The first thing that reaches you isn't sound. It's wet. A long, flat drag of tongue up the underside of your cock, from root to crown, so slow it seems to be measuring you. You surface out of a dream you can't remember into the smell of sleep and sex and last night's spilled wine, and the gold bars of morning light laid across the tangled sheets like something dropped and forgotten.

Your hips move before your eyes open. Just a twitch, an answering pull, and the tongue follows it—laps at the head, circles once, takes you past her lips into the wet heat of her mouth and holds there, not sucking yet, just holding, letting you feel the shape of her tongue cradling the shaft.

Moxie.

You know it before you know anything. The weight of her against your thigh. The small hum she makes low in her throat, a sound of contentment, like a cat who's found the sun. Her tail finds your leg under the blanket and curls around it, deliberate, the fur soft and warm, and tightens in time with the slow bob of her head.

You keep your eyes shut. The room is quiet except for the wet sound of her mouth and your own breathing, and the light is doing that thing it does in the early morning where it makes everything look borrowed. You let yourself float in it. Half in the dream, half in her mouth.

Her hand slides up your thigh, under the blanket, and you feel the cool of the sheets give way to the heat of her palm. She doesn't rush it. She pets the inside of your thigh first, the soft fur of her forearm dragging across your hip, and then her fingers find your hole—already slick, she must have wet them in her own mouth or somewhere else—and press. Two of them. Not entering. Just there, circling, the pads of her fingers making small deliberate passes over the ring of muscle, reading it.

Your breath catches. It's the sound you make and you don't bother to hide it.

She hums around your cock in answer. The vibration goes through you like a struck bell, down the shaft and into your balls, and her fingers press a fraction harder, still circling, still not pushing in. Waiting. She's always waiting for something. She wants you to ask.

You don't. Not yet. You lie there and let her work, and she works. Her mouth slides down and this time she sucks, a real pull, her cheeks hollowing, her tongue flat against the underside, and you feel the pressure build low in your spine and behind your eyes. Her fingers press and circle and press again, and the tip of one slips in, just the tip, just enough to make you feel how slick she got you, and then draws back out and circles again.

The morning light has found your chest now, a hot stripe across your ribs. You can see the dust in it if you open your eyes. You don't.

"Moxie."

Her name comes out rough. She answers by taking you deeper, all the way to the back of her throat, and holding there, her nose pressed into the hair at the base of your cock, her throat working around you in a slow swallow. Her fingers finally push in—two of them, to the second knuckle—and curl, finding the spot with the ease of practice, and press.

Your back arches off the mattress. The sheets slide under your shoulders. Her tail tightens around your thigh like a rope.

She knows exactly what she's doing. She always does. She's been doing this since before you woke up, probably—the sheets on her side are cold, which means she's been down there a while, patient, waiting for you to surface. The thought of it, of her mouth on you while you slept, of her swallowing her own impatience for however long it took, makes your cock throb against her tongue.

She pulls off, slowly, letting her lips drag, and the cool air on the wet skin makes you shiver. Her fingers stay in you, curled, patient.

"Good morning, Master," she says. Her voice is soft and a little hoarse from the work. She kisses the head of your cock, once, chaste, like she's greeting it. "You were hard in your sleep. I didn't want to waste it."

"You never do."

"No, Master." She licks a slow stripe up the shaft and her fingers crook again, a gentle press, and your whole body answers it. "You taste like last night. I like it."

She takes you back into her mouth before you can answer. Her rhythm changes—faster now, more purpose, her head bobbing, her hand wrapping around the base of you where her mouth can't reach, stroking in time. Her fingers in your ass move in counterpoint, in when her mouth goes down, out when it comes up, and the two rhythms together are doing something to you, something that builds in the base of your spine and spreads through your hips like heat through metal.

You reach down and find her ear. It's soft, the fur there finer than anywhere else, and you stroke it and she moans around your cock—the vibration again, that struck-bell feeling—and her hips shift against the mattress. She's grinding herself against the bed. She's been doing it this whole time, you realize, getting herself off on the sheets while she works you, and the thought of it, of her wet against the mattress, her thighs pressed together, makes your hand tighten on her ear.

She whimpers. It's a small sound, servile, happy.

"You want to come, Master?" she asks, pulling off just long enough to say it, her hand still working you, her fingers still buried. "In my mouth? I want you to. I want to taste it."

You don't answer. You're close, too close to talk, and she knows it, and she smiles—you can feel her smile against the head of your cock, the little curve of her lips—and goes back down, all the way, her throat working, her fingers pressing hard against that spot inside you, and the build is right there, right at the edge, everything in you drawing up tight—

The door clicks open.

You freeze. Your eyes snap open. Moxie doesn't stop—she can't see the door, her face is buried in your lap—but her ear flicks, the soft fur twitching against your hand, and her fingers go still inside you. The room tilts. The gold light on the sheets looks different now, colder, the way light looks when someone's standing in it.

Emily is in the doorway.

You can see her through the gap in the curtains—no, not the curtains, the door, she's just standing there in the frame with her arms crossed and her hip cocked and her tail lashing behind her in slow furious arcs. She's wearing nothing but one of your old shirts, unbuttoned, the collar sliding off one shoulder, and her short ginger fur is all ruffled from sleep. Her amber eyes are on you. On Moxie. On the shape of Moxie's head between your legs under the blanket.

She doesn't say anything for a long moment. She just looks. And the looking is worse than anything she could say.

Moxie pulls off you slowly, her fingers sliding out, and sits up, the blanket falling off her shoulders. She doesn't look at the door. She looks at you, her hazel eyes wide and apologetic, her ears flat against her russet hair, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like a child caught at the jam jar.

"Emily," she says. Quiet. Not a greeting. Almost an apology.

"Don't." Emily's voice is flat. She uncrosses her arms and walks into the room, and her bare feet on the floorboards are loud in the quiet, and she doesn't stop at the foot of the bed—she climbs onto it, one knee then the other, and the mattress dips and rolls under her weight and you feel it through your whole body. Her tail flicks once, sharp, and settles.

She looks down at you. Her sharp grin is there, but it's not a happy grin—it's the grin she wears when she's about to take something.

"Master," she sneers, and the word drips, it always does when she says it, like she's handling something dirty. "You didn't think you'd start the day without me, did you?"

Moxie shrinks back against the headboard. "I didn't want to wake him—"

"I wasn't talking to you." Emily doesn't look at her. She's still looking at you, and she's crawling up the bed now, over your legs, her thighs bracketing yours, and she's warm and she smells like sleep and she's not wearing anything under the shirt. You can see that now. The shirt hangs open and her small breasts are bare and her fur is soft and gingery in the light and she's straddling your hips and her tail is curling behind her, slow and deliberate, and she's grinning down at you.

"You were going to come in her mouth," she says. "Weren't you."

"Emily—" Moxie starts.

"Weren't you, Master."

You could lie. You don't. "Yes."

"Mm." She shifts her weight, and her hips roll against your stomach, and you feel the wet heat of her through the thin cotton of the shirt where it's bunched between you. She's soaked. She's been listening at the door—you know she has, she always does, she likes to watch and pretend she doesn't—and she's been standing there getting wet while Moxie sucked your cock, and now she's wet and she's on top of you and she's not going to be ignored.

She reaches down and takes your cock in her hand. Just like that. No preamble. Her grip is firm, a little too firm, and she strokes you once, root to tip, and then holds you there, aimed up at her, and looks down at you with her head tilted.

"You're still hard," she says. "Good."

"Emily, please—" Moxie's voice is small.

"Shut up." Emily doesn't even turn her head. "You had him all morning. He's mine now."

She lifts up on her knees, and you feel the head of your cock press against the wet heat of her, and she holds there, just the tip, not letting you in, her amber eyes fixed on yours, her sharp grin widening.

"Beg," she says.

And the word hangs there in the gold morning light, and Moxie is frozen against the headboard with her ears flat and her hand pressed to her own mouth, and Emily is above you, wet and waiting, and you're so hard it aches.

You don't beg. Not yet.

Emily's grin sharpens. She likes that. She likes it better when you make her work for it.

"Fine," she says, and rolls her hips, and slides down onto you in one slow wet motion, all the way, until her ass is against your thighs and her cunt is wrapped tight around your cock and she's sitting there, full, with her head tipped back and her throat working, and her tail curls up her own spine and shivers.

"Fuck," she breathes. Not a sneer. Just the word. And then she looks down at you again and the sneer comes back, and she starts to move.

She moves like she's got all morning. Like the light coming through the gap in the curtains is hers and the bed is hers and the man under her is a thing she found and decided to keep. Emily rises up on her knees, slow, and you feel every inch of her drag up your cock — the tight wet grip of her cunt letting go of you one ring at a time, the cool air finding the slick she's left behind, and then she stops with just the head of you still inside her, balanced there, thighs shaking faintly with the effort of holding still.

"Look at you," she says. Her voice is low and rough from sleep and it doesn't sound like a sneer yet. It sounds like she's genuinely delighted. "You were about to come in her mouth. You were right there. And now you're inside me and you're not allowed to move."

She sinks back down. Not fast. She takes her time, her cunt opening around you inch by inch, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet room, and her amber eyes stay on your face the whole way, watching you for a flinch, a twitch, anything she can use. You give her nothing. Her lip curls.

"There he is," she says. "Master."

She settles, all the way down, her ass flush against your thighs and her cunt swallowing you to the root, and she sits there and breathes. You feel her pulse. You feel the little internal flutter of her, the way she clenches without meaning to, and she must feel you feel it because her ears tip back and her grin gets sharp.

"You're twitching inside me," she says. "Pathetic."

She lifts again. Same pace. Up, slow, until you're almost out of her, then down, slow, until she's got all of you, and she does it again, and again, and she never once speeds up. Her hips roll at the bottom of each stroke, grinding down against you, working the head of your cock against something inside her that makes her breath catch — but she doesn't chase it. She just notes it. Files it away. Keeps riding.

Beside you, Moxie has gone very still.

You can see her at the edge of your vision, pressed back against the headboard with her knees drawn up and her tail wrapped around her own ankle. She hasn't left. She could have — the door's right there — but she's still in the bed, still naked, still smelling of your cock, and her hazel eyes are fixed on where Emily's body meets yours. On the slow slide of it. On the way Emily's cunt takes you and lets you go and takes you again. Her hand has drifted down between her own thighs without her seeming to notice. Her fingers are pressed flat against herself, not moving. Just there.

Emily notices. Of course she notices.

"You like watching," she says, not looking at Moxie, still looking at you. "You like watching him fuck me. That's new. Usually you're the one with your mouth full."

Moxie's ears flatten further. "Emily—"

"I said shut up." Emily's hips dip hard on the word — the first real thrust she's given you — and you feel it in your teeth. Then she goes right back to slow, like nothing happened, like she's punishing you for her own slip. "You had your turn. This is mine."

She leans down. The old shirt hangs off her shoulders and her small breasts swing with the motion and she plants both palms on your chest, one on each side of your sternum, and the new angle puts her weight into it. Now every stroke is her pressing down as much as sliding. You can feel her nails, blunt through the fur, digging in a little. Her tail comes up and curls around her own waist, tip flicking, and her fur is standing up along her spine.

"You're not going to come," she tells you. "You don't get to. Not until I say."

"Emily."

" Master," she corrects, dragging the word out until it's four syllables of pure contempt, and the contempt goes straight to your cock, which she feels, because she smirks like she's won something. "Say it back to me. Say 'yes, Emily.'"

You don't. You take a fistful of the sheets and hold on.

She laughs. It's a low, mean little sound, and she rolls her hips in a slow circle at the bottom of the next stroke, and your vision goes a little gray at the edges. "Fine. Be stubborn. I've got all day."

She does. She's proving it. She rides you through the light changing on the wall — a slow minute of it, then another — and every time you get close, every time your balls draw up and your breathing goes ragged and your hips start to answer her on their own, she stops. Just stops. Sits there with you buried in her, cunt clamped tight, and waits with her eyebrows raised until the feeling backs off. Once she lifts all the way off and stays off, kneeling above you with your cock resting wet against her thigh, and looks down at the shine of herself on you.

"You're leaking," she says. "Look at that. All the way up your stomach."

She drags one finger through it. Licks it. Makes a face like she's judging wine.

"Moxie does better," she says.

From the headboard, a small sound. Moxie's fingers have started moving against herself — slow, guilty little circles — and she's stopped trying to hide it, or she's past caring. Her thighs are pressed together and her tail has come unwound and is lashing slow against the sheets. She's watching Emily's cunt take you and her mouth is open.

"Don't look at her," Emily says. She takes your jaw in her hand and turns your face back to hers. Her grip is hard, fingertips pressed into the hinge of your jaw, and her claws are out just enough to prickle. "When I'm on top of you, you look at me."

She sinks back down. One motion, all the way, no pause at the top this time, and the sudden fullness after the empty makes you grunt. She feels it. Her whole body does a small satisfied shiver, ears to tail, and she bites her lower lip and holds it between her teeth.

"There," she says, muffled around the lip. "That's the sound I wanted."

She sets a rhythm now — still slow, but honest about it, up and down and up and down, her thighs working, her breath starting to come short. The sweat is coming up on her back and you can feel it where her palms are planted on your chest, tacky and hot. Her cunt has gone from tight to gripping, the kind of wet that makes a sound every time she moves, and she's stopped pretending she's not feeling it. Her eyes have gone heavy-lidded. Her tail has curled up and over her own hip and she's rubbing the tip of it against her stomach without seeming to know she's doing it.

"You feel good," she admits, quiet, like it costs her. "You always feel good. That's the worst part about you."

"Emily—"

"I know." She cuts you off. "I know what you want. You want to flip me over. You want to hold me down and fuck me until I can't talk. You want to make me say it." She leans down close, close enough that her breath is on your mouth, and her hips never stop, and her voice drops to almost nothing. "Not today. Today I'm going to sit on your cock until you forget your own name, and then I'm going to get off on your face, and then maybe — maybe — I'll let you come."

Her grin is sharp enough to cut.

"Beg me for it," she says. "Go on. You know I like it."

You don't. You get a hand free of the sheets and put it on her hip instead, and she lets you — she lets you, that's the thing, she could take your wrist and pin it but she doesn't — and you feel the muscle working under her ginger fur, the whole engine of her, and you push up into her on the next downstroke, meeting her halfway.

Emily's breath stutters. Her rhythm breaks for half a second. Then she recovers, and her grin comes back twice as sharp, and she pins your hand to the mattress with hers, fingers laced, palm to palm.

"No," she says. "You don't get to help."

She takes both your wrists now and holds them down against the bed, one on each side, and she leans her weight forward onto them, and the leverage changes everything — now every stroke is her whole body moving on you, her cunt sliding down the length of you and back up, and she's not holding back the speed anymore, she's just holding back the finish. Her breath is coming in little huffs. The fur on her chest is damp. Somewhere behind her, Moxie has stopped touching herself and gone quiet, and you can feel her watching, and Emily can feel it too, and it's making her show off.

"Look at him," Emily says to the room at large, riding you hard now, slow rhythm gone, each stroke a slap of fur and skin. "Look at his face. He's so close he's cross-eyed."

She's right. You are. The build is a fist closing in your pelvis and your balls are tight against her ass every time she bottoms out and she knows, she can feel it, she's watching for it, and she's going to stop —

She stops.

All the way down, buried to the root, cunt clamped around you like a fist. She holds herself there, breathing hard through her nose, and her claws are out where she's gripping your wrists and her tail is lashing fast behind her and she is not moving. Not one inch.

The pressure backs off, slow, agonizing, and you make a sound you're not proud of.

Emily looks down at you. Her chest is heaving. Her short ginger fur is dark with sweat at the throat and her lips are parted and she has never looked more pleased with herself in her life.

"Not yet, Master," she says.

Then she leans down, still buried, still clenched, and takes your lower lip between her teeth and bites — not hard enough to break, just hard enough to hold, just hard enough to remind you whose mouth is whose — and growls low in her throat, and the vibration goes through her whole body into yours.

She holds the bite for a long second. Long enough that you taste copper at the edge of it, long enough that her breath comes hot and uneven through her nose against your cheek. Then she lets go, slowly, dragging her teeth off the lip and leaving it stinging, and pulls back just far enough to look at the mark she's made.

"There," she says, thumb swiping across your mouth like she's wiping something off, except she isn't, she's just feeling it, the swollen edge of you. "Now you'll remember it. Every time you lick your lip today."

She shifts her weight back onto her knees. Slow. Deliberate. The drag of her cunt up the length of you is the same crawl as before, one ring of wet muscle letting go at a time, and she watches your face the whole way up like she's reading a gauge. You keep it flat. You keep it flat and she tilts her head, unimpressed, and stops with the head of you resting just inside her, breathing.

"You're doing that thing," she says. "The jaw thing. When you're trying not to beg."

"I'm not—"

"You are." She sinks two inches and stops again, right in the middle, and holds there, and her ears flick forward. "You do it in your sleep sometimes. Moxie told me. She watches you sleep, did you know that? She sits up and watches you breathe."

Behind her, Moxie makes a small strangled noise. "Emily, that's—"

"True." Emily takes the last of you in one slow push, all the way to the root, and settles her ass on your thighs and goes still. Her cunt clenches down around you in three slow pulses, one after another, like a hand squeezing and releasing, and it's not a flinch, it's not involuntary — she's doing it on purpose, she's learned how. "Every night. Ask her."

You can hear Moxie breathing. Fast, shallow, through her nose, the way she does when she's caught between a lie and a truth and can't pick. She doesn't say anything. Emily doesn't need her to.

"Up," Emily says, and does it. Same crawl. Same stop. Her thighs are starting to tremble — you can feel it in the muscle against your hips, fine and constant, the cost of holding slow with her whole weight on her knees. She doesn't let it show anywhere else. Her face is still that grin, half bored, entirely in charge, and she's watching the sweat bead on your sternum with the look of a woman watering a plant.

Down. All the way. No pause at the bottom this time — she grinds instead, small circles, working you against the spot she found earlier, and her breath catches once, just once, before she flattens it back out.

"You feel that?" she says. "That's what you don't get. I just took it. You felt me take it and you couldn't do a thing."

Your hands are still pinned under hers, palm to palm, fingers laced. You could break the grip. She knows you could — you've done it before, flipped her, held her down, made her say things she didn't want to say. She's leaving the door open on purpose. That's the game. She's betting you won't walk through it, and she's betting right, because every time you think about it she stops moving and the ache in your balls gets sharper and the thought dies.

"Moxie," Emily says, still not looking at her. "Come here."

A pause. The sheets shift.

"I said come here. You're not in trouble. Yet."

Moxie moves. You feel the mattress dip, feel the warmth of her come up along your side, and she settles beside you on her knees, russet fur catching the gray morning light, her long hair stuck to her cheek where she's been sweating. Her hazel eyes are huge. She's not looking at your face. She's looking at Emily's hips, at the slow piston of her, at the wet shine where you disappear into her.

Emily takes Moxie's wrist — the same grip she used on yours, thumb over the pulse — and pulls her hand across your stomach and presses it flat there, low, just above the base of your cock where Emily's body keeps meeting yours.

"Feel that," Emily says. "That's him holding on. He's been holding on for ten minutes. He's going to lose his mind."

Moxie's fingers spread against the muscle. She can feel it — the whole taut plane of you, the way it clenches every time Emily bottoms out. Her thumb strokes once, small, sympathetic, and she makes a soft sound low in her throat, half worry and half something else, something that has her thighs pressing together again.

"Good," Emily says. "Keep your hand there. Don't move it."

And then she rides.

Slow. Slower than before, if that's possible — she's found the bottom of the gearbox and she's living down there now, every stroke a full second up and a full second down, her cunt gripping you the whole way like she's milking something out of you that she doesn't intend to let go of. The wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet room. The light on the wall has gone from gray to gold. Somewhere down the hall a pipe knocks, once, the house waking up around you, and none of you care.

Her palms are hot on your wrists. Her tail has come down off her hip and is draped across Moxie's shoulder now, tip curling and uncurling against her sister's ear, and Moxie is letting it, is leaning into it, her eyes half closed and her hand still flat on your stomach and her mouth open and wet.

"You want to come," Emily says. It's not a question.

You don't answer. Your teeth are locked.

"You want to come in me and then lie there and let me pet you and tell you it was good." Her hips roll. Slow. Deep. "That's what you want. That's what you always want. You want to be good."

She leans down again, but she doesn't bite this time. She puts her mouth against your throat, right over the pulse, and just breathes there, hot and damp, and her hips keep going, and her voice comes out against the skin so quiet that only you hear it.

"Not yet, Master."

The rhythm doesn't break. Emily keeps her hips working, slow and deliberate, down and up and down, and the whole time she's watching your face with that flat, satisfied grin — but her ears have swiveled back toward her sister, and the tip of her tail has stopped its lazy curl against Moxie's shoulder.

She's been thinking about it. You can see the exact moment the thought lands, because her eyes change — a flicker, quick, the way a fox's eyes change when it hears something move in the grass. She doesn't stop riding. She just reaches back.

Her hand finds Moxie's jaw.

Moxie startles — a small full-body flinch you feel through the mattress, her hand lifting off your stomach for half a second before she catches herself and puts it back. Emily's grip is the same grip she used on your wrists: thumb along the jawbone, fingers spread across the cheek, firm enough to steer. She turns her sister's face up toward hers without looking away from you.

"Come here," she says.

Moxie's ears go flat. Not fear — something older than that, something with roots. "Emily—"

"I said come here."

She pulls. Moxie comes — leaning across your chest, one hand braced on the mattress beside your ribs, russet hair falling forward off her shoulder, and her face tilts up toward Emily's and stops an inch away. Emily holds her there. Both of them breathing. Emily's hips still moving, slow, and Moxie's breath hitching every time Emily bottoms out, because she's close enough now to feel the motion through the air between them.

You can see everything. Emily's sharp grin. Moxie's wide hazel eyes, rimmed wet at the lashes. The way Moxie's mouth has fallen open — not to speak, just open, the way it does when she's waiting for something she doesn't have words for.

"You've got his taste all over you," Emily says. Quiet. Almost conversational. "I can smell it. You didn't even wash your mouth out."

Moxie's throat works. "I—"

Emily kisses her.

It's not gentle. There's nothing of the slow grind in her hips in it — her mouth lands hard, open, and she takes Moxie's lower lip between both of hers and pulls it in, and Moxie makes a sound into it that you feel in your own chest, a small broken thing halfway between a gasp and a whimper. Emily's hand tightens on her jaw. Her tongue goes in.

You watch it happen from six inches away. Emily's head tilted, eyes half-closed but not shut — she's watching you watch, she'd never fully close her eyes, that's not how she works — and Moxie's hands have both come up now, one fisted in the sheets beside your head and one hovering useless in the air like she's forgotten what hands are for. Her tail has gone stiff and straight and it's trembling at the tip.

Emily's hips never stop. That's the thing that undoes you. She kisses her sister deep and hungry and keeps riding you the whole time, slow and even, her cunt gripping you in that measured pulse, and the two motions are the same motion somehow — the way she works her mouth on Moxie and the way she works her body on you, the same unhurried confidence, the same appetite, and both of you are under it, both of you are hers, and she knows it. She's showing you. That's what this is. She's showing you what she can do.

Moxie gives in. You feel it — not see it, feel it, because her hand finally comes down and lands on your chest and her whole body sags toward Emily like a rope going slack. She stops holding herself up. She lets Emily hold her face and kiss her and she kisses back, tentative at first, then not, her tongue meeting Emily's with a small wet sound that goes straight down your spine and into your balls. Her tail un-stiffens and curls, slow, and wraps itself around Emily's thigh.

Emily makes a low sound in her throat. Approval. She pulls the kiss deeper, angles her head the other way, and her free hand comes up to the back of Moxie's head and holds her there — fingers combed into the russet hair, palm flat against the base of her skull — and she doesn't let her go. Moxie's ear flicks once against Emily's wrist and then goes still.

You've stopped breathing. You realize it when your chest starts to burn.

Emily feels you twitch inside her — she must, because her hips stutter for half a beat, the first genuine break in her rhythm in ten minutes, and she makes a small pleased noise against Moxie's mouth and grinds down harder to cover it. Her cunt clenches around you, three slow squeezes, deliberate, and she does it without ever breaking the kiss.

Moxie's fingers curl against your chest. Her claws are out — just the tips, just enough to prick — and she doesn't seem to know. She's kissing her sister the way she sucks your cock: total, devoted, no part of her held back. Her free hand has come up to Emily's waist and is holding on there, thumb pressed into the soft ginger fur above Emily's hip, and she's making small sounds into the kiss, one after another, the kind of sounds she makes in the morning when you're inside her and she's forgotten to be quiet.

The light has moved. The gold bar on the wall has climbed the plaster and thinned out and gone pale, and somewhere in the house a door opens and closes, someone else's morning, nothing to do with this room. Emily's tail has come down off Moxie's shoulder and is winding slow around her sister's waist, fur to fur, and Moxie's tail is still wrapped around Emily's thigh, and the two of them are tangled up like that, kissing, while Emily rides you.

Then Emily breaks it.

She pulls back — not far, an inch, maybe two — and Moxie's mouth follows her for a moment before Moxie catches herself and stops, eyes fluttering open, dazed. Emily keeps her grip on Moxie's jaw. Keeps her exactly where she is. Both of them breathing hard, foreheads almost touching, Emily's breath on Moxie's wet mouth.

Emily's hips have gone still. Buried to the root. Her cunt clamped around you in that fist-tight hold, and she's not moving, and the whole room has gone quiet except for Moxie's breathing and yours.

Emily looks at you. Over Moxie's shoulder, past the fall of russet hair, straight into your eyes. Her grin is back, small and sharp and private.

"That's how he tastes," she says.

Moxie's eyes go wide. Her hand on your chest flexes — claws pricking, a bright little sting — and a flush runs up her throat and into her cheeks, visible even through the fur, and she doesn't say anything, she can't, she just breathes there with Emily's hand on her jaw and Emily's taste in her mouth and your taste still on her tongue, caught between the two of them like a coin spinning on a table.

Emily holds her there one more second. Watching it land.

Then she sinks down again.

One long slow stroke, all the way from the head of you to the root, and she takes Moxie's lower lip in her teeth on the way down and drags it, gently, and lets it go, and Moxie's whole body shudders and her hand comes off your chest and up to her own mouth like she's trying to hold the feeling in.

Emily's rhythm starts back up. Slow. Unhurried. The same crawl as before, one ring of wet muscle at a time, and she's still holding Moxie's face in her hand — hasn't let go, isn't going to — and Moxie is kneeling there beside you with her fingers pressed to her own lips and her eyes half-closed and her tail wound tight around Emily's thigh, and neither of them is looking at you anymore.

They're looking at each other.

Emily rides you slow and watches her sister's face. Moxie watches Emily's hips — the way they move, the way Emily's body takes you and lets you go — and her free hand has drifted back down between her own thighs, slow and absent, like she's not even deciding it. Her fingers move in small circles against herself. She's stopped hiding it. She's stopped pretending.

"You want to know what he does," Emily says, quiet, still watching Moxie's face. "When he's close. You want to know what his face does."

Moxie nods. Small. Barely.

"I'll show you," Emily says. "Later. Right now I want you to keep your hand where I put it."

She takes Moxie's wrist — the same grip, thumb over the pulse — and pulls her hand off her own body and lays it flat on your stomach again, low, above the base of your cock. Moxie's fingers spread against the muscle. You can feel how warm her palm is. How wet her fingertips are. She leaves a small slick print on your skin and neither of you says anything about it.

Emily's hips roll down. Grind. Up. Down. The mattress creaks under the three of you, one small rhythmic complaint, and Moxie's hand stays where it's been put, and Emily's hand stays on Moxie's jaw, and the morning light goes on climbing the wall, indifferent, running out of room.

"Good," Emily says. To both of you, or to neither. "Good."

She doesn't speed up. She's got all day, she said so, and she meant it, and the slow wet sound of her taking you over and over fills the quiet room like a promise she has no intention of keeping on schedule.

She doesn't.

That's the first thing — the thing that lands in your chest before any of the rest of it. She holds the pace exactly where it is, that slow crawl, and she doesn't reward it, doesn't punish it, doesn't acknowledge it at all. Her body just keeps working you, one patient ring of muscle at a time, and her eyes stay on Moxie's face, and the quiet goes on filling the room.

Moxie's hand is still flat on your stomach. Warm. Wet at the fingertips. She hasn't moved it. She's holding it there like it's been nailed down, and she's watching Emily's face the way you watch a fire you didn't start — not sure if it's going to spread or go out.

Emily's thumb moves. Just the one thumb, on Moxie's jaw, tracing up along the bone to the hinge of it and pressing there, small and firm, the way you'd test a latch.

"You stopped," Emily says.

"I—"

"Your hand." Emily's hips sink, slow, bottom out, hold. "You were touching yourself. I felt you stop."

Moxie's ears go flat again and her throat works and she doesn't deny it. There's nothing to deny. The slick print on your skin is still there, cooling, and Emily can smell it the same way she smelled your taste in Moxie's mouth.

"It's fine," Emily says, and the words come out almost kind, which is somehow worse. "I told you to keep it where I put it. You did. That's all I asked."

She rolls her hips, up, down, and the wet sound of it is the only punctuation the sentence gets.

Moxie's breath goes out of her in a small rush. Her tail, wrapped around Emily's thigh, tightens and then loosens and then tightens again — that same restless rhythm it had when she first woke you with her mouth, the one that means she's holding something back and losing the argument with herself about it.

Emily notices. Of course she notices. She notices everything; that's the whole trick of her, the thing people miss because the grin is so loud. She reaches back with her free hand — the one that's been braced on your hip — and she finds Moxie's tail where it's wound around her thigh, and she takes it at the base, right where the fur is thickest and warmest, and she gives it one slow deliberate stroke down its length.

Moxie's whole body jerks. Her hand comes off your stomach an inch before she slaps it back down. Her mouth opens and nothing comes out of it, and her hips roll once against nothing, against the air, against the side of your leg, and her eyes squeeze shut.

"There it is," Emily says.

She does it again. Same stroke, base to tip, unhurried, and this time she watches Moxie's face the entire way. Moxie's jaw is trembling under Emily's other hand — you can see it, the small fine shake running through the muscle — and her ears have gone from flat to something else, angled back but loose, helpless.

"Look at me," Emily says.

Moxie's eyes open.

"Good girl."

The words land like a hand on the back of the neck. Moxie's shoulders drop. Her breath comes out of her long and slow and shaky, and she leans — actually leans, her weight going toward Emily across your chest, her forehead tipping down like she's about to rest it on Emily's shoulder, and Emily lets her get an inch closer before she stops her with the hand on her jaw.

"Not yet," she says. "I didn't say you could have that."

Moxie stops. Hangs there, an inch away, breathing on Emily's mouth.

And Emily — still buried to the root, still clamped around you, still not moving — takes Moxie's chin between her thumb and forefinger and turns her face, slow, until Moxie is looking at you.

"Look at him," Emily says, low, right against Moxie's ear. "Look at what he's doing. He hasn't come. He's been in me for twenty minutes and he hasn't come, because I haven't let him, and he's just lying there taking it because that's what he's for." Her thumb presses the hinge of Moxie's jaw. "You want to know what his face does when he's close. Watch it. You'll see it. I'll give you that much."

Moxie looks at you.

You look back. You can't do anything else. Your hands are fisted in the sheets on either side of you and they've been that way so long your knuckles ache, and there's sweat cooling on your chest where Moxie's palm isn't covering it, and the light on the wall has gone thin and white and stopped climbing, and you are so hard inside Emily that it's gone past pleasure into something closer to a held note, a ringing, a thing that's going to break or not break and there's no deciding it.

"Say something," Emily tells Moxie. "Anything. He likes your voice."

Moxie's lips part. Nothing comes.

"Try again."

"I—" Moxie's voice comes out wrecked, sanded down. "I want—"

"You want what."

"I want you to keep going."

Emily's grin sharpens. "That's not for you."

"I know." Moxie's eyes are wet at the lashes again, and she's still looking at you, and her hand on your stomach has started to move — not down, just a small helpless press, fingers curling and uncurling against the muscle. "I know it's not."

"Then why'd you say it."

"Because you asked."

Emily laughs. It's a real laugh, low and short and surprised out of her, and it's the first crack in the whole performance — the first thing all morning that Emily didn't plan. She covers it by grinding down hard, one sharp stroke that makes you grunt and makes the headboard knock the wall, and Moxie flinches at the sound and then goes still.

"Okay," Emily says. "Okay."

She lets go of Moxie's tail. She lets go of her jaw. Both hands come free at once and Moxie sways there, unheld, blinking, like a rope that's been cut.

Then Emily reaches back and takes her sister's face in both hands.

Not the jaw this time. Both palms, flat on both cheeks, fingers spread up into the russet hair at her temples, thumbs under her cheekbones — the way you'd hold something you were about to say something serious to. She pulls Moxie's face to hers, and Moxie comes, unresisting, all the way this time, until their foreheads touch and their mouths are a breath apart and Moxie's hands have both come up to grip Emily's wrists like she needs something to hold on to.

"Look at me," Emily says. Softer than anything she's said all morning.

Moxie looks at her.

Emily kisses her.

It's a different kiss than the first one. The first one was a claim, a demonstration, teeth and tongue and an audience. This one is slow. Emily opens her mouth against Moxie's and Moxie opens under her and they meet in the middle, unhurried, deep, and Emily's thumbs stroke once along Moxie's cheekbones and Moxie makes a sound into it — not the whimper from before, something lower and longer, something that comes up from her chest and goes down yours.

Her tongue is in Emily's mouth and she's tasting it — you can see her tasting it, the small pause, the way her jaw works — tasting you on her sister's tongue, the slick salt of you, and she makes that sound again and her fingers tighten on Emily's wrists and her hips roll once against the air.

Emily's hips start moving. Slow. The same crawl. She kisses Moxie through it, and Moxie kisses back, and the two of them breathe into each other's mouths in time with the stroke, and your cock is buried in one sister while she kisses the other, and there is nothing in the world you can do about any of it.

Emily breaks the kiss.

Not far. An inch. Her hands still on Moxie's face, her forehead still against Moxie's forehead, her breath still on Moxie's wet mouth. Moxie's eyes are closed. Her lashes are dark and wet and stuck together in little points.

"That's how he tastes," Emily whispers.

Moxie moans. It's barely a sound, mostly breath, and it goes into Emily's mouth and stays there.

Emily holds her one more second — both hands, forehead to forehead, the whole thing suspended — and then she sinks down again.

She sinks down slow. All the way. The whole length of you in one long pull of wet muscle, and she takes Moxie's face in both hands again and holds it, forehead to forehead, while her cunt swallows you to the root.

And then she stops.

Buried. Clamped. Her hips locked against yours with her ass on your thighs and her breath coming hot across Moxie's mouth, and she doesn't move. She just sits there with you filling her, and waits, and the waiting is the whole thing — that fist of pressure in your pelvis with nowhere to go, drawn up tight and held, and held, and held.

Your jaw aches.

You didn't notice it start. Somewhere in the last minute it locked — the hinge of it, the muscle down the side of your neck — the way it does when you're carrying something too heavy and you've decided not to say so. Your molars are pressed flat together. Your tongue is pinned to the roof of your mouth.

Emily's thumb is stroking Moxie's cheekbone, slow, and her eyes are closed, and she is not moving, and the ache in your jaw has become the loudest thing in the room.

Moxie's hand is still flat on your stomach. Warm. Her fingertips have dried where they left the slick print on your skin, and her palm has gone tacky against you, and she hasn't lifted it once. She's breathing through her nose in time with Emily's breath, and their foreheads are touching, and neither of them is looking at you.

Your jaw works. Once.

Nothing comes out. The muscle jumps and settles and the sound dies somewhere behind your teeth, and you feel the effort of it in your throat like a swallowed stone.

Then Emily rolls her hips. Not a stroke — a grind, small and slow, her pelvis circling against yours with you still buried to the root, and the head of your cock drags across that spot inside her and she makes a low sound and her fingers tighten in Moxie's hair — and the grind puts pressure on everything, on the whole drawn-up knot of you, and it hurts, it hurts in the good way, and your jaw unlocks before you can stop it.

"Mmph—"

It's not a word. It's the shape of one. A low, broken noise that comes up out of your chest and out through your open mouth, and it hangs in the quiet room, and both of them hear it.

Emily freezes.

Not a slow stop. A freeze — her hips cut off mid-circle, her whole body going still against yours, and her ears snap forward so fast you feel the air move. Her head comes up off Moxie's forehead. Her eyes open. She's looking at you now, over Moxie's shoulder, and her pupils are blown wide and dark in all that amber, and her chest has stopped moving.

The room is so quiet you can hear Moxie swallow.

Emily's hips stay locked. Her cunt clenches around you — one long, involuntary squeeze, hard enough to make you see white at the edges — and she doesn't do it on purpose. You can tell. There's no measured pulse in it, no three-count rhythm. It's just her body answering the sound you made, gripping you like a hand closing on something it doesn't want to drop.

Her mouth opens. She doesn't say anything either.

Moxie's hand flexes on your stomach — claws pricking, that same bright little sting as before — and her eyes have come open and she's looking at you too, both of them looking at you now, two faces over your chest in the thin white morning light, and Moxie's mouth is wet and open and her thumb is stroking once, small, against the muscle below your navel, like she's soothing something.

Nobody moves.

Emily's ears flick — left, then right, twitchy, tracking, the way they do when she's recalculating. Her hands are still on Moxie's face. Her hips are still flush against yours. And she's just watching you, waiting, her breath coming shallow through her nose, and you can see her deciding something behind those eyes, and you can't tell what.

Her grip on Moxie's jaw tightens. Just a fraction. Moxie feels it — her ears angle back and she goes very still, the way a smaller animal goes still, and her hand on your stomach stops moving.

"Say it again," Emily whispers.

Her voice has changed. It's gone low and rough and there's nothing of the sneer in it, nothing of the performance, and it lands on you the way the bite landed on your lip — hard enough to leave a mark.

Your mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

You try. You feel the word gathering at the back of your throat, some word, any word, and it dies there. Your jaw works and your tongue moves and your chest rises and falls and there is nothing — just breath, just the sound of your own breathing in the quiet room — and Emily watches the whole struggle happen on your face, and her grin comes back. Smaller than before. Sharper. And this time it's not for Moxie's benefit, or the room's. It's just for you.

She grinds.

Slow. Deliberate. The same small circle, her pelvis rolling against yours with you still buried to the root, working the head of your cock against that spot over and over, and her eyes never leave your face. She's reading it. She's reading the way your jaw keeps trying to unlock and the way it keeps failing, the way your hands have gone white-knuckled in the sheets, the way your breath catches every time she drags you across that spot and releases it every time she pulls back.

Moxie makes a small sound. Barely anything — a breath, a whimper folded into it — and Emily doesn't look at her. Emily's thumb is still on Moxie's jaw, holding her there, and Moxie is watching you too, and her hand on your stomach has started to tremble, fine and constant, the way it does when she's holding back something she wants to say.

Emily grinds again. Harder. And this time she lets you feel how wet she is — how she's soaked through, how the grind is a slick slide rather than a drag, how her cunt is gripping you in a slow rolling squeeze that has nothing to do with control and everything to do with what the sound you made did to her.

Your jaw unlocks.

Not all the way. Just enough. Just the hinge, just the width of a breath, and the word comes out of you low and cracked and barely voiced, half swallowed, a broken thing, but it's there, it's on the air, and both of them hear it.

"Please."

Emily stops.

All the way. Every part of her — hips, hands, breath — cut off at once, and she is sitting on your cock with her cunt clamped tight and her ears forward and her eyes wide, and she is not moving and she is not breathing and she is not grinning.

Moxie's hand on your stomach has gone still. Her claws are out, all of them, pricking at the muscle, and she doesn't notice.

The light on the wall has gone fully white. The dust in it is spinning slow. Somewhere down the hall the pipe knocks again, once, and nobody looks at it.

Emily's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

And then her grin comes back — slow, crooked at one corner, nothing like the sharp thing she's been wearing all morning — and she leans down and puts her mouth against your ear and speaks into it so quiet that Moxie, an inch away, can't hear.

"There he is," she says.

She stays there. Mouth at your ear, breath moving the fine hairs at your temple, and she does not pull back. Her hips are still locked flush against yours. Her cunt is still clamped around you, that slow involuntary grip still working you in pulses you can't time, and she is not grinding, not stroking, not doing anything but holding you inside her like she's waiting for something else to come out of your mouth.

Your jaw is still open. The hinge gave and didn't close. You can feel the cool air on your tongue, the shape of the room's silence pressing against your soft palate, and behind it the word you already spent — please — sitting somewhere in the air between you two like a coin on a table that nobody will pick up.

Moxie's hand is still flat on your stomach. The claws are still out. She hasn't retracted them, and the four small points of pressure have gone from sting to ache, a dull four-cornered bite that pulses with your heartbeat, and she is looking at your face with her mouth open and her ears flat back and something in her hazel eyes that you can't read — not fear, not jealousy. Something closer to awe. Like she watched a door she's been standing in front of for years finally swing open.

Emily's tail moves. Slow, behind her, the fluffy ginger brush of it sweeping across the sheets in a lazy arc, and it's the only part of her that's moving at all. Her ears have gone still — forward, locked, both of them angled at your mouth like they're trying to catch a frequency only they can hear.

The pipe knocks again down the hall. Two this time. Nobody looks at it.

And then Emily's teeth close on your earlobe.

Gently. That's the thing. Not the bite she gave your lip, not the sharp little snap of a vixen claiming territory. This is a soft hold — her incisors pinching the lobe, her breath hot and wet against the shell of your ear, her tongue pressed flat to the skin behind it, and she holds you there for a long second before she lets go.

The sound that comes out of you is not a word either. It's lower than the last one. It comes up from somewhere under your ribs, through the locked hinge of your jaw, and it lands in the quiet room as a long, cracked hum that both of them hear.

Moxie's claws flex against your stomach. All four points, in and out, one slow stroke — and this time she notices, because her ears twitch and she lifts her hand a half-inch off your skin and puts it back down, palm flat, fingers spread, the claws gone. Her palm is damp where it lands. Your skin is damp where it left.

Emily pulls back from your ear. Just far enough to look at you. Her pupils are still blown wide, two dark wells with a thin ring of amber around them, and her grin has gone somewhere — the crooked thing from a second ago has flattened out into something steadier. Something that isn't performing anymore.

"That's twice," she says. Quiet. Not for Moxie. Not for the room. Just for you. "You gave me two. I didn't have to take either one."

She rolls her hips again. Slow. A long, dragging grind, her pelvis tipping forward and back with you buried in her, and this time it isn't a circle — it's a stroke, a full one, the wet slide of her cunt pulling up the whole length of you and sinking back down, and the sound of it is unmistakable in the quiet room. Slick. Loud. The kind of sound that makes Moxie's breath catch in her throat, a small sharp inhale that she doesn't get to finish.

Your hands are still white-knuckled in the sheets. You haven't moved them. You couldn't if you wanted to — they've been fists so long the tendons in your forearms have gone stiff, and when you try to open them the fingers come apart slowly, one at a time, like something rusted.

Emily sees it. Her eyes flick down to your hands and back up to your face, and something crosses her expression that isn't the sneer and isn't the grin and isn't anything she's shown you this morning. It's quick. It's gone before you can name it. But it was there — a softening at the corner of her mouth, a half-degree tilt of her head — and she covers it by biting her own lip and rolling her hips again, harder this time, the slap of her ass against your thighs a small flat crack in the white morning light.

Moxie makes a sound. It's not the whimper from before. It's lower — a hum, almost, something in her chest that vibrates down through her palm into your stomach, and her thumb starts moving again, that same small stroke below your navel, back and forth, back and forth, like she's keeping time with something only she can hear.

Emily's hips slow. Stop. She sits up — straightens her spine, her hands sliding off Moxie's face and down to brace on your chest, one on each pectoral, claws just barely out, just enough to bite — and she looks down at you from above with her tail curling up behind her and her ears forward and her breath coming fast through her nose.

"Say it again," she says.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Emily holds the look. Her palms are flat on your chest, claws just pricking, and she's breathing through her nose in slow measured pulls, and she does not say a word when you fail. She just waits. That's the new thing — the waiting. All morning she's been taking, and now she's sitting on your cock with her weight forward and her eyes on your mouth like she's got nowhere else she needs to be.

The light has gone flat and white. The dust in it has stopped spinning and just hangs. Somewhere in the house a chair drags across a floor, one long scrape, and stops.

Moxie moves first.

It's small — you feel it before you see it, the mattress dipping at your side, the warmth of her shifting up along your ribs. She's been kneeling there so long her knees have left dents in the sheet. Her hand comes off your stomach, and the cool air finds the four little claw-marks she left behind and makes them sting.

She doesn't look at you. She looks at Emily.

"Emily."

Emily's ears flick toward the sound but her eyes don't move. She's still watching your mouth.

"Emily, please."

That does it. Emily's head turns — slow, deliberate, the way she does everything — and her gaze comes off your face and lands on her sister. Her grin is already there, but it changes as it forms, the sharp edge going softer and meaner at the same time, like she's found something she didn't know she was hunting.

"Say that again," she says.

Moxie's throat works. She's still got her hand hovering where it left your stomach, fingers half-curled, wet at the tips. Her tail has come unwound from Emily's thigh and is curled tight around her own ankle now, the tip twitching.

"Please." Her voice cracks on the word — actually cracks, the vowel splitting in the middle — and her ears go flat and her eyes drop to the sheets. "I want — I want to. Please let me."

Emily goes very still. Then she laughs. It's not the low mean thing from before. It's quieter, almost warm, and it comes up out of her chest like something she didn't plan.

"There you are," she says. "I was starting to think you'd gone mute."

She lifts off you.

It's slow and it's wet and it's the first time in twenty minutes that your cock has been out of her, and the cool air hits the slick skin and makes you hiss through your teeth. Emily doesn't look at you. She swings her leg over and kneels beside you, thighs apart, and her cunt is still glistening and her fur is dark with sweat down her sternum and she's breathing hard through her mouth now, all the performance gone out of it.

She leans over the side of the bed.

You hear it before you see it — the drag of something heavy across the floorboards, the clink of metal on metal. She comes back up with it in both hands and drops it on the mattress between the three of you, and the whole bed shifts with the weight of it.

The harness.

Black leather, worn soft at the straps. The buckles have gone dull with use. The ring at the front is cold and silver and it catches the white light and holds it. There's a dildo already threaded through it — the smaller one, the one with the curve, the one Moxie's never worn.

Moxie looks at it and goes still.

Emily watches her look. She's got one hand resting on the leather, thumb stroking the strap like she's petting something, and her grin is back — but it's a different grin now, private, the one she wears when she's about to give you something she's been saving.

"You've never had it on," Emily says. It's not a question.

"No."

"You've watched."

Moxie's flush is visible even through the russet. It runs up her throat and into her cheeks and the tips of her ears. "Yes."

"Every time."

"Yes."

Emily picks it up. She holds it out — not to you, to Moxie, both hands, the way you'd hand someone a knife — and she waits with it hanging between them in the flat morning light.

"Put it on," she says. "He's yours now."

Moxie doesn't move. Her hand has come up to her own chest, pressed flat over her sternum, and she's staring at the harness like it might bite. Her tail has gone stiff and the tip is trembling.

"Emily—"

"Don't." Emily's voice is quiet but it's got the flat edge back. "You asked. You said please. That's the first true thing you've said all morning and I heard it. So put it on."

Moxie's mouth opens. Closes. She looks at you — first real look she's given you since Emily climbed on — and her hazel eyes are wet at the lashes and wide and there's something in them that isn't fear. Something that's been sitting in her a long time, patient, waiting for a door.

She reaches out.

Her fingers close around the leather. Emily doesn't let go right away — she holds on for one more second, both of them gripping the harness, and she looks at Moxie across it with her ears forward and her pupils still blown wide.

"You know what to do with it," Emily says.

"I know."

"Then do it."

Emily lets go.

Moxie stands up off the bed. Her legs are unsteady — you can see the fine tremor in her thighs, the way she plants one foot and then the other like the floor's not quite where she left it. She turns her back to you both, and the morning light finds the whole long line of her, russet fur going gold at the edges, and she steps into the harness.

The leather creaks.

She pulls it up her thighs and settles the ring against her, and you hear the buckle click — one, then the other — her hands moving behind her back with the ease of someone who's watched this done a hundred times. The straps cross her hips and ride up over the swell of her ass and cinch at her waist, and the dildo juts out from her, curved, already slick from nothing but the light.

She turns around.

She's shaking. You can see it — the fine constant tremor in her hands, the way she's holding her arms slightly out from her body like she doesn't know what to do with them. But her chin is up. Her ears are forward. And when she looks at you, her eyes aren't wet anymore.

Emily is watching her from the bed. She's got her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them and her tail curled over her own feet, and she's grinning that private grin, and she hasn't said a word.

"Come here," Moxie says.

Her voice comes out low and level and it doesn't crack. She's talking to you. She's never talked to you like that — not in the morning, not with her mouth full, not once in all the years she's been waking you with her tongue. She's always asked. She's always waited.

You don't move. You can't. Your hands are still fists in the sheets and your cock is still slick with Emily and lying hard against your belly, and you're looking up at the older sister standing over you in a leather harness with her tail lashing slow behind her, and your mouth is dry.

Moxie's ears tip back. Just a fraction. Then she squares her shoulders and climbs onto the bed.

The mattress rolls under her weight. She comes up between your legs — knee, then knee — and she settles there on her heels with the dildo pointing down at you and her hands braced on your thighs, and her claws are out, all of them, pricking at the muscle.

"Emily," she says, without looking away from you. "How does he like it."

Emily's laugh is small and real. "You're asking me?"

"You've done it more."

"I've done it to him more." Emily shifts on the bed, stretching her legs out, and she props herself on one elbow to watch. "He likes it slow first. He won't say so. He'll breathe through his nose and stare at the ceiling and pretend it's nothing, and then about a minute in his hips will start doing this little thing—"

"I know the thing," Moxie says.

Emily goes quiet. Then: "Yeah. You do."

Moxie's hands move up your thighs. Slow. She's got her palms flat and her fingers spread, and the fur of her forearms drags across the tops of your legs the way it did this morning, waking you, and the familiarity of it lands somewhere under your ribs and stays there.

She reaches down and takes the base of your cock in one hand. Lifts it. Sets it flat against your stomach and holds it there with her thumb, and with her other hand she guides the head of the dildo down between your legs.

The tip touches you. Cold. Slick — she's wet it with something, her own mouth maybe, and the curve of it presses flat against your hole and just rests there, not pushing.

Moxie looks at you. Her ears are forward. Her mouth is open.

"Tell me," she says.

You don't. Your jaw is locked again — that same hinge, that same stone — and you stare up at her and she stares back down, and the tip of the dildo sits against you and doesn't move.

Emily's voice comes from the corner of the bed, low and amused. "He won't. Not the first time. He never does."

"I'm not asking him." Moxie's thumb presses down on your cock where she's holding it flat, just a little, and your hips twitch before you can stop them. "I'm telling him. Tell me."

Your breath goes out of you in a rush.

"Please," you say.

Moxie's whole body shivers. It runs from her ears down through her shoulders and into her tail, which curls up tight against her own back and then loosens again, and she makes a sound low in her throat that isn't a word.

"Good," she says. "Good."

She pushes.

Slow — slower than Emily ever does, slower than you thought anyone could — and the head of the dildo opens you up one fraction of an inch at a time. The stretch is there, the familiar burn, but it comes in a long even wave instead of a shove, and Moxie is watching your face the whole way with her lips parted and her ears tracking every twitch.

She gets the head in. Stops. Holds it there with the strap creaking against her hips and her breath coming short.

"Okay," she says. "Okay."

Emily is watching from the foot of the bed. She's stopped grinning. Her chin is on her knee and her tail has gone still and her amber eyes are moving between your face and her sister's back, back and forth, back and forth, tracking something she didn't expect to see.

Moxie pushes deeper.

Another inch. Another. The curve of it finds the spot and slides past it and comes back and finds it again, and your back comes off the mattress and your hands finally open — the fists unlock and the fingers spread and grab at the sheets like the sheets are water.

"There," Moxie breathes. "There it is."

She's inside you to the base of the dildo now, the leather of the harness pressed flat against her hips and her thighs flush against the backs of yours, and she's holding still and breathing and looking down at you with her ears forward and her mouth open and something in her face that's been waiting a long time to come out.

Emily says nothing. She's just watching. And she's stopped pretending she isn't.

For a long moment nobody moves. Moxie is inside you to the base of the dildo, her hips flush against the backs of your thighs, her hands braced on your chest with the claws just barely out, and she is breathing through her mouth in small uneven pulls. Emily is still curled at the foot of the bed with her chin on her knee. The white light has thinned to something colder. The house has gone quiet around you.

Then Moxie pulls back.

Slow. The curve of the dildo drags out of you one fraction at a time, and the drag finds that spot on the way and holds it, riding it, until your heels dig into the mattress and your breath comes out of you in a low broken sound you don't authorize.

"There," Moxie says again. Soft. Almost to herself. "There you are."

She pushes back in. Same pace. Same long even wave, the stretch opening ahead of it and closing behind it, and this time she doesn't stop at the base — she rolls her hips at the bottom, grinding the curve against that spot until your vision goes soft at the edges, and only then does she start the pull back out.

Emily shifts on the bed. You hear the sheets, the small creak of the frame. Her tail sweeps once across the foot of the mattress and settles.

"Keep that," she says. "Don't speed up. He'll ask you to."

Moxie's ears flick toward the voice but her rhythm doesn't change. In. Out. In. Out. The harness creaks against her hips with each stroke and the wet sound of it is quieter than Emily's was, softer, less of a slap and more of a slide, and it fills the room the way her mouth filled it this morning.

Your hands have found the sheets again. Fists. The tendons in your forearms aching from how long they've been closed.

Emily moves.

She comes up the bed on her knees — slow, unhurried, the way she does everything — and she settles beside your hip with her thighs folded under her and her tail curled around her feet. Her small breasts are still bare under the open shirt and her fur is still dark with sweat down the sternum and she is looking at your face with her head tilted, reading it.

"You're already close," she says. "Look at you. She's barely touched you and you're already there."

You don't answer. Moxie pushes in again, bottoming out, and the grind at the end of it takes the answer out of you anyway.

Emily reaches down.

Her fingers close around your cock where it lies hard against your belly, and she lifts it — just lifts it, no stroke, just holds it up off your skin with her thumb and forefinger ringed around the base — and your whole body jerks toward the contact like a fish on a line.

"Oh," Emily says. "There it is."

She holds you like that. Doesn't move her hand. Just holds your cock upright in the cold air with her grip loose at the base, and Moxie keeps fucking you, slow and steady, and the two things together — the drag inside you and the stillness of Emily's hand — are doing something to you that has no name.

"Emily—"

"Shh." She doesn't look at your face. She's watching her own hand, the way your cock twitches in her grip with every stroke Moxie gives you. "I'm not doing anything. Look. I'm just holding it."

She is. That's the cruelty of it. Her hand is a ring at the base of you and nothing more, and every stroke Moxie takes inside you sends a pulse up the length of you that Emily's fingers feel and don't answer, and your hips have started doing the thing — that small involuntary roll, that tilt toward her hand — and Emily watches it happen and does nothing.

"He's doing it," she says. To Moxie. Conversational. "The hip thing. You were right."

"I told you."

"You did." Emily's thumb moves. One slow pass up the underside of your cock, root to just below the head, and stops. "That's all you get for now."

Moxie's rhythm changes. She's found something — a depth, an angle, a place where the curve sits against that spot and doesn't leave it — and she works it now in short shallow strokes that never fully pull out, just rocking into that place over and over, and the pleasure stops being a wave and becomes a held note, a ringing, a thing with no bottom.

Your jaw is open. You didn't feel it happen.

Emily's hand stays where it is. Loose ring at the base. Thumb resting on the underside. Every time Moxie rocks into you the pulse travels up your cock and into Emily's palm and she doesn't move, doesn't stroke, doesn't squeeze, and the not-moving is worse than anything she's done all morning.

"Please," you say.

"Please what."

"Move your—"

"No." Emily's voice is flat and pleasant. "You don't get my hand. You get her. That's the deal."

Moxie makes a small sound — approval, or something like it — and she leans forward onto her hands, changing the angle again, and now every stroke drives the curve of the dildo straight into that spot with no drag and no pause, and the pleasure goes from a note to a scream, silent, in the base of your spine.

Your hips come off the mattress. Emily's hand comes with them — she keeps her ring at the base of you, riding up, never letting go — and she watches your face the whole way with her pupils blown and her ears forward and her grin gone entirely, replaced by something flat and hungry and patient.

"There," she says. Quiet. "There he is."

Moxie doesn't stop. She's found the rhythm and she's holding it, steady as a metronome, in and in and in, shallow and relentless, and the build is climbing now, no plateaus, no backing off, just a straight line up toward a crest you can see coming and can't stop.

Emily's thumb moves again. One stroke. Up the underside, root to head, slow, and the contact after so long without it makes your whole body convulse — your hands tear out of the sheets and grab for something, anything, and find her thigh, and she lets you, she lets you dig your fingers into the ginger fur of her thigh and hold on.

"Close," you say. It comes out as a warning.

"I know."

"Emily—"

"I know." She doesn't stop her thumb. She strokes again, same slow pass, and Moxie keeps rocking into that spot, and the two of them are working you from both ends now, inside and out, and the crest is right there, right at the edge, everything drawing up tight —

Emily's fingers close.

Hard. Right at the base, a ring of thumb and forefinger clamped down on the shaft below your balls, and the build slams into a wall and stops.

Your back arches anyway. Your mouth opens on a sound that has no shape. The pressure is still there, still climbing, still demanding somewhere to go, and there is nowhere — Emily's grip has closed the door and the whole thing is backed up behind it, a fist of heat in your pelvis with no exit.

"Not yet," Emily says.

She holds the clamp. Moxie keeps fucking you — she hasn't slowed, hasn't stopped, she's still rocking into that spot in that same shallow relentless rhythm, and every stroke now pushes against the closed door, and the ache spreads down into your balls and up into your stomach and out along your thighs until your legs are shaking.

"Please," you say.

"Please what."

"Let me—"

"No." Emily's voice is warm now. Almost kind. That's the worst part. "Not yet. You can take more."

She lets go.

The release of the clamp is its own small orgasm — the pressure surging forward, the crest rushing back up toward the edge, everything in you reaching for it — and she lets it get right there, right to the lip, and then her fingers close again and stop it cold.

You make a sound that isn't a word. It comes up out of your chest and out through your open mouth and hangs in the white air, and neither of them acknowledges it.

Moxie's breath is coming short now. She's been at this a long time — longer than Emily did — and the sweat is running down her sternum and her tail has come up off her back and is lashing slow behind her, and her hips have started to stutter at the bottom of each stroke, losing the metronome, finding it again, losing it.

"How long," she says. To Emily. Her voice is sanded down.

"As long as it takes."

"Emily—"

"You wanted it." Emily's thumb strokes once up your cock, casual, and the stroke lands on the backed-up pressure like a match on gasoline and you buck under her hand. "You said please. This is what please gets you."

Moxie whimpers. It's a small sound, servile, and it goes straight through you — the older sister, the gentle one, the one who wakes you with her mouth, whimpering while she fucks you and Emily holds your cock like a leash.

Emily releases the clamp again.

This time she doesn't let it get all the way to the edge. She lets it climb halfway, lets the pressure build until your hips are rolling on their own, and then she closes her fingers and takes it back, and the drop is worse than the climb — the crest receding, the ache settling deeper, the whole thing backing up further behind the door.

"Again," she says.

She does it again. And again. Each time she lets you climb a little less and holds you a little longer, and each time the ache in your pelvis deepens and spreads, and Moxie keeps fucking you through all of it, steady, relentless, the curve of the dildo never leaving that spot, and the two of them have found a rhythm together now — Emily's hand opening and closing in time with Moxie's hips, letting you up exactly when Moxie drives in, closing you down exactly when she pulls back — and the whole thing has become one machine with you inside it.

Your hands are in Emily's thigh fur. Her claws have come out and are resting against your wrist, not pressing, just there, a reminder. Moxie's hands are braced on your chest with her claws pricking at the muscle, and her breath is coming in huffs, and she's stopped being gentle about it — the strokes are harder now, the grind at the bottom longer, and she's watching your face the way Emily told her to, waiting for the thing she was promised.

"Please," you say. "Please, I can't—"

"You can."

"I can't, Emily, please—"

"You can." She strokes you again, one long slow pass, root to head, and this time she doesn't close her fingers at the end. She lets the stroke finish. She lets the pressure surge forward and up and right to the edge, everything in you drawing up tight, balls pulling up, breath locked —

And then she stops her hand. Just stops it. Fingers still ringed at the base, thumb still on the underside, and the pressure is right there, right at the lip, and she isn't moving and Moxie isn't slowing and the whole thing is suspended, held, one second stretching into five, into ten, and you are right at the edge and cannot fall over it.

"Say it," Emily says. "Say what you want."

"I want—"

"Say it."

"I want to come."

"No." Her thumb moves. One tiny stroke, the smallest possible, and the pressure surges and holds. "Try again."

"Please let me come."

"No." Another stroke. Same size. "Try again."

You don't know what she wants. You're past knowing. Moxie's hips are driving into you and Emily's hand is a ring at the base of you and the pressure has nowhere to go and the words are coming out of you without permission, low and cracked and repeated — please, please, please — and Emily is watching your face with her ears forward and her pupils blown and her mouth slightly open, and she is not moving her hand.

"Please make it stop," you say.

Emily goes still.

Everything goes still. Moxie's hips stop mid-stroke, buried to the base, and Emily's hand freezes on your cock, and the room is silent except for the three of you breathing, and the words hang in the white air like something you didn't mean to say.

Emily looks at you. Her ears have come forward and her grin is gone and she is reading your face the way she read it all morning, slowly, carefully, and you can see her finding the thing she was looking for and deciding what to do with it.

"Stop?" she says. Quiet.

You can't answer. Your jaw is locked and your hips are still twitching against the pressure and your eyes are wet at the edges and you can't answer.

Emily's thumb moves. One slow stroke, root to head, and the pressure surges forward and up and right to the edge and holds there, and she watches your face the whole way.

"Or stop the teasing," she says.

You don't answer. You can't.

Emily's grin comes back. Small. Crooked. Private.

"There it is," she says.

She moves her hand. Fast now — full strokes, root to head, her grip firm and wet and working you the way she knows you need, and at the same time she nods at Moxie, one short jerk of her chin, and Moxie starts moving again, deep and hard and steady, and the two of them are working in time now, inside and out, and the pressure that's been backed up behind the door for so long comes forward all at once.

Your back comes off the mattress. Your hands tear out of Emily's thigh and grab the sheets and the sheets tear. Moxie drives in and grinds and stays there, and Emily's hand works you fast and tight, and the crest that's been held back through a dozen near-misses finally breaks.

It comes out of you and keeps coming. Rope after rope, hot and thick, up across your own stomach and over Emily's fingers where they're still ringed on your cock, and she doesn't pull away — she strokes you through it, root to head, slow now, milking every pulse, and Moxie is still buried to the base inside you and grinding, and the two of them hold you in the middle of it while the whole thing empties out of you in waves that keep surprising you with how much there is.

Your heels are in the mattress and your back is off it and your mouth is open and nothing is coming out. Somewhere above you the ceiling is white and the light is white and the room has gone very far away. Emily's thumb presses once into the wet head of you and your whole body folds around the touch — hips curling, stomach clenching, a sound finally tearing loose that isn't a word and isn't a breath and doesn't belong to any language you know.

"There," Emily says. Soft. To nobody. "There it is."

She keeps her hand on you. Doesn't let go, doesn't stop stroking, just slows — long lazy passes through the mess you made, spreading it down the shaft and over her knuckles, and the oversensitivity arrives all at once, a bright unbearable static under her fingers, and your hips jerk away from her hand on reflex.

She follows. She follows you down into the mattress and keeps her grip, and the second stroke through the ruined aftermath is worse than the first, electric, wrong, and you make a sound you've never made before and grab for her wrist.

"Emily—"

"I know."

"Emily, it's—"

"I know." She strokes you again. Same slow pass. Root to head, through the cum and the heat and the raw nerve of you. "You can take it."

"I can't—"

"You can." Her voice hasn't changed. Pleasant. Flat. Patient. "You asked me to make it stop. I'm making it stop."

She isn't making it stop. She's dragging you up the far side of it now, into the place past the peak where every touch is a live wire and your body can't tell the difference between pleasure and pain and has stopped trying, and her thumb finds the underside of the head on every pass and holds there for half a second longer than it needs to, and the half-second is a small bright cruelty delivered with perfect calm.

Moxie is still inside you. She hasn't pulled out. She's stopped moving, mostly — small circles now, the curve of the dildo sitting against that spot and pressing, just pressing, and after the orgasm the spot is a different country entirely, every nerve stripped raw, and the pressure that would have been pleasure ten minutes ago is now something your body keeps trying to climb away from and can't because Moxie's hips are flush against the backs of your thighs and there's nowhere to go.

"Moxie—" you say.

"I know, sweet thing." Her voice is wrecked. Softer than Emily's. Genuinely sorry. She doesn't stop. "I know. Almost done."

"Almost done," Emily repeats, and strokes you again.

Your legs are shaking. There's a fine tremor running through both thighs that won't stop, and your hands have found Emily's forearm now, gripping it, not pulling her off and not pushing her away — just holding on, the way you held her thigh, the only thing left to do with your hands.

"Please," you say. "Please, Emily, please—"

"Please what."

"Please stop, please—"

"Which one." She's watching your face again, head tilted, ears forward, reading you. "Stop, or stop."

You don't know. That's the thing. You genuinely don't know. The word is coming out of you because the sensation is more than you have language for and your mouth has decided the word is please, and Emily knows that, and Emily is going to make you say it properly, and she strokes you again while you work it out.

"You want my hand off," she says. "Say it plain. Say 'take your hand off my cock, Emily,' and I'll take it off."

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

She waits. Thumb resting on the underside, patient, and Moxie presses into that spot and holds it and the room is very quiet and the two of them are both watching you and the sentence is right there in your throat and you cannot make it come out.

"That's what I thought," Emily says, and strokes you again.

The next one pulls a sob out of you. Not a real one — a dry, hitching thing, the shape of a sob without the water, and your hips are rolling now in a rhythm that has nothing to do with wanting and everything to do with the fact that your body has stopped asking permission for anything. Toward her hand. Away from Moxie. Back toward her hand. You can't stop it. You stopped being able to stop it a long time ago.

Moxie's hips stutter. She's watching you come apart under Emily's hand and something in her face has gone soft and hungry at once, the motherly thing and the other thing braided together, and she leans down over you — chest to your chest, breasts pressing into the wet mess on your stomach, and she's so much warmer than the air — and she puts her mouth against your ear.

"Let her," she says. Quiet. Just for you. "Let her take it. I've got you."

And she starts moving again.

Slow. Long. She's not fucking you anymore, not the way she was — she's rocking, deep and even, the dildo moving maybe an inch, and every inch of it drags across that stripped-raw spot and sends a pulse straight up into Emily's hand, and Emily feels the pulse and answers it with a stroke, and the two of them have closed the circuit again, and now you're not climbing toward anything, you're just being held in it, worked in it, wrung out in it, a long slow squeeze with no crest and no bottom and no end.

"Count them," Emily says.

"What—"

"Count them. Every stroke. Out loud."

"One," you say. It comes out wrecked.

"Good."

"Two."

"Good."

"Three—"

By five you've lost the thread. By seven you're saying numbers that don't follow and Emily isn't correcting you, she's just stroking, steady, root to head, and Moxie is rocking into you and breathing hot against your throat and somewhere in there the counting turns back into please and the please turns back into a single long note held in the back of your throat, and Emily lets it run.

She doesn't stop.

She takes you through it — through the oversensitivity and out the other side, into a place where the nerve endings have given up protesting and just report, flat and continuous, and the pleasure comes back, thin and strange and enormous, a second wave building under the first one's wreckage, and you feel it coming and you can't believe it's coming and it is.

"Emily," you say. "Emily, I'm going to—"

"Again?"

"Yes—"

"Say please."

"Please."

"Say it like you mean it."

"Please, Emily—" And you do mean it, that's the thing, you mean it with everything left in you, and you don't know if you're begging her to stop or to finish and neither does she and she doesn't ask.

She leans down and puts her mouth against your ear, opposite Moxie, so you're bracketed between them, two warm mouths at either side of your head, and her voice is small and private and only for you.

"Go on, then," she says.

And she strokes you once more, and Moxie grinds in and holds, and the second one takes you — thinner than the first, longer, pulled out of you one slow inch at a time, and this time nothing comes out of your cock at all, just the clench and the curl and the long dry shudder that runs from your pelvis out to your fingertips, and you shake through it with your eyes closed and your hands locked on Emily's forearm and Moxie's weight pressed across your chest.

Then it's over.

Emily's hand opens. Just opens, and slides off you, and the air on the wet skin is cold. Moxie eases back — the dildo sliding out of you slow, and the emptiness that follows is its own small shock — and she sits back on her heels and starts unbuckling the harness with fingers that aren't quite steady.

Nobody says anything for a while. The white light has gone grey at the edges. Somewhere in the house a pipe knocks, once, and settles.

Emily is looking at her own hand. It's covered — knuckles, palm, the webbing between her fingers — and she turns it over once, examining it like something she found, and then she wipes it on the sheet beside your hip without ceremony and lies down on her side next to you, close, not touching.

"You said please," she says.

"I said a lot of things."

"You said please make it stop." She's not grinning. Her voice is even. "And then you didn't want it to."

You don't answer that. There's no answer that doesn't hand her something.

Moxie gets the harness off and drops it over the side of the bed and crawls up the mattress on her hands and knees and folds herself down on your other side, and she puts her arm across your chest and her cheek on your shoulder and her tail curls over both your legs, and she is warm all down her front and she smells like sweat and the two of you and she doesn't say anything either.

Emily reaches across you without looking and puts two fingers on Moxie's wrist. Just there. Just resting.

"You did good," Emily says. To the ceiling.

Moxie's breath goes out of her in one long pull, and she presses her face into your shoulder, and her arm tightens across your chest.

The three of you lie there in the thinning light with the torn sheets under your back and the wet cooling on your stomach, and nobody moves to clean anything up.

Moxie moves first.

She lifts her cheek off your shoulder and looks down the length of you — the wet streak drying tacky across your stomach, the shine of it cooling on your hip where Emily's hand flung it, the soft spent weight of your cock lying against your thigh. She looks at it the way she looks at a wound she's about to dress. Then she pushes herself up on one elbow and swings a leg over you, settling at your hip with her knees on either side.

"Emily," she says.

"Mm."

"Come help."

Emily doesn't answer. But the mattress dips, and her weight shifts along your other side, and then she's there too — the two of them kneeling over you in the grey light, russet and ginger, ears forward, and the whole room has gone quiet the way it goes quiet when something is about to be done properly.

Moxie starts at your hip.

She puts her mouth flat against the skin there and drags her tongue up the drying streak, slow, from the crest of your hipbone to the ridge of your ribs. The wet goes with her. She swallows. She does it again on the next line — the smear Emily's fingers left, the one that ran down toward your navel — and this time she takes it in two passes, tongue flat, breath hot through her nose against your belly.

Emily watches her do it. Then she leans down on your other side and starts on the streak that ran wide across your stomach.

Their tongues meet in the middle.

You feel it before you understand it — two warm pressures converging on the same patch of skin, Moxie from the left and Emily from the right, and then they're working the same spot and their mouths are close and neither of them pulls back. Emily's tongue flicks up and catches Moxie's. Moxie makes a small sound and doesn't stop licking. They clean the last of it together, mouths almost touching, breath shared over your stomach, and you lie there with your hands open at your sides and watch the ceiling and feel the two of them take you apart with their tongues.

Then Emily goes lower.

She works her way down the crease of your thigh — the inside, where the slick ran down and pooled — and she's not gentle about it, teeth grazing, tongue broad and firm, and when she gets to the tendon at the top of your leg she bites it, just enough to make the muscle jump. Moxie takes the other side. She's softer, longer strokes, the flat of her tongue pressing and releasing, and she hums while she works, low in her chest, the way she hummed around your cock this morning.

They meet at the base of you.

Your cock is lying soft against your thigh, still wet, and both of them stop and look at it at the same time. Moxie's ears tip back. Emily's don't move at all.

"You first," Emily says.

Moxie doesn't argue. She bends her head and takes the head of your cock into her mouth — just the head — and her tongue works under the ridge, careful, collecting what's left, and she swallows and comes back for more. She's cleaning you the way she'd clean something precious and fragile, and the tenderness of it is worse than anything Emily's done to you all morning, because your cock is raw and oversensitive and every pass of her tongue is a bright thin wire running up into your stomach.

You hiss through your teeth.

Emily's hand lands flat on your hip and holds you down. "Stay still."

"It's—"

"I know." She's watching Moxie's mouth move on you. "She's not going to stop."

Moxie works her way down the shaft, slow, lips and tongue, taking you deeper by degrees and pulling back, and each pass she swallows. She gets to your balls and takes one into her mouth, then the other, tonguing the seam between them where the slick pooled, and the sound she makes doing it is small and contented and completely obscene. Emily leans in and joins her — her tongue on the underside of your cock while Moxie's mouth is on your balls, both of them working the same territory from different angles, and you feel the first stirring of blood come back into you and hate your own body for it.

"Don't," you say.

Emily's eyes come up to your face. She doesn't stop licking. "Don't what."

"Don't make it—"

"We're cleaning you." She drags her tongue root to head, unhurried, and lets you go with a wet sound. "You're filthy. Somebody has to."

Moxie pulls off your balls and sits up, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. Her chin is wet. Her eyes are bright. "He's clean now," she says. "Lower half."

"Not quite." Emily's looking at your stomach. "He's got it up to his ribs."

They take the rest between them. Moxie does your ribs, long slow passes that end in small kisses laid flat against the bone. Emily does your chest — she finds the patch of dried slick above your sternum and licks it up in one long stroke, and then she keeps going, up your throat, and when she reaches your jaw she doesn't stop, she takes your mouth.

The kiss is hard and wet and she's got your taste on her tongue and she makes sure you know it. She pushes in deep, angling her head, and her tongue sweeps the inside of your cheek and the roof of your mouth and the backs of your teeth, thorough, unhurried, like she's checking the work. Your saliva mixes with hers and you swallow around her tongue and she hums, pleased, and doesn't let you up for air.

When she finally pulls back, Moxie is waiting.

She doesn't say anything. She just takes your jaw in her hand — gentler than Emily did, palm cradling, thumb on your chin — and turns your face to hers and kisses you. Slower than Emily. Deeper. She goes in soft and then opens you up with her tongue, unhurried, taking her time, and her other hand comes up to cup the back of your skull and hold you exactly where she wants you. You taste yourself in her mouth too. You taste Emily in her mouth. She kisses like she's trying to learn you by feel, and she doesn't stop until your chest is tight and your hands have come up off the mattress to grip her forearm.

"Good," she says against your mouth. "That's good."

Then she takes your hand.

She lifts it to her mouth and puts your index finger between her lips, and she sucks it — slow, deep, all the way to the knuckle — and her tongue rolls around it and her eyes stay on yours the whole time. She pulls it out wet and moves to the next finger. Then the next. She does all four on that hand, one at a time, then the thumb, and by the time she's done your palm is slick and her mouth is wet and she turns your hand over and licks the sweat out of the crease at your wrist.

Emily has your other hand. She's not gentle about it — she takes two fingers at once and jams them in to the knuckle and sucks hard, cheeks hollowing, and her tongue works between them, and she pulls off with a pop and grins at you. "Salty," she says. "You've been sweating."

"Whose fault is that."

"Yours." She takes your pinky and bites it, lightly, then sucks it. "You could have said no."

They work their way down. Emily takes your ankles and pulls your feet up into her lap, and she looks at your toes for a second like she's offended by them, and then she puts her mouth on your big toe and sucks it, and her tongue slides between it and the next one, and she's staring at your face the entire time with her eyebrows up like she's daring you to say something. Moxie takes the other foot and does it properly — she licks the sole first, long flat strokes that make your leg jerk and your knee try to fold, and then she works each toe individually, sucking the salt off, humming against the skin.

Your leg is shaking by the time she's done. She notices and presses her palm flat against your shin to hold it still and keeps going.

When they've finished — every inch of you licked clean, the sweat off your wrists and the salt out of the creases and your cock lying soft and wet and spotless against your thigh — Emily sits back on her heels and looks at the two of you and nods once, satisfied, like she's signed off on a job.

"Done," she says.

Then Moxie lies down.

She doesn't say anything — she just folds herself along your left side, chest to your ribs, arm across your waist, and hooks her leg over yours so her thigh presses warm against your hip. Her tail comes up and lays itself across your legs, heavy and soft, and her cheek finds the crook of your shoulder. She's warm all down her front. She smells like sweat and sex and the two of you.

Emily takes the other side. She's quicker about it, less ceremony — she flops down against your right and throws a leg over both of yours and an arm across your chest, and her tail comes up and winds around Moxie's tail where it lies on your legs, and she presses her forehead into your shoulder and stays there.

Between them you can't move. Not an arm, not a leg. Their limbs cross over you — Moxie's arm and Emily's arm stacked on your chest, Moxie's thigh and Emily's thigh pinning your legs, four tails' worth of fur wound around your calves and each other — and the weight of them is warm and total and strangely, stupidly safe.

Moxie finds your earlobe first.

She takes it between her lips and holds it, then lets it go and nibbles the edge, slow, small bites that barely register as pressure, and her breath is warm and damp against the shell of your ear. She does it for a long while. She doesn't say anything while she does it. She just works her way along the edge of your ear and down to the lobe and back up, and her hand on your chest spreads flat and rests there over your heart.

Emily takes your mouth.

She tilts her head up and finds your lips with hers and just holds there — no tongue, no push, just the press of her mouth on yours, soft, and then she catches your lower lip between her teeth and nibbles it the way Moxie's doing your ear, small and constant, and her breath comes out through her nose against your cheek. She keeps it up until your lip is swollen and she's tasted every part of it, and then she lets go and puts her mouth back against your jaw and stays.

"Good master," Moxie says against your ear.

Her voice is low and rough and utterly sincere, and she says it the way she says everything — like it's a fact she's been carrying around and finally gets to set down.

"You were so good. You took everything she gave you and you didn't fight it and you let me have you, and you said please when it mattered." Her lips brush your earlobe. "My good master."

Emily snorts into your jaw. "Good toy," she says. "That's what he was. Good toy. Took his beating, took his cleaning, lay there like something I bought."

"Emily."

"What." She lifts her head enough to look past you at her sister, and her grin is small and crooked and there's nothing mean in it. "He was. He was a good toy. I'm allowed to say so."

She drops her head back to your shoulder and bites the muscle there, lightly, and then presses her mouth flat to the mark like an apology she'd never say out loud.

"Good toy," she says again, quieter, into your skin.

Moxie's arm tightens across your chest. Emily's leg hooks harder over yours. Their tails, wound together on your shins, give one slow synchronized squeeze and then go still, and the two of them breathe against you in a rhythm that's almost the same rhythm, in and out, in and out, and the grey light on the ceiling has gone flat and pale and stopped moving entirely.

Your hands are free. You didn't notice when that happened — somewhere in the cleaning they let go of your wrists — and you bring one up and put it on Moxie's back, between her shoulder blades, and the other on Emily's head, fingers in the short ginger fur behind her ear. Emily's ear flicks against your palm and then settles. Moxie makes a small sound and presses her face harder into your shoulder.

Nobody moves for a long time.

Then, from down the hall, the pipe knocks again — three times this time, quick, the way it does when someone's running water in the kitchen. The sound travels through the wall and into the bedframe and up through the mattress into all three of you at once.

Emily's ear flicks toward the door.

She doesn't lift her head. But her eyes are open now, you can feel them open against your shoulder, and her fingers have curled into the sheet at your side.

"Someone's up," she says.

Moxie's breath goes still against your ear.

The pipe knocks again.