’s mouth descends to her collarbone, watch those full lips press against the hollow of her throat, watch Nyla’s tongue trace a line down between her breasts. Nyla’s mouth finds her breast, and Emily’s back arches off the bed. She watches it happen in the mirror - watches Nyla’s lips close around her nipple, watches the way Nyla’s jaw works, the slow suction that sends shockwaves radiating outward from the point of contact. Nyla’s teeth graze the sensitive peak, and Emily whimpers - a high, broken sound that she hears echo off the mirrored ceiling.

“You’re so responsive, ” Nyla murmurs against her skin, and her mouth moves to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention. Her free hand slides down Emily’s stomach, fingers tracing the line of muscle beneath the skin, and Emily’s abdominal muscles contract involuntarily under the touch. “Every part of you answers me.”

Emily’s hands are in Nyla’s hair, gripping, pulling, and she watches her own fingers tangle in those copper waves, watches the way Nyla’s mouth moves lower, over her ribs, the flat plane of her stomach, the dip of her navel. Nyla’s tongue traces circles there, and Emily’s hips lift off the bed, seeking something, anything.

Nyla’s hands find the hem of the black dress and push it upward. Emily lifts her hips, and Nyla pulls the dress over her head in one motion, and then Emily is naked except for the soaked black underwear, and the cool air of the bedroom hits her skin and raises goosebumps everywhere.

Nyla sits back on her heels and looks at her. Emily can see it from above - the way Nyla’s gaze travels the full length of her body, unhurried, appreciative, hungry. Those dark eyes with their flecks of red and orange move from Emily’s face to her breasts to her stomach to the dark triangle of her pubic hair, visible through the wet fabric, and Emily feels herself blush from her chest to her hairline.

“You kept it, ” Nyla says, and her fingers tug playfully at Emily’s pubic hair before hook into the waistband of Emily’s underwear. “I wondered if you would.”

And then Nyla is pulling the underwear down, and Emily lifts her hips again, and the fabric slides over her thighs, her knees, her calves, and then it’s gone, and she is completely, utterly naked beneath this woman who is still looking at her like she’s the most extraordinary thing she’s ever seen.

Nyla’s hands spread Emily’s thighs, and Emily lets them fall open, and she watches from above as Nyla settles between them, and the sight - her own body, open and exposed, Nyla’s dark head between her pale thighs - makes something crack open in Emily’s chest.

The first touch of Nyla’s tongue is gentle. Warm, slow, a flat press against Emily’s center that makes her entire body jolt. Emily’s hands fly to Nyla’s hair, gripping, and she watches her own fingers tighten in those copper waves as Nyla’s mouth begins to move.

It starts warm, tender, almost reverent. Nyla’s tongue traces long, slow strokes that build heat in Emily’s belly like a furnace being stoked. Emily’s hips begin to move, a slow roll that matches Nyla’s rhythm, and Nyla’s hands slide beneath Emily’s thighs, lifting them, opening her wider, and the change in angle sends a bolt of sensation so intense that Emily cries out.

“Please, ” Emily hears herself say, and she doesn’t know what she’s asking for. More. Less. Everything. Nothing. She is beyond language, operating on something older and more fundamental.

Nyla answers by pressing harder. The flat of her tongue becomes the point of it, precise and relentless, circling Emily’s clit with a pressure that builds in increments - each circle tighter, faster, more focused than the last. Emily’s thighs begin to tremble. She can see it in the mirror - the way her muscles are shaking, the way her stomach is clenching, the way her back is arching off the bed in a curve that looks almost painful.

Nyla’s hands grip Emily’s hips, holding her in place, and the restraint - the feeling of being held down, being kept exactly where Nyla wants her - sends a surge of heat through Emily that has nothing to do with the mouth between her legs.

Then Nyla bites.

Not hard... a careful, controlled pressure of teeth against the sensitive flesh of Emily’s inner thigh. But the shock of it, the sharp contrast to the warmth of her tongue, makes Emily scream. The sound bounces off the mirrored ceiling and comes back to her, and she hears how wrecked she sounds, how desperate, and it only makes her want more.

Nyla bites again, higher this time, closer to where Emily needs her, and Emily’s hand flies to the back of Nyla’s head, pressing her closer. “There, ” Emily gasps. “God, right there, please—”

Nyla’s mouth returns to her center, and now there is nothing gentle about it. The warm, reverent beginning has given way to something rougher, hungrier. Nyla’s tongue is relentless, driving against Emily’s clit with a pressure that borders on too much, and every time Emily’s body tries to pull away from the intensity, Nyla’s hands on her hips drag her back, holding her exactly where she wants her.

Emily is shaking. She can see herself shaking in the mirror - her entire body vibrating like a plucked string, her thighs trembling, her stomach muscles clenched so tight they ache. The pleasure is building in waves, each one higher than the last, and she can feel herself approaching something enormous, something she’s never felt before, something that terrifies her with its size.

Nyla’s fingers join her mouth - two of them, sliding inside Emily with no resistance, and Emily is so wet, so impossibly wet, that the sound is obscene in the quiet room. Nyla curls her fingers, finding the spot inside her that makes Emily’s vision go white, and she presses against it while her tongue maintains that devastating rhythm on her clit, and Emily feels the orgasm begin to crest.

It starts in her toes. A tightening, a curling, her blue-painted nails digging into the sheets. It moves up through her calves, her thighs, her stomach, her chest, and Emily is making sounds she doesn’t recognize, guttural and broken, and she watches herself in the mirror, watches her mouth fall open, watches her eyes roll back, watches her body bow off the bed like something being pulled apart.

And then it breaks.

The orgasm hits her like a wall of water: massive, consuming, obliterating everything in its path. Emily’s back arches so sharply she feels her spine crack, and the sound that tears from her throat is raw, animal, nothing like any sound she’s ever made before. It goes on and on, wave after wave crashing through her, each one more violent than the last, and she can feel herself clenching around Nyla’s fingers, her body gripping them like it’s trying to keep them inside forever, and she can hear herself sobbing - actual sobbing, tears streaming down her temples into her hair - and she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care about anything except this, this feeling, this annihilation.

It lasts an eternity. It lasts three seconds. Time has stopped making sense.

When the last wave finally recedes, leaving her trembling and gasping on the white sheets, Emily opens her eyes and sees herself in the mirror above... flushed, wrecked, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, mouth still open, eyes glazed and unfocused. She looks like a stranger. She looks like the truest version of herself she’s ever seen.

Nyla’s mouth is still between her thighs, gentler now, lapping at her with soft, soothing strokes that make Emily’s oversensitive flesh twitch and jump. Emily’s hand finds Nyla’s hair and strokes it, trembling, and she feels Nyla smile against her.

Before Emily can recover, before her breathing has evened out, before the shaking in her thighs has subsided, Nyla is moving. Emily watches from above as Nyla rises from between her legs, her mouth glistening, her chin wet, and those dark eyes find Emily’s in the mirror with an intensity that makes Emily’s stomach drop.

Nyla doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. She turns. A slow, deliberate rotation that Emily tracks in the mirror, watching the muscles shift beneath that honeyed skin, and then she’s moving up Emily’s body, her knees finding the mattress on either side of Emily’s ribs, and Emily’s heart is hammering so hard she can feel it in her teeth.

Nyla keeps going.

She straddles Emily’s chest, and Emily can feel the heat of her against her collarbones, and then Nyla shifts backward, her weight settling, and Emily’s eyes go wide as Nyla’s body moves over her face - the dark triangle of her pubic hair, the glistening wetness between her thighs, the tight curve of her ass - and then Nyla is lowering herself, and Emily’s world narrows to heat and pressure and the overwhelming, musky scent of Nyla’s arousal.

Nyla’s cunt presses against Emily’s mouth, and Emily’s tongue moves instinctively, parting the folds, finding the swollen center of her, and the taste is electric. It is salt and sweetness and musky, and it makes Emily’s whole body surge with renewed hunger. Nyla’s ass settles against Emily’s nose, the tight ring of muscle pressing against her nostrils, and Emily’s airway is blocked.

She can’t breathe.

The realization arrives distantly, like a news bulletin from a faraway country. Nyla’s weight is on her face, the soft flesh of her asshole sealing against Emily’s nose, and there is no air, there is only heat and wetness and the taste of Nyla flooding her mouth. Emily’s hands fly to Nyla’s thighs, gripping, and she tries to turn her head, tries to find a gap, but Nyla’s thighs clamp hard against the sides of her face, holding her in place, and Emily can feel the muscles there, strong, unyielding, and the pressure increases.

She can’t breathe.

And she doesn’t care.

Something has broken open in Emily that makes oxygen irrelevant. She buries her tongue deeper into Nyla’s cunt, licking with desperate, hungry strokes, trying to give back even a fraction of what Nyla gave her. She finds Nyla’s clit - swollen, hard, throbbing - and circles it with her tongue, and she feels Nyla’s body shudder above her, feels the muscles in those thighs tighten against her skull.

Then Nyla’s hand moves.

Emily feels it: fingers sliding between her own thighs, finding her still-slick, still-trembling center, and the touch is immediate and devastating. Nyla’s fingers are precise, surgical, finding Emily’s clit with unerring accuracy, and the pressure is exactly right... firm, insistent, the pad of her thumb pressing and circling while two fingers slide inside Emily and curl against that spot that makes her vision fracture.

Emily moans against Nyla’s cunt, and the vibration makes Nyla buck, and the motion drives Nyla harder against Emily’s mouth, and Emily redoubles her efforts, her tongue working in frantic circles, her lips sealed around Nyla’s clit, sucking, and she can taste Nyla’s arousal increasing, can feel the wetness coating her chin, her cheeks, and she is drowning in it, drowning in Nyla, and she doesn’t want to surface.

Nyla’s fingers are fucking her now in a steady, relentless rhythm, in and out, the curl on each stroke sending sparks cascading through Emily’s nervous system. Emily’s hips are moving of their own accord, pushing up to meet each thrust, and she can feel the orgasm building again, impossibly, because she just came, she just had the most devastating orgasm of her life, and her body is already climbing again, already reaching for something even higher.

The lack of oxygen is doing something to her. Her vision is darkening at the edges, a soft gray creeping in, and the sensation is making everything more intense. Every nerve ending firing brighter, every touch landing deeper. She can feel Nyla’s heartbeat through the flesh pressed against her mouth, can feel the rapid flutter of it, and she licks harder, faster, trying to match that rhythm with her tongue.

Nyla’s fingers speed up. The pressure on Emily’s clit increases, and Emily feels the second orgasm approaching like a freight train - inevitable, enormous, terrifying. Her thighs are shaking again, her stomach clenched, her toes curled so tight they cramp, and she is making sounds against Nyla’s cunt that are muffled and desperate and raw.

Then Nyla screams.

The sound is explosive: a raw, shattered cry that Emily feels more than hears, vibrating through the body pressed against her face. Nyla’s hips buck violently, a convulsive, uncontrolled movement that drives her ass hard against Emily’s face, and Emily feels the cartilage in her nose bend, feels a sharp spike of pain that the pleasure immediately subsumes, and Nyla’s thighs lock around Emily’s head like a vice.

Emily can’t breathe. She genuinely, actually cannot breathe. Nyla’s weight is crushing her nose, her mouth is sealed against Nyla’s cunt, and there is no air entering her lungs, and the darkness at the edges of her vision is spreading, and she is climbing, climbing, climbing toward something -

The second orgasm hits like a bomb.

It is worse than the first. It is better than the first. It is everything. Emily’s body seizes - every muscle contracting at once, her back bowing off the bed, her hands clawing at Nyla’s thighs - and she is cumming with Nyla’s cunt against her mouth and Nyla’s fingers inside her and no air in her lungs, and the combination of suffocation and pleasure creates something transcendent, something that feels like dying and being born simultaneously.

The orgasm rips through her in long, shuddering waves, and she can feel Nyla still cumming above her, can feel the contractions of Nyla’s body against her tongue, and they are locked together in this, feeding each other’s pleasure, and Emily’s vision goes completely white, and she thinks, distantly, that this is what it feels like to stop existing.

When it finally ends - when the last tremor subsides and Emily’s body goes limp beneath Nyla’s weight. Nyla collapses forward, rolling off Emily’s face in a graceless, boneless motion that lands her beside Emily on the white sheets.

Air floods Emily’s lungs in a desperate, ragged gasp. She coughs - once, twice - and her chest heaves, and the oxygen burns going in, and she can taste Nyla on her lips, on her chin, in the back of her throat, and her nose throbs where Nyla nearly broke it with her asshole, and she has never, in her entire life, felt more alive.

She lies there, staring at the mirrored ceiling, watching her own chest rise and fall in rapid, unsteady bursts. Beside her, Nyla is breathing hard too, her copper-bronze hair splayed across the pillow, her honeyed skin gleaming with sweat. Emily turns her head - slowly, because her neck feels like it might be sprained - and looks at Nyla.

And there it is.

Something shifts behind Nyla’s eyes: a tectonic movement, slow and seismic, the kind of thing you feel in your bones before you understand what it means. Those dark irises, flecked with red and orange like embers in a dying fire, are no longer looking at Emily the way they did at the bar. Not the warm, conspiratorial gaze that made Emily feel like the only person in the room. This is something else. This is hunger, but not the kind that food satisfies. This is the kind that eats and eats and is never full, that grows larger with every meal, that hollows out the feeder until there is nothing left but the wanting.

Emily sees it. She is not so far gone that she doesn’t see it. The way Nyla’s pupils have dilated to near-black, swallowing the colored iris until only a thin ring of copper remains. The way her breathing has already steadied... too quickly, too controlled, the boneless collapse already giving way to something composed, something watching. The way her lips, still wet with Emily, part in a smile that doesn’t reach those dark, dark eyes.

Emily’s nose throbs where the cartilage nearly gave way. She can feel the ache spreading across the bridge, tender and hot, a reminder of how close she came to something she doesn’t have a word for. How Nyla’s body drove down against her face with a force that was past pleasure, past passion, into something that felt like drowning her on purpose. How Emily’s hands had gripped those thighs and pulled her closer instead of pushing her away.

She should say something. She should ask - ask what that was, ask why Nyla didn’t stop when Emily’s lungs were screaming, her bare heels hammering on the mattress, ask why the lack of air felt like the point rather than an accident. The questions form somewhere in the back of her skull, half-built structures of language that crumble before they reach her tongue.

Because she knows the answer. She knew it while it was happening. She’d felt it in the animal part of her brain that doesn’t care about words - the part that recognized the danger and opened wider.

Emily turns her face back to the mirrored ceiling. Her reflection stares down at her - flushed, wrecked, mouth swollen, eyes glazed. A woman who just let someone nearly suffocate her and came harder than she’s ever come in her life. A woman who is lying in a stranger’s bed with a stranger’s taste still on her lips and a stranger’s hunger still burning in the air between them.

She should leave.

She doesn’t move.

The exhaustion is pulling at her now, a riptide dragging her under. Her limbs feel like they’ve been filled with wet sand, heavy and useless. Her eyelids are leaden, each blink lasting longer than the last, the amber light of the lamp fracturing into halos and starbursts. The rain against the windows has become a lullaby, steady and hypnotic, and the sheets beneath her are impossibly soft, and Nyla’s body beside her radiates warmth like a furnace, and Emily’s body is still humming with the aftershocks of something that rewired her nervous system.

She is drifting. The room tilts, softens, loses its edges. The mirrored ceiling blurs into a silver haze, and Emily’s reflection dissolves into something abstract: light and shadow, form without meaning. She is falling toward sleep the way she fell toward that second orgasm: helplessly, completely, with the understanding that she has already passed the point of return.

Nyla’s hand finds hers on the sheet. The fingers are warm, dry, deliberate. They lace between Emily’s with the precision of someone threading a needle, each digit settling into the spaces between Emily’s knuckles like it belongs there. The grip is firm. Not painful. Not gentle either. It is the grip of someone who is not letting go.

Emily’s last conscious thought is that she should pull away. That the hand holding hers is the same hand that held her hips down while she couldn’t breathe. That the mouth that whispered good girl is the mouth that sealed itself against her cunt. The perfectly rounded hips she gazes upon are the hips that blocked the air from her lungs. That the hunger she saw in those dark eyes is not satisfied. It is not even diminished. It has grown larger, and it is looking at her like she is the next meal.

She doesn’t pull away.

The darkness at the edges of her vision - the same darkness that crept in while Nyla’s weight crushed her musk into Emily’s face - returns now, but it is warm this time, soft, inviting. Emily’s breathing slows. Her body goes heavy. The ache in her nose fades to a distant pulse, and the taste of Nyla on her tongue becomes something she no longer recognizes as foreign.

She is dreaming. Or she is awake. The distinction has ceased to matter.

And then, so quiet it might be inside her own skull, might be the last firing of neurons before sleep claims her completely: Nyla’s voice. Close. Lips nearly touching Emily’s ear, breath warm and slow.

“You chose this.”

...to be continued...