You wake because the light has moved. It's higher now, thinner, cutting across the bed in a bright bar that lands on your face and won't let you keep sleeping. The air is heavy — musk and sweat and warm fur, the three of them layered so thick you could chew it. Your body reports in slowly: the ache in your hips, the salt taste dried at the corner of your mouth, the particular hollowed-out feeling of a man who came twice and was cleaned like a dish.

Emily is sitting at the foot of the bed.

Cross-legged, straight-backed, a pile of white silk and fluff heaped beside her hip like a small snowdrift. She's still in last night's black — the pleated skirt, the thin shirt, the stockings — but she's been up a while. Her ginger fur is brushed. Her amber eyes are on you and have been for some time. Her tail lies flat along the mattress, tapping once, twice, patient as a metronome.

Moxie is at your side, kneeling, her knees denting the sheet. Russet hair loose over one shoulder, hazel eyes soft, and in her two hands a small box — matte black, no bigger than a deck of cards. She smiles when she sees you're awake. The smile has been waiting.

"Good morning, Master," she says.

"Morning," Emily says, and the word comes out of her the way it always does, flat and dry, a coin flipped at your feet. "You slept in. We let you. You're welcome."

You push up onto your elbows. The sheet slides off your chest and pools at your waist, and you look at the pile of white beside her — the long gloves, the stockings, the soft rounded shoes with the paw pads stitched into the soles — and you know what it is before she tells you.

Emily picks up the gloves. She holds them up between two fingers, lets them dangle, and the little padded mitts turn slowly in the light.

"You're wearing these today," she says. "All day. No fingers. No grip. You want to touch something, you press your paw against it like a good boy and you ask."

She tosses them onto your chest. They land soft, weightless, and somehow that's worse than if they'd been heavy.

"No relief, either," she says. "You don't get to reach down and help yourself. You don't get to sneak off to the bathroom and rub one out because you're bored. You're going to sit there with your useless little paws and you're going to feel exactly as much as we decide you feel."

Her ear flicks. She's watching your face for the flinch, and she finds it, and her sharp grin comes up slow at one corner.

"Problem?"

"No," you say.

"No, what?"

"No, Emily."

She tilts her head, unimpressed. "Try again."

"No, Master," you say, and the word sits wrong in your mouth the way it always does when she makes you say it, and she hears the wrongness, and it pleases her more than the word itself.

Moxie leans in and kisses your cheek. Her lips are warm and her fur smells of the soap she uses, something faintly floral under the musk, and she stays there a second longer than the kiss needs.

"It won't be so bad," she murmurs against your skin. "I'll help you. When your hands get restless I'll hold them for you. When you need something I'll get it. You just have to let us take care of you."

Emily snorts. "You're spoiling him before we've even started."

"He's already spoiled," Moxie says, and smiles at her sister, and there's something in the smile that isn't entirely gentle. "That's why we keep him."

Emily's tail gives one sharp flick. She doesn't answer that. She picks up the stockings instead.

"Legs," she says.

You swing your legs off the edge of the bed. The room is bright and ordinary around you — the chair with your jeans hung over the back, the glass of water on the nightstand, the door standing open a crack onto the hallway — and the ordinariness of it makes what's happening feel stranger, not less. Emily kneels in front of you on the floor, and Moxie slides off the bed to kneel at your other side, and the two of them work in silence, and their hands are careful.

The stockings are white and sheer and they go on the way stockings go on a woman, rolled to the toe first, then unrolled up the calf, and Emily's fingers are brisk and certain while Moxie's are slow and warm, and you watch the pale silk climb your shins and swallow your knees and the two of them lean into each other's space without ever quite touching, and you understand that this is a choreography they've done before.

"Lift," Emily says.

You lift your foot. She slides the paw shoe on — soft white felt, the sole padded and shaped, the top of it stitched with three little dark toe-pads — and it fits like a slipper and it feels like nothing, like standing on a folded towel, and she buckles the strap across the top of your foot and tugs it snug.

"Other one."

Moxie does the second shoe. She takes your ankle in her hand and turns your foot gently, and she presses her thumb into the arch of it for a moment, just once, and looks up at you while she does it, and then she slides the shoe on and buckles it and pats the top of your foot twice like it's a small animal she's proud of.

"There," she says. "Good."

Emily stands, brushes off her knees, and picks up the gloves.

"Hands."

You hold them out. She takes your left wrist and pushes the glove on past the heel of your palm and works it up over your knuckles, and the glove is silk on the outside and padded on the inside, thick enough that your fingers can't separate, can't pinch, can't grip. She pulls the cuff up to your elbow and smooths it. Your hand is a soft white mitt. You flex it and the fingers move together in a block and nothing else happens.

She does the right. Moxie holds your forearm steady while she does it, and when it's on, Moxie turns your paw over in both her hands and presses her cheek against the padded back of it, eyes closed, and holds it there.

"See?" she says. "Still yours. Just quieter."

Emily watches this with her arms folded. "Turn over," she says.

You look at her.

"On your front. Knees under you, face down. You know the position."

You know the position. You get onto the bed and put your knees under you and your forearms down and your cheek against the sheet, and the paw shoes make you unsteady and the paw gloves make your forearms slide, and Emily has to grab your hip to keep you from toppling sideways, and she laughs — one short, mean note — and steadies you and doesn't let go.

Moxie opens the black box.

Inside is the plug. White silicone, tapered, with a bushy white tail mounted at the base — a fox tail, thick and soft and absurdly long, longer than your forearm — and a small round bulb set into the base of it, and a thin wire running out to a little controller with a dial. Moxie lifts it out and holds it up so you can see it, and the tail hangs down and sways, and she looks at you with her eyebrows up, asking.

Emily answers for you. "He's ready."

Moxie kneels behind you. She warms the tip of the plug in her palm first — you feel her breath on the small of your back, then the cool slick of lube, then the blunt pressure of the tip — and she works it in slowly, patient, twisting it a quarter-turn at a time, and Emily holds your hips still and murmurs, "Breathe, you idiot," and you breathe, and the widest part of it stretches you and passes and then it's in, seated, and your body closes around the base of it like a fist.

Moxie's thumb presses the little pump on the bulb. Once. Twice.

The plug swells inside you.

It's slow and it's even and it doesn't stop, and you feel yourself fill — a dull, deep, spreading pressure that reaches places you don't have names for — and the bushy white tail lifts and stands upright off your tailbone and sways when you shift your weight, and you are suddenly, absurdly aware of it, a great white plume rising off your ass, and Emily sees you realize it and grins.

"Look at you," she says. "Now you're a proper pet."

She walks around in front of you, and you're still on your forearms with your cheek on the sheet, and she stands there and looks down at you with her hands on her hips, and her amber eyes are bright and her ears are forward and she is enjoying this more than she has enjoyed anything in days.

"Roll onto your back," she says. "Careful. The tail."

You roll. The plug shifts inside you as you turn and the tail drags across the sheet and you make a sound you didn't plan on making, and Moxie's hand comes up to steady the tail, to hold it upright, to keep it from being crushed under you, and she settles it against your thigh and keeps her hand there.

Emily climbs onto the bed and straddles your shins. She has a ribbon in her hand. White silk, wide, the kind that comes off a gift box.

She takes your cock — already half-hard, has been since the gloves went on, since Moxie pressed her cheek to your paw — and she wraps the ribbon around the base of it, once, twice, and pulls it snug. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough that you feel it with every beat of your heart. Tight enough that the blood can come in and can't leave. She crosses the ends and ties them in a neat little bow, and she tugs the loops straight, and she sits back on your shins and admires it.

"There," she says. "Pretty."

You look down at yourself. Your cock stands up out of the white bow like something gift-wrapped, flushed and stiff and already starting to ache, and the ribbon bites a little with every pulse, and you can feel the pressure building behind it with nowhere to go.

"You know what that is?" Emily says. She flicks the bow with one claw, light, and your whole body jerks. "That's a promise. You can get as hard as you want. You can want it as bad as you want. You're not coming until I untie it."

"Emily—"

"Master," she corrects, sweet as vinegar.

"Master," you say. "Please."

"Please what?"

You don't have an answer. She watches you not have one, and something moves behind her eyes — quick, unreadable, gone before you can name it — and then she's all teeth again.

She takes your useless paw-gloved hand and lifts it and lays it flat on her thigh. The silk of the glove against the fur of her leg. She presses it down, holds it there, makes you feel the muscle under the fur, the warmth, the little twitch when she shifts her weight.

"Keep it there," she says. "You don't move it. You don't squeeze. You just hold your paw on me like a good pet and you watch."

And she leans down and takes your cock into her mouth.

She's shallow. She's fast. Her lips close just under the head and her tongue works the underside in quick little strokes, and she bobs — an inch, an inch and a half, never deeper — and the rhythm is fast and light and relentless, a flickering, teasing, maddening thing that builds heat without ever letting it crest, and the ribbon around your base holds every bit of it in, and your hips try to lift and she pins them with her knees and doesn't stop.

Your paw stays on her thigh because she put it there. You can feel her fur through the silk. You can feel her jaw working against the head of your cock, the small hard pressure of her teeth held carefully back, the wet heat of her mouth going slick and noisy, and you can hear it — the wet sound of her sucking, quick and rhythmic, filling the quiet room.

Moxie's hand is still on the tail. Her other hand finds the controller on the sheet beside your hip.

"Master," she says, soft, close to your ear, "I'm going to turn it on now. Just a little."

"Moxie—"

"Shh. Just a little."

She clicks the dial to its lowest setting.

A faint hum starts inside you. Deep. Low. A soft, steady buzzing against the walls of your ass, against the place the plug is pressed, and it isn't enough to do anything, it's just enough to remind you it's there, and it doesn't stop, and it doesn't stop, and your cock jumps in Emily's mouth and she hums around it, pleased, and keeps sucking, fast and shallow, and the ribbon holds.

You can't come. You can feel it building — the pressure gathering low and hot and heavy behind the ribbon, your cock swelling against the silk, your balls drawing up tight — and it can't go anywhere, and the more it builds the tighter the ribbon feels, and the tighter it feels the more you want to push into her mouth, and you can't, because she's pinning your hips and your paw is on her thigh where she put it and your hands are useless white mitts and the hum inside you is steady and low and patient as a heartbeat.

"Please," you say.

Emily pulls off you with a wet pop and looks up. Her lips are slick. Her grin is crooked.

"Please what?" she says again. "You want to come? You want me to untie it and let you come in my mouth?"

"Yes—"

"No," she says, and goes back down.

She's faster now. Shallower. Her tongue flicks at the slit and her lips ride just the head and her hand comes up to cup your balls and roll them, gentle, and you're shaking, actually shaking, your thighs trembling against her knees, your paw pressing hard into her thigh because you can't grip and can't move it and it's the only thing you have to hold onto, and the hum inside you keeps going, keeps going, and Moxie's thumb strokes the base of the tail, slow, and she leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth.

You try to say something. It comes out as a groan.

"I know," Moxie murmurs. She kisses you again, properly this time, deep, her tongue sliding into your mouth and filling it the way Emily's mouth is filling your cock, and she holds the kiss while her thumb finds the dial and nudges it up one notch, and the hum deepens, and your whole body arches off the bed and Emily has to brace her forearm across your hips to keep you down, and she doesn't stop, and she doesn't stop.

She works you for a long time. Past the point where you would have come. Past the point where the ache turns into something like a burn. She brings you right up to the edge over and over — you feel the crest coming, you feel your cock swell and throb against the ribbon, you feel your balls tighten and your breath go ragged — and every time, the ribbon holds, and every time, the crest breaks against it and slides back down, and Emily feels it happen against her tongue and hums and keeps going, and Moxie kisses you through every one of them, swallowing your groans, her thumb on the dial, her other hand steady on the tail.

By the end you're not thinking in words. Your paw is still on Emily's thigh. You can't feel your fingers. Your cock is so hard it hurts, the ribbon cutting a fine bright line around the base of it, and there's a wet spot spreading on the sheet under you and you don't know if it's spit or pre-cum or both, and the hum inside you is a steady low note under everything, and Emily finally pulls off and sits up and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist and looks at what she's made of you.

"There," she says. Her voice is a little rough. Her ears are back. "Now you know."

She reaches down and takes the ends of the ribbon in her fingers — the little bow, the neat loops — and she doesn't untie it. She just holds it, tugs it a half-turn tighter, and lets it go.

"And that stays on," she says, "until I say."

Moxie clicks the dial back to zero. The hum stops. The silence rushes in and you can hear your own breathing, loud, ragged, and the pipe ticking somewhere in the wall, and Emily's tail flicking against the sheet.

Moxie kisses your cheek one more time and settles the tail plug gently against your thigh, and she looks across your body at her sister, and her hazel eyes are warm and steady.

"Now," she says, "my turn."

Moxie doesn't move right away. She stays where she is, kneeling at the foot of the bed, looking at the ribbon around your cock and the bow sitting on top of it like something on a present nobody's allowed to open. Her hazel eyes are steady. Her tail sweeps once across the sheet behind her.

"Emily," she says. Not a challenge. Just her sister's name, soft, the way you'd say it to ask a question without asking it.

Emily is still straddling your shins, still holding the ends of the ribbon between two claws. She looks at Moxie. She looks at you. Something passes between the two of them that you're not part of — a whole conversation in a look, the kind sisters have — and then Emily's grin goes crooked and she lets the ribbon go.

"Fine," she says. "You untie it. I tightened it." She rolls off you, off the bed, and lands light on her feet, and she goes to the chair in the corner where the harness is still hanging off the back of it, and she starts unbuckling the straps, and she does not look at either of you while she does it.

Moxie climbs up the bed on her knees. She settles over your thighs, straddling you the way Emily was, and her weight comes down warm and heavy and she reaches for the bow. Her fingers are careful. She works the loops loose one at a time, unhurried, and when the ribbon finally gives she peels it away from your cock in a long white strip and the blood rushes back in a hot flood and you make a sound like you've been holding your breath for an hour.

"There," Moxie says. She folds the ribbon once and lays it on the nightstand. "Better."

Your cock is so hard it stands up off your belly on its own, dark and swollen and slick with Emily's spit, and it twitches in the air with nothing holding it back, and the ache that was banked behind the silk is suddenly loose in your whole body. You reach for it. Your paw comes down on nothing — white silk, no fingers, no grip — and you scrabble at your own cock like an animal pawing at a door and get no purchase at all, and Moxie catches your wrist and brings it up and kisses the silk over your knuckles.

"No," she says. "Not yet."

She guides your paw to her chest. She presses your palm flat against the front of her maid's dress — the black satin, the little white apron, the whole thing still crisp because she hasn't been in it long — and she holds your hand there and looks down at you and waits for you to understand.

You understand. She wants you to feel her through the silk. So you do. You spread your paw as wide as it will go and you press, and the mitt slides over the satin, and under the satin there's her — the soft weight of her breast, the give of it, the heat coming through the fabric, and the small hard point of her nipple dragging under your palm when she shifts.

"Good," she says. "Like that."

She unbuttons the top of the dress. Two buttons, three, and the satin falls open down the middle and her breasts come out of it, full and heavy and furred in deep russet, and the fur is so fine at the front that you can see the shape of her underneath it, the swell, the nipple standing up out of the fur, darker, and she takes your paw again and lays it back down on bare fur this time.

It's different without the satin. Warmer. Softer. The fur is short and dense and it moves under your palm like something alive, and when you press, your paw sinks in and the breast gives and springs back, and the nipple finds the center of your palm through the silk and stays there, a hard little point against the mitt, and Moxie's breath goes out of her in a slow, pleased sound.

"Both," she says. She takes your other paw and puts it on the other breast. Now you're holding her, both hands full of her, and you can't grip — the mitts won't let you — so all you can do is press and slide and feel, and she leans into it, arches her back a little, pushes her chest into your useless paws like she's the one asking.

"That's it," she murmurs. "You don't need fingers for this. Just hold them."

She reaches back and takes your cock in her hand.

You jerk. Her palm is warm and dry and she wraps it around you and strokes once, root to head, slow, and the relief of it after the ribbon is almost too much, and she feels you jump and she smiles down at you, and she lifts herself up onto her knees and lines you up and holds you steady and sinks down.

She takes you slow. That's the whole thing — slow. She comes down an inch at a time and her cunt opens around you and grips you and pulls you in, hot and wet and tight, and she keeps her eyes on your face the entire way down, watching you, and she doesn't stop until her ass is on your thighs and you're buried in her to the root and she's sitting there full of you with her breasts hanging over your chest.

Then she waits. She just sits. She lets you feel it — the heat of her, the grip, the flutter of her inside, the way she's wet enough that you can feel it slicking down the base of your cock and onto your balls, and she breathes, and she watches you try not to move.

"You want to," she says. "I can feel you wanting to."

"Moxie—"

"I know." She strokes your chest with one hand, up and down, gentle. "I'm going to. Just let me have this first."

Then she starts to ride.

Slow. She rises up until you're almost all the way out of her and then she comes back down, all the way, no hurry, and the drag of her walls along your cock is long and wet and unhurried, and she does it again, and again, and each time she lands she grinds her hips forward a little so you feel her clit against your belly through the fur, and each time she rises she clenches around you, deliberate, like she's milking you an inch at a time.

Your paws are still on her breasts. She put them there. Every time she comes down, her chest drops into your hands and you feel the weight of her land against your palms, and every time she rises she takes them with her, and you're holding her tits while she fucks herself on you and you can't do anything but feel it and press and slide your mitts over the fur.

"Master," she says. Soft. Loving. Like the word is a gift she's handing you. "You feel so good inside me."

"Moxie—"

"Tell me." She rolls her hips. "Tell me how it feels."

"Tight," you say. "Hot. You're—" You lose the sentence. She's found an angle, tilted back a little, and every downstroke drags you over something inside her that makes her breath catch, and she does it again on purpose.

"Yes," she says. "There."

Emily is still at the chair. She's got the harness unbuckled and laid across her lap now, and she's watching the two of you over her shoulder, and she hasn't said a word since she got off the bed. Her ears are up. Her tail is curled around the chair leg. When Moxie's breath catches on that angle, Emily's claws flex against the harness straps and she looks away, down at her own hands, and then she looks back.

Moxie rides you for a long time. That's the thing about her — she's patient in a way Emily isn't. She doesn't chase it. She builds it. Long slow strokes, one after another, her tits swinging gently in your paws, her cunt getting wetter and wetter around you until every stroke makes a soft wet sound and you can feel her slick running down your shaft and pooling at your balls, and she talks to you the whole way through in that low warm voice, telling you how good you are, how full she feels, how she's been waiting since this morning to have you like this.

"You were so hard all through breakfast," she says. "I felt you against my back while I cooked."

"You—"

"I know. I wanted you then." She comes down hard and holds it, grinding, and her voice goes a little unsteady. "I want you now."

Her rhythm changes. Faster now, but still not fast — just deeper, more deliberate, her knees spreading wider so she can take you further in, and she leans down over you and her breasts press into your chest and her mouth finds yours and she kisses you slow and wet while she fucks you, her tongue in your mouth, her hips working in short hard grinds, and you can feel her getting close — the flutter inside her turning into something tighter, more regular, her thighs starting to shake against your hips.

"Master," she gasps into your mouth. "Master, I'm—"

"Come," you say. "Come on me."

She does. She sits down hard on you and grinds and her whole body locks up, her cunt clenching around your cock in hard rhythmic pulses, and she moans into your neck, long and low, and her claws dig into your shoulders through the sheets, and she keeps grinding through it, riding it out, and you feel the wet gush of her release around your base and down onto your balls and onto the sheet under you, hot and slick, and she shudders and shudders and finally goes still.

She stays there a moment, breathing hard against your throat. Then she lifts her head and looks at you with those warm hazel eyes, blown wide, and she smiles — soft, satisfied, a little shy, like she's surprised by her own body every time.

"Thank you," she whispers.

And Emily gets up off the chair.

She crosses the room with the harness hanging from one hand and the ribbon in the other — she must have picked it up off the nightstand on her way — and she climbs back onto the bed and kneels beside Moxie's hip, and she looks down at the two of you, at Moxie still sitting full of you, at the wet shine spreading on the sheet under your ass.

"Well," she says. Her voice is dry. Her ears are flat. "Look at that."

She reaches down and takes the loose end of the ribbon and loops it once around her fingers, and she looks at your cock — still hard, still buried in Moxie, still slick with her sister — and she pulls the ribbon taut across her knuckles and holds it there.

"You're still wearing this," she says.

She doesn't wait for an answer. She takes your cock in one hand — still slick, still half-hard from Moxie's cunt, still shining wet — and she lays the ribbon across the underside of it, just under the head, and she starts to wrap.

You feel every turn. The silk is cool at first and then it's not, because she's winding it tight, tighter than before, and each pass crosses over the last and presses the last one down against your skin. Two turns. Three. She pulls each one snug with a little jerk of her wrist, and the blood that was trying to get back out of you gets stopped at the gate and stays where it is, and your cock goes thick and dark and aching in her grip, standing up off her knuckles, and the head of it swells until the silk under it bites.

"There," she says. She ties it off with a knot she can pull with her teeth, and she does — she leans down and takes the ends in her mouth and cinches them, and her breath is hot on the head of your cock while she does it, and then she sits back and looks at her work.

Your cock is a wrapped thing now. Bound at the base of the head, purple-dark, straining, and every heartbeat in it is a separate event you can feel.

"Emily—"

"Shh." She pats your thigh, twice, light. "You don't get to ask."

Moxie is still on you. She's been waiting — kneeling over your hips with your cock still inside her, watching her sister tie you up, and her ears have gone back and her breath has gone shallow and she hasn't moved an inch because she knows what the ribbon does. She knows what it does to you. She can feel it happening inside her, the swell of you, the throb, the way you've gotten harder and fuller since Emily started wrapping.

"He's bigger," she says, quiet, almost to herself.

"Course he is." Emily settles back on her heels, arms crossed, tail flicking once behind her. "That's the point."

Moxie starts to move.

She goes slow again at first — that same long rise and fall, all the way up and all the way down, her cunt dragging wet and hot along every inch of you — but she can't keep it slow for long, because the ribbon has changed the math. Every time she comes down, the bound head of your cock hits something deep and hard inside her and she feels the whole thick length of you shove up against it, and every time she rises, the silk drags back over her walls and she makes a small, broken sound in her throat. Her hips pick up. Her hands come down on your chest for balance. She's not riding you patient and loving anymore. She's chasing it.

"That's it," Emily says. Low. "Take it. He's not going anywhere."

Moxie's tits are swinging hard now, slapping down against your chest on every stroke, and her mouth is open and her eyes are half shut and there's a wet spot spreading on the sheet under her knees where she's dripping down your balls. She fucks you fast and hard and graceless and it's the least controlled you've ever seen her, and it's because of the ribbon — because she can feel you swollen and trapped and desperate inside her and it's doing something to her, the same thing it's doing to you.

"Master," she gasps. "Master, I'm going to—"

She takes your paw. She lifts your left hand off her breast and drags it down her belly, over the soft fur, past her navel, and she presses your silk-covered palm flat against her clit.

"Here," she says. "Please. Right here."

You can't feel her the way you want to. That's the cruelty of the mitt — you get the shape of her, the heat of her, the wet slick of her cunt smeared over the silk, but no texture, no fingertips, no grip. So you do the only thing you can. You press. You push the heel of your paw down into her clit and let her fuck herself against it, and every time she comes down she grinds forward into your palm and every time she rises she drags herself back across it, and her whole body is shaking now, thighs clamped on either side of your hips, claws in the sheet.

"Yes," she says. "Yes, yes, don't stop, don't—"

And then Emily reaches over and turns on the plug.

You forgot it was in her. She's been sitting there the whole time with the little black base of it flush against her ass and the cord running out between her cheeks and up over the sheet, and she's had the remote in her other hand this whole time, and now she thumbs the dial and the plug starts to hum.

Moxie screams. Not loud — a high, thin, strangled sound that comes out of her throat and gets cut off, and her back arches and her eyes fly open and she comes apart on top of you. Her cunt seizes around your cock in hard, fast, irregular clenches, gripping and releasing and gripping again, and she grinds down onto your paw and shakes and grinds and shakes, and the wet runs out of her and down onto your bound cock and your balls and the sheet, a hot gush of it, and she keeps going — she keeps riding through it because she can't stop, because the plug is buzzing inside her ass and your cock is buried in her cunt and your paw is jammed against her clit and there's nowhere for the feeling to go except out.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, oh, oh—"

Emily watches. She's got her knees up and her tail curled around her ankle and she's watching her sister come apart on your cock with an expression you can't read — ears forward, mouth a little open, the tip of her tongue against her top lip — and when Moxie finally shudders to a stop and slumps forward onto your chest, breathing in ragged gulps against your throat, Emily reaches over and turns the plug up one more notch.

Moxie whines. Her hips twitch. She's too sensitive now, too full, and the plug is still going inside her and she can't get away from it because she's still sitting on your cock.

"Em," she says, muffled against your neck. "Em, I can't—"

"You can." Emily's voice is flat and certain. "Get off him."

Moxie lifts herself off you. Slowly — you feel every inch of the drag as she pulls up and off, the wet suction of her cunt releasing you one ring at a time, and then you're out of her and the cold air hits your bound cock and it's the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

You look down. Your cock is standing up off your belly, dark and swollen and shining with her, the silk band biting under the head, and it's so hard it hurts, and the ache is a live thing now, a pressure with nowhere to go, and you can feel your own pulse beating against the ribbon.

Moxie kneels beside you, thighs still trembling, and she puts her hand on your chest and looks down at you with those wide hazel eyes and she's sorry — you can see she's sorry — but she doesn't touch your cock. She doesn't dare. Emily's watching.

So you do it yourself.

You bring both mitts down. You wrap them around your cock the way you'd wrap your hands — the way you'd grip it, root to head, and pull — and the silk slides over the silk and you get nothing. No friction. No grip. Your paws skate off the wet shaft and knock against each other and you try again, press harder, drag the flat of one mitt up the length of it, and the ribbon stops you cold at the top, and you can't get past it, can't get the pressure where it needs to be, and you're humping your own useless paws like an animal and getting nowhere.

You try faster. Both mitts, one over the other, working up and down the shaft in a clumsy sawing motion, and the wet sound it makes is obscene and the feeling is almost nothing — a ghost of friction, a tease, the shape of a handjob with none of the hand — and your hips are lifting off the bed on their own, chasing it, and it isn't working, it isn't working, and the ache is getting worse instead of better, banked up behind the ribbon with nowhere to go.

Emily laughs.

It's not a kind laugh. It's short and sharp and genuinely delighted, and she tips her head back and lets it out, and her ears are up and her tail is lashing and she watches you fuck your own mitts with your hips rolling and your breath coming in short desperate pulls, and she laughs again.

"Look at him," she says. "Look at him go."

"Emily—"

"No." She reaches for the remote. "You wanted to come. You wanted it so bad you'd hump your own paws for it." Her thumb finds the dial. "Here."

She turns it up.

The plug in Moxie's ass jumps to a harder setting — you hear it, a change in the hum, a deeper buzz — and Moxie gasps and grabs your thigh, and her hips start moving again, little helpless rolls, because the vibration is going straight through her and she can't help it. And Emily keeps her thumb on the dial and looks at you, at your bound cock, at your mitts still wrapped useless around it, and she turns it up again.

Moxie moans and drops her forehead to your shoulder. Her whole body is shaking. The plug is working inside her, buzzing hard against something deep, and she's grinding her hips against nothing, against the air, against your leg, and she's going to come again just from this, just from the plug, and Emily is watching her do it with her thumb still on the dial.

And you're still humping your mitts. Still getting nothing. Still bound and swollen and aching with your own pulse beating against the silk, and Emily's eyes come back to you — down your body, to your cock, to your paws — and she smiles, slow, and turns the dial up one more time.

Emily doesn't move. She sits there with the remote in her hand and her tail flicking slow across the sheet and lets you work, and you do work — you're sweating now, actually sweating, a sheen of it across your chest and your forehead, and your breath is coming in short punched-out pulls through your nose because your jaw is clenched and your hips are rolling up off the mattress in a rhythm you can't stop. Moxie's still got her forehead on your shoulder and her hand on your thigh and she's shuddering through the aftershocks of the plug, little ripples running through her belly, and every time she shudders her claws flex into your leg.

"Em," she says, breathless. "Em, it's too much, turn it—"

"No."

"Emily—"

"I said no." Emily leans forward and takes your right mitt in her hand — she has to pry it off your cock, one silk finger at a time, because you're gripping the shaft like you're afraid it'll disappear — and she holds it up in front of your face, flat, palm out, so you can see it. The silk is dark and slick and soaked through with Moxie, and there's a long wet smear down the middle of the palm where you dragged it up the shaft. "Look at this," she says. "Look what you did."

She drops your mitt. It flops down onto your belly and lands on the swollen head of your cock and you hiss through your teeth because even that — even the weight of your own paw on the silk — is almost something, almost friction, and you lift your hips trying to grind up into it and get nothing.

"You can't come like that," Emily says. "You know that, right? You can hump those paws till your arms fall off." She settles back on her heels. "You're not going to get there."

Moxie lifts her head off your shoulder. Her eyes are wet at the corners and her ears are flat and she's still got the plug buzzing inside her and her thighs are trembling, but she looks at Emily and then she looks down at you — at your bound cock, at your mitts, at the sweat on your chest — and something moves behind her face.

"Let me," she says.

Emily's ears come up. "Let you what."

"Let me ride him." Moxie's voice is quiet and steady and it's the voice she uses when she's about to do something she's decided on. "He's not going to come from his paws. You know he's not. But he's—" she touches your cock, just the pad of one finger on the silk band, and you jerk under her like she'd hit you with a wire — "he's right there. He's so close. Emily, look at him."

"I'm looking."

"Please."

Emily studies her sister for a long moment. Then she shrugs, one shoulder, and reaches for the ribbon.

You feel her fingers find the knot. She works it loose with her claws — careful, precise, the points of them just grazing the skin — and then she pulls the silk free and the blood rushes back into the head of your cock in a wave that makes your vision go white at the edges and your whole body arch off the mattress. You hear yourself make a sound. It's not a word. Emily watches you make it with her ears tipped forward and her mouth slightly open, and she winds the ribbon around her knuckles, once, twice, and then she lays it across the underside of your cock again.

"Emily—"

"Shh."

She wraps it tighter this time. You can tell from the first pass — she pulls it down into the silk-hard skin under the head and the pressure comes back all at once, worse than before, and by the third turn your cock is a dark straining thing in her grip and the head of it is swollen so full the silk cuts a groove around it. She ties it off with her teeth again. She tugs the knot with her mouth to test it, and the pull goes straight up your spine and out through your scalp, and she sits back and smiles at you with the silk ends still between her lips.

"There," she says around them. She spits the ends out. "Now you can have her."

Moxie doesn't need to be told twice. She swings one leg back over your hips and reaches down and takes your cock — the bound, aching, silk-wrapped length of it — and guides it to her cunt and sinks down onto you in one long slow push that makes both of you groan. She's wetter than before, slicker, the plug still humming inside her, and she takes you all the way to the root in a single stroke and then stops with her hips flush against yours and her eyes closed and her mouth open, breathing through it.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, that's—"

She starts to move. Slow at first, the same long rise and fall, but the ribbon has changed everything — every time she comes down, the bound head of you hits that deep hard place inside her and she makes a small punched sound, and every time she rises, the silk drags back over her walls and she shudders. Her tits are swinging again. Her tail is lashing behind her. She fucks you with her hands braced on your chest and her claws dimpling the skin and she's looking down at your face the whole time, watching you, reading you.

"Master," she says. "Master, look at me."

You look. You can't do anything else. She's beautiful and flushed and her hazel eyes are half-lidded and her mouth is wet and she's riding you like she's trying to pull something out of you with her body, and the plug is buzzing inside her and she's getting close again, you can feel it in the way her cunt is starting to flutter around you, gripping and releasing in little warning pulses.

She takes your left paw off her hip. She drags it down her belly — the same route as before, over the soft fur, past the navel — and presses your silk-covered palm flat against her clit.

"Here," she says. "Again. Please."

You press. You push the heel of your paw down into her and let her grind herself against it, and this time she's so wet the silk goes slick and dark in seconds and she's fucking herself on your cock and your paw at the same time, down onto your cock and forward onto your palm, and her rhythm breaks apart into something fast and jerky and desperate. Her ears are flat. Her mouth is open. She's saying your name — not Master, your name, the one she only uses when she's too far gone to remember to be polite — and she's saying it over and over into the hot air between you.

Emily reaches over and turns the plug up.

Moxie screams. It's the same high thin strangled sound as before, cut off in her throat, and her whole body locks — thighs clamping hard on your hips, claws digging into your chest, cunt seizing around your cock in fast irregular clenches that milk you and milk you and get nothing. She comes and comes and grinds down onto your paw and shakes and the wet runs out of her and down your bound shaft and your balls and pools in the crease of your thigh, and she keeps riding through it because the plug won't let her stop, buzzing hard against something deep inside her, and she shudders and shakes and finally slumps forward onto your chest with her cheek against your throat and her breath coming in ragged gulps.

And you didn't come. You're right there — you're so close your teeth ache — but the ribbon held, and the ribbon is still holding, and you're still swollen and bound and buried in her with nowhere for any of it to go.

Moxie lifts herself off you. Slowly, the same wet drag, the same one-ring-at-a-time release, and then you're out of her and the cold air hits your bound cock and it's worse than the first time, worse than anything, because now you've been inside her twice and come neither time.

She kneels beside you with her hand on your chest and her thighs still trembling and she looks at you with those wide wet hazel eyes and she's sorry — you can see she's sorry — but she doesn't touch your cock. She doesn't dare.

So you do it yourself. Again.

You bring both mitts down and wrap them around your cock and start to work, and it's worse than before because now you're slick with Moxie twice over and the silk slides over the silk with almost no resistance at all. You try to grip. You try to squeeze. You press your paws together and drag them up the shaft in a tight clumsy channel and the ribbon stops you cold at the top every time, and you hump up into your own paws with your hips rolling off the mattress and your breath coming in short desperate pulls and you get nothing, nothing, nothing — just the ghost of friction, the shape of a handjob with none of the hand.

You try faster. You try slower. You try one mitt braced at the base and the other dragging up over the head and the ribbon bites and your cock jumps and the pressure banks up behind the silk with nowhere to go and you make a sound through your teeth that isn't a word.

Emily laughs.

It starts low in her throat and climbs — the same delighted note she made watching you first fumble at yourself, only sharper now, because this time she's had the whole show: the two-handed sawing, the hips bucking up off the mattress, the wet slap of silk on silk going nowhere. She gets both hands on her knees and rocks back with it, ears flat and tail whipping once across the sheet, and the laugh breaks in the middle and comes out as a wheeze.

"Oh, that's — that's the best thing I've ever seen." She wipes under one eye with the back of her wrist. "You're really trying. You're really down there grinding your little paws together like it's going to happen."

Moxie has her hand over her mouth. Her ears are down and her eyes are wide and she's shaking — you can't tell at first whether it's the plug still humming inside her or the laugh she's trying to hold, and then it comes out of her anyway, a small helpless snort through her fingers, and she looks at you and immediately looks away, guilty, and her shoulders keep going.

"Don't," she says. "Em, don't — he's—"

"He's fine." Emily reaches over and pats your thigh twice, the way you'd settle a horse. "He's got two working paws and a whole lot of determination. Let him have his fun."

You stop. You take your mitts off your cock and let them fall flat on the sheet on either side of your hips, and the ache that's been banked behind the ribbon all this time doesn't ease at all — it just sits there, thick and dark and beating, and the head of your cock is so swollen the silk groove around it has gone from pink to white.

Moxie sees it. She stops laughing.

"Emily," she says, quiet. "Look at him."

"I'm looking." Emily's still smiling, but her ears have come forward and the smile has stopped moving. She studies your cock the way she'd study a knot she'd tied and wanted to check. "He's fine. He's just full."

"He's purple."

"He's supposed to be purple. That's what the ribbon's for." She leans in and puts one claw on the silk band — just the tip of it, resting there — and your whole body jerks like she'd run a live wire up your spine. She pulls the claw back and looks at it. "See? Still working."

Moxie gets off the bed. You hear her paws on the floor, the small wet sound of her thighs unsticking from the sheet, and then she's at the foot of the bed with her tail low and her hands folded in front of her and she's looking at Emily the way she looks at you when she wants something she's already decided she shouldn't ask for.

"Let me try something," she says.

Emily tips her head. "Try what."

"The ribbon's on him. It stays on him. I'm not asking you to take it off." Moxie's voice is steady and low and she keeps her eyes on her sister the whole time, not on you. "But he can't get there with his paws and you know he can't. So let me — let me use my mouth on the rest of him. Not the head. Everything under the knot."

Emily considers it. She looks at you, at your bound cock, at the sweat drying on your chest, and then she looks back at her sister and something passes between them that you can't read from where you're lying.

"Fine," she says. "But I keep the remote."

Moxie climbs back onto the bed and kneels between your legs. She doesn't touch the ribbon. She puts both hands flat on your thighs and pushes them apart, and then she bends down and takes your balls in her mouth — just that, just the sac, one at a time, rolling them with her tongue, and the heat of it goes through you like a hand closing around the base of your spine.

You make a sound. It's not a word either.

She works slowly. She licks down the seam behind your balls, all the way to the place where the skin goes smooth and tight, and she presses the flat of her tongue there and holds it, and your hips come up off the bed and she follows them with her mouth like she's been waiting for exactly that. Then up again, along the underside of your shaft — stopping short of the silk, always stopping short, her tongue dragging up the wet length of you and then peeling away just before the knot, and every time she does it your cock jumps and the ribbon bites and the pressure spikes and drops and spikes again and none of it goes anywhere.

"That's it," Emily says. She's moved up beside your shoulder. She's got the remote in one hand and the other one is resting on your chest, and she's watching Moxie's mouth work on you with her ears tipped forward and her breath coming a little faster than before. "Keep him right there."

Moxie hums against your balls and you feel it in your teeth. She takes one hand off your thigh and slides it up under, two fingers pressing behind your sack, finding the soft spot there, and she rubs it in slow circles while her tongue keeps working the underside of your cock, and the two things together — the mouth and the fingers and the ribbon holding all of it back — make your vision go soft at the edges.

"Please," you say.

Emily's hand on your chest goes still.

"Please what," she says.

You don't answer. You can't. Moxie's tongue has found the spot just under the silk and she's holding there, lapping at it, and the pressure behind the knot is a wall now, a solid thing, and you're pushing against it with your whole body and it doesn't move.

Emily turns the dial.

The plug in Moxie's ass jumps to a harder setting and Moxie's whole back arches — she comes off your cock with a wet gasp, forehead dropping to your thigh, both hands gripping your hips — and her hips start rolling against nothing, against the air, against your leg, little helpless grinding circles, because the vibration is going straight through her and there's no way to sit still under it.

"Emily," she pants. "Emily, I can't — not while I'm—"

"You can." Emily's voice is flat. "You wanted to help him. Help him."

Moxie lifts her head. Her eyes are wet and her mouth is open and her ears are flat to her skull, and she looks at you — at your bound cock, at your mitts lying useless on the sheet, at the sweat on your chest — and then she climbs up your body and swings one leg over your hips and takes your cock in her hand and sinks down onto you again.

You both groan. She's tighter this time, or you're bigger, or the ribbon has made you something that doesn't fit the way it did before — whatever it is, she takes you in one slow push and then has to stop halfway with her mouth open and her claws dug into your chest, breathing through it, and then she finishes the stroke and sits flush on you and shudders.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, he's — Em, he's so—"

"I know." Emily has moved around to kneel behind her sister. She puts one hand flat on Moxie's back, between her shoulder blades, and presses down — not hard, just enough to make Moxie's spine curve and her hips tilt and your cock shift inside her at a new angle. Moxie's breath catches. "There. Now ride him."

She does. She starts slow — the same long rise and fall, all the way up until just the head of you is left inside her and the silk groove drags over her entrance, and then all the way back down until her ass is flat on your thighs — and every stroke she makes a small punched sound, and every stroke the bound head of your cock hits that deep hard place and her cunt flutters around you and grips and releases and grips again.

The plug is still going inside her. You can feel it through the wall of her, a faint buzz against the underside of your shaft, and every time she comes down the buzz lands somewhere new and she shudders and her rhythm stutters and picks back up.

"Master," she says. "Master, look at me."

You look. She's flushed down to her collarbones and her tits are swinging and her mouth is wet and her eyes are half-lidded and fixed on your face, and she's riding you like she's trying to pull something out of you with her body, and she's getting close again — you can feel it in the fast little warning pulses of her cunt, the grip and release, grip and release.

She takes your left mitt off the sheet. She drags it up over her belly — the soft fur, the navel, the place where her ribs start — and she presses your silk-covered palm flat against her clit and holds it there with her own hand on top of yours.

"Here," she says. "Again. Please. Don't move it."

You press. You push the heel of your paw down into her clit and hold it there the way she asked, and Moxie grinds forward onto the silk and back onto your cock and forward again, and the rhythm she finds is short and fast and nothing like the long patient strokes she started with. Her cunt grips you on every downbeat. The plug buzzes against the underside of your shaft through the wall of her and her thighs start to shake against your hips.

"That's it," Emily says. She's still behind her sister with one hand flat on Moxie's back. "Come on him. He's not going anywhere."

Moxie's ears go flat. Her mouth opens and nothing comes out of it for a second and then the sound arrives all at once — a low, cracked moan that breaks in the middle — and her cunt seizes around you in fast irregular clenches, gripping and releasing and gripping, and she grinds down hard onto your paw and shudders through it with her claws dug into your chest and her whole body bowing forward over you.

Emily turns the dial.

The plug jumps to its hardest setting and Moxie's second orgasm rolls straight into a third without a breath between them. She screams — high and thin and cut off in her throat — and her hips jerk against your cock and your paw and she can't stop moving, can't stop grinding, because the vibration is going through her and there's nowhere inside her for it to land except on you. Her cunt milks you in long dragging pulses. The wet runs down your bound shaft and over your balls and pools hot in the crease of your thigh.

"Emily," she gasps. "Emily, it's — I can't—"

"You can. One more."

She can't. She shudders to a stop with her forehead down on your collarbone and her breath coming in ragged gulps against your throat, and she stays there a moment with your cock still buried in her and the plug still humming inside her ass, twitching every few seconds like the vibration is finding a new nerve each time.

Then she lifts herself off you. Slowly. The wet drag of her cunt releasing you one ring at a time, and then you're out of her and the cold air hits your bound cock and the ache that's been banked behind the ribbon all this time comes back at full volume, thick and dark and beating, and you make a sound through your teeth that isn't a word.

Moxie kneels beside you with her hand on your chest and her thighs still trembling and she looks down at you with those wide wet hazel eyes and she's sorry. You can see she's sorry. But she doesn't touch your cock. She doesn't dare.

So you do it yourself. Again.

"The ribbon's on him. It stays on him. I'm looking at him."

She studies your cock the way she'd study a knot she'd tied and wanted to check. "He's fine. He's just full."

"He's purple."

"Master," she says. "Master, look at me."

You get up off the bed on legs that don't entirely trust themselves, and the tail plug shifts inside you with every step — a hard little weight riding low in your gut, the base pressed flat against your tailbone where Emily seated it. She walks ahead of you down the hall with the remote in her fist and her tail up and her ears swiveled back to listen to you following. Moxie comes behind, close enough that you can hear her breathing.

The kitchen is bright. Morning light off the tile, the kettle still warm from earlier, a bowl of something Moxie was working on before she got called back to the bedroom sitting half-turned on the counter. You brace both mitts on the edge of the table and bend over it without being told, because you know what comes next and your body has already decided to meet it.

Emily's hand lands flat on your lower back. The other one takes the base of the plug and works it — slow circles first, then a steady pull, and the widest part of it drags through you on the way out and your knees go soft and you hear yourself make a noise into the tabletop.

"There he is," she says. The plug comes free with a wet sound and she holds it up in the light, considering it, then sets it on the counter beside the bowl. "Look at that. He's gaping."

Moxie's hand finds your hip. "Come here," she says, and she's already unbuckled the harness from around her waist — she must have done it in the hall, or in the doorway, because she's holding the leather straps in one hand and the smaller dildo is already seated in the ring, slicked from the last time it was inside you. She steps out of her panties and steps into the harness and cinches it, and the whole time she's watching your face with that soft, patient look, like she's waiting for you to say yes.

You don't say yes. You turn around and back into her and let your weight settle, and she catches you under the arms and lowers you both onto the kitchen chair — her sitting, you in her lap, her thighs spread under yours and her strap riding up between your legs.

"Easy," she murmurs against your ear. "I've got you."

She takes the head of the dildo and lines it up and pushes, and you sink down onto it an inch at a time, and the stretch is different from the plug — longer, deeper, a full slow slide that goes on and on until your ass is flush against the base of the harness and Moxie's breath is hot on the back of your neck. She holds you there. She doesn't move. She just lets you feel it, the whole length of her inside you, filling you up the way the plug never did.

Emily pulls the other chair around to face you. She sits down in it with her knees apart and her skirt rucked up and the remote in her hand, and she watches you take her sister's cock with her head tilted and her amber eyes narrow.

"Go on then," she says to Moxie. "Feed him."

Moxie's hand comes up under your chin and tips your head back onto her shoulder, and her other hand reaches for the plate on the counter — the bowl she'd been working on, whatever it is, some cold leftover thing with a fork in it — and she lifts a bite to your mouth. You open. You chew. She fucks you while you chew, one slow roll of her hips up into you, and the bite goes down wrong and you cough around it and she keeps going, patient, unhurried, her hips finding a rhythm that has nothing to do with the food.

"Again," she says, and lifts another bite.

You eat. She fucks. The two things braid together — the fork at your lips, the slow deep push inside you, the fork again — and you lose track of which is which, and somewhere in the middle of it Emily leans forward with her elbows on her knees and starts narrating.

"Look at his cock," she says. "It's twitching. Every time you go in him it jumps."

Moxie hums. She's got the fork in your mouth again and she's watching over your shoulder, and you can feel her smile against your ear. "He's leaking," she says. "Em, look — he's dripping on his own thigh."

"I see it." Emily's voice has gone flat and pleased. "He hasn't come in an hour and he's dripping like a faucet. That's what the ribbon does to him. Keeps him full. Keeps him stupid."

She stands up and comes around behind the chair and puts her hand on your throat — not squeezing, just holding, the pads of her fingers over your pulse — and she leans down and speaks directly into your ear.

"You hear that?" she says. "You're so full of my sister's cock you can't even keep your dinner down. And your dick's just sitting there jumping at nothing. You want to come, don't you."

You try to answer and Moxie pushes another bite into your mouth and you chew instead, and Emily laughs — a short, sharp sound, right against your ear.

Moxie's rhythm changes. She gets her feet flat on the floor and starts driving up into you properly, both hands on your hips, and the chair creaks under the two of you and the dildo hits something inside you that makes your whole lower body clench and your cock jump hard enough that a bead of precome actually leaves you and lands on the tile.

"There," Emily says. "There it is again. Do that again."

Moxie does it again. She angles her hips and drives up and the head of the strap finds that spot and holds it, grinding, and your cock jerks and leaks and your mouth falls open around the fork and Emily reaches down and takes your cock in her gloved hand — just the shaft, just holding it, no stroke — and the silk of the glove is cool and slick with your own mess and the second she touches you the pressure behind the ribbon goes critical.

"Don't," you manage.

"Don't what."

"Don't — I'll—"

"You'll what. Come? You can't. It's tied off." She squeezes once, root to tip, and lets go. "You can try, though. I'd like to watch you try."

Moxie pulls you back against her chest and fucks up into you harder, and Emily puts her hand back on your throat and her other hand flat on your belly, holding you down onto her sister's cock, and the two of them work you between them — Moxie driving up, Emily pressing down, the ribbon cutting into the base of your cock and the plug-gap still open and aching behind Moxie's strap — and you feel the orgasm coming up through you anyway, the whole long climb of it, and there's nowhere for it to go.

It crests. It crests and it breaks and nothing comes out. Your cock jumps and your ass clenches around the strap and your whole body locks and shakes and you make a sound like you're being pulled apart, and the ribbon holds, and the come stays where it is, backed up behind the knot, and the pleasure rolls through you in a wave that has no exit and just keeps rolling, doubling back on itself, and you're still shaking when it finally lets go.

Emily watches your face the whole time. She doesn't blink.

"There," she says softly. "That's what I wanted to see."

Moxie has gone still underneath you, holding you through it with both arms around your chest, her cheek pressed to your shoulder blade. Her hips are trembling — she came too, somewhere in the middle of yours, quietly, without a sound, just the grip of her thighs going tight around you and then loose.

You slump back against her. The fork is still in her hand. There's a bite of food on it, forgotten, going cold.

Emily reaches over and takes the fork out of Moxie's fingers and sets it on the table, and then she crouches down in front of the chair and looks up at the two of you — at you, wrecked and empty-handed and still tied, at her sister, flushed and quiet with her arms full of you — and she reaches up and touches the knot of the ribbon at the base of your cock with one gloved fingertip.

"Not yet," she says. "He's not done."

Emily's fingertip stays on the knot. She presses it flat, feeling the pulse underneath, and your cock twitches against her glove like it's trying to answer her.

"Feel that," she says, to Moxie. "Still going. He's got nothing left to give and he's still going."

Moxie's chin comes down onto your shoulder. "Poor thing," she murmurs, and she means it. Her hand spreads flat over your sternum, holding you against her, and her hips shift under you — a small, unconscious rock, the strap still buried to the base inside you, and your whole body clenches down on it without asking.

Emily stands up. She takes the remote off the table and clicks the plug off, and the little hum you'd stopped hearing dies out of the room. She drops the remote in her skirt pocket and walks to the counter and picks up the bowl — the cold thing, whatever it is, shredded cabbage and carrot and something dark, sesame oil and vinegar cutting through the air when she lifts the lid.

"Open," she says, and comes back with the fork.

You open. She feeds you standing over you, one hand on the back of the chair, and she watches your mouth close around the fork with the same narrow amber attention she gave your cock a minute ago. The cabbage is cold and sharp and good, and you realize you're starving, and you realize that's the point.

"Chew," she says.

You chew. Moxie rolls her hips up into you while you do it — slow, deep, no hurry at all, the strap dragging out an inch and pushing back the whole way, and the sound you make around the mouthful is wet and undignified and Emily's ears flick forward to catch it.

"Good," Emily says. "Again."

Fork. Chew. Moxie's hips. Fork. Chew. Moxie's hips. The rhythm is the same as before and it's worse now, because the dry orgasm has left everything raw and oversensitive and every slow push inside you lights up the same nerves that just got wrung out and wrung out and wrung out. Your cock is still hard. It shouldn't be. It's been tied off for an hour and it just came without coming and it's still standing up off your belly like it hasn't heard any of the news.

Emily sees it. She sets the fork down on the rim of the bowl and crouches again and looks at it — just looks, hands on her knees, tail curled around her ankles — and then she flicks the tip of it with one gloved finger. The silk lands and your whole body jerks and the strap inside you grinds against that spot and a sound comes out of you that's half a laugh and half a sob.

"Look at that," she says. "One finger. One. And he's leaking again."

"He is?" Moxie leans forward to see past your shoulder, and her cheek is warm against your ear, and her voice has gone soft and delighted. "Oh. Oh, he is. There's a whole string of it."

"It's been doing that the whole time." Emily wipes the string off your thigh with the side of her glove and holds it up in the light. "Every time you go in him. It's like a tap. He's got nothing in him and he's still dripping."

"Should we stop?" Moxie says, and she says it like a real question, and her hips have already stopped moving, and her arms are still around you.

"No," Emily says. "He hasn't asked."

She's right. You haven't. You're sitting in Moxie's lap with her cock in your ass and your own cock tied off and leaking down your thigh and you haven't said a word about stopping, and Emily knows it, and she stands up and takes the fork again and holds a bite to your mouth.

"Eat," she says.

You eat. Moxie starts moving again, slower than before, careful, watching your face over your shoulder — she's reading you, the way she always does, waiting for the flinch — and you don't give her one, so she keeps going, and the slow roll of her hips works the strap against that spot with a patience that's somehow worse than the hard driving was.

"He's doing the thing with his eyes," Emily says. "Half shut. He does that right before."

"Before what?" Moxie asks.

"Before he comes." Emily feeds you another bite. "Except he can't. So he's just going to sit there doing it. Watch."

She's right about that too. The climb starts again — the same long pull up through your gut, the same tightening at the base of your cock where the ribbon cuts, the same nowhere for it to go — and this time it's slower and it takes longer and Moxie is talking to you the whole way up, low and steady against your ear.

"There you go," she says. "That's it. Let it. I've got you, I've got you, just let it."

Emily crouches down in front of you again and puts both hands on your thighs and watches your face, close, close enough that you can see the amber ring around her pupils, and she doesn't say anything at all while it happens. She just watches. That's the thing she wanted — she said it earlier, she said it in the bedroom, she said I'd like to watch you try — and she gets it, twice in one morning, the second one longer and slower and worse than the first.

It breaks. Your cock jumps and your ass clenches down on Moxie's strap and your back arches off her chest and you make a sound with no shape to it, and the ribbon holds, and nothing comes out, and the pleasure rolls through you with nowhere to land and rolls back and rolls through you again, and Moxie holds you through all of it with both arms and her chin on your shoulder and her hips absolutely still.

When it lets go you're shaking. Your thighs are shaking. Your hands are shaking where they're braced on Moxie's knees. There's a wet spot on the tile between your feet that you don't remember making.

Emily stands up and looks down at it.

"Huh," she says. "That's new."

Moxie's hand comes up and strokes your hair back off your forehead, and she's breathing hard herself, and she's still inside you, and she hasn't moved an inch since you started coming. "Okay," she says softly. "Okay. That's enough, sweetheart. That's enough."

"It's not," Emily says, but she says it without heat, and she's already picking up the fork again, and she holds the last bite to your mouth and waits — patient, for once — until you open and take it.

You chew. You swallow. Moxie's arms stay around you and her hips stay still and the kitchen is bright and quiet around the three of you, the kettle ticking as it cools, and Emily sets the empty bowl on the counter and comes back and stands in front of the chair with her hands on her hips, looking at the two of you tangled together in her sister's lap.

"Well," she says. "Now he's done."

Emily doesn't wait for an answer. She steps in over the chair, one hand on your shoulder for balance, and settles onto your lap facing you — knees bracketing your hips, tail sweeping low behind her, and she reaches down between her own thighs with two fingers and guides the head of your tied cock up against the slick of her cunt and sits.

You go in all the way in one slow slide. The ribbon at your base bites down as she takes you, and the pressure that's been backed up behind it for an hour suddenly has a wall on both sides — her body closing hot and wet around the length of you, the knot holding the rest of it shut — and the sound you make is a wounded one, and Emily's ears flatten back to catch it and her mouth curls.

"There it is," she says. "That's the face."

She starts to move. Not fast — she's learned better than that this morning — just a long roll of her hips that takes you from root to tip and back, and every stroke drags the ribbon tight and then loose and tight again, and the pressure inside you surges up against the knot and falls back, surges and falls, and your hands come up off Moxie's knees because you don't know what to do with them, and Moxie catches your wrists and folds your arms back against her chest and holds them there.

"I've got you," she says against your ear. "I've got you. Just sit."

And then she starts to move too.

You'd forgotten she was still inside you. You'd forgotten the strap was still buried to the base in your ass, because Emily climbing on and taking your cock had rewritten the whole map of your body in one stroke, and now Moxie rolls her hips up slow underneath you and the dildo drags out an inch and pushes back the whole way, and it presses against your prostate at exactly the moment Emily sinks down onto you, and the two of them find a rhythm without a word — Emily down, Moxie up, Emily up, Moxie down — like they've been waiting all morning for this and finally got the timing right.

You're pinned between them. Moxie's thighs spread wide under yours, her breasts soft and warm against your shoulder blades, her arms locked around your chest, her hips working that slow patient grind up into you. Emily's weight coming down on your lap, her knees digging into the chair on either side, her cunt gripping and releasing you stroke by stroke, her tail curling up around her own waist and flicking with each drop of her hips. The chair creaks under all three of you. The kitchen is bright and ordinary around it — the kettle ticking, the bowl on the counter, the cold tile under Moxie's feet — and none of it matters, none of it touches you, because every nerve you have is split between two points: the knot at the base of your cock and the spot inside your ass, and both of them are being worked at once.

Emily leans in and kisses you.

It's not a tender kiss. It's a wet, open, filthy one — her tongue straight into your mouth, her teeth catching your lower lip and dragging, her hand fisted in your hair at the back of your skull to hold your head where she wants it. She kisses you the way she rides you, taking what she wants and making you keep up, and when she pulls back there's spit strung between your mouths and she wipes it off your chin with her thumb and pushes the thumb into your mouth and makes you suck it.

"Taste that," she says. "That's me. You've been in me for a minute and you're already leaking in me, I can feel it, you're dripping into me and you can't even come."

She's right. You can feel it — the pressure behind the knot building and building with nowhere to go, and some of it finding its way out anyway, thin and constant, smearing between her cunt and your base with every stroke. It doesn't relieve anything. It just makes the ache worse, makes the knot feel tighter, makes the whole length of you throb against the ribbon like a fist closed around a hose.

"Emily," you say, and it comes out wrecked.

"Say it again," she says, and rolls her hips down hard.

"Emily—"

"That's not my name."

She stops moving. Just stops, buried to the root, and looks down at you with her amber eyes half-lidded and her sharp grin back on her face, and behind you Moxie has gone still too, both of them holding you exactly where you are, both of them buried in you, and the pressure has nowhere to go and no motion to ride it out on and just sits there, coiled, waiting.

"Say it," Emily says.

You swallow. Your throat is dry from the sounds you've been making. "Master."

"Wrong."

"Please—"

"Wrong again." She leans down and her nose is almost touching yours, and her voice is soft and mean and patient. "You know what I want. You said it this morning. Say it the way you said it this morning."

And you know. You've known since the bedroom, since the cuffs, since the first time she wrung a dry orgasm out of you and watched your face do the thing she likes. She wants the word you gave her when you couldn't help it. The one you said twice, and she heard both times, and she's been carrying it around all morning like a coin in her pocket.

"Please," you say again, and then, quieter, "please, Emily."

Her whole body shivers. Just once, small, from the ears down — and then she's moving again, faster than before, and she's kissing you again, and she's saying something into your mouth that you can't quite parse, something that might be good or might be again or might be both.

Behind you Moxie's hips pick the rhythm back up, and this time she's not gentle about it. She's driving up into you with real force now, her heels braced on the tile, her arms tight around your chest, her breath hot and fast against your neck, and every thrust of hers meets every drop of Emily's and the two of them are fucking you from both ends at once, and your cock is tied and your ass is full and your mouth is full of Emily's tongue and there is nowhere in your body that isn't being used.

"He's close," Moxie says, and her voice has gone low and rough. "Emily, he's — I can feel him, he's clenching on me, he's—"

"I know," Emily says. "I can feel him too. He's doing the thing with his eyes."

She sits back up and rides you hard and watches your face the whole time, both hands braced on your shoulders, her tits bouncing with each stroke, her tail lashing behind her, and she's talking the whole way down — there it is, there it is, look at him, Moxie, look at his face — and Moxie is watching over your shoulder and murmuring into your ear, that's it, sweetheart, let it, we've got you — and the pressure behind the knot climbs and climbs and climbs and there is no exit, there is no exit, there has never been an exit, and it crests anyway.

Your whole body locks. Your cock jumps inside her, once, twice, three times, and the ribbon holds it all back and the pleasure has nowhere to land and just pours through you sideways, up your spine, down your thighs, into your hands where they're clenched white-knuckled on Moxie's forearms, and Emily rides you through every second of it with her eyes wide open and her mouth open too, breathing hard, taking it, and behind you Moxie comes with a long shuddering exhale and her hips stutter and stop and her arms go tight enough to hurt.

Then it's quiet. Just the three of you breathing. Emily still seated on you, still full of you, still hard inside her — the knot hasn't let you soften, hasn't let you do anything but stay exactly as you are, plugged and aching and swollen. Moxie still buried in your ass, her cheek on your shoulder, her heart going hard against your back.

Emily looks down at where you're joined. She reaches between her own thighs and touches the ribbon with one gloved fingertip, and you twitch inside her and she smiles.

"Still hard," she says. "Of course he is."

She lifts up off you — slow, deliberate, letting you feel every inch slide out — and your cock comes free of her wet and dark and still bound, and she looks at it the way she looked at it before, hands on her knees, and then she looks up at Moxie over your shoulder.

"Your turn," she says. "You wanted it. Take it."

Moxie's arms loosen around your chest. She's still breathing hard, still flushed, and she looks at Emily for a long moment and then at you, and her hand comes up and cups your jaw and turns your face toward hers.

"Only if he says yes," she says.

Emily snorts. "He's not going to say no."

"He might." Moxie's thumb strokes your cheek. "Sweetheart. Do you want me to untie it?"

The question lands somewhere behind your sternum and sits there. Your cock is throbbing against the ribbon. Your ass is still full of her strap. Emily is standing over both of you with her arms crossed and her tail flicking and her grin sharp, waiting to see what you say, and Moxie is holding your face in her hand and asking you like it's a real question, like the answer could be no, like she'd actually stop.

You look at Emily. Emily looks back.

"Yes," you say.

Moxie kisses your temple and reaches down between you and finds the knot.

Moxie's fingers find the knot and work it loose — patient, careful, the ribbon unspooling from the base of your cock in slow wet loops, and the moment the last of it comes free the blood rushes back into the length of you so hard it hurts, so hard you make a sound you didn't authorize, and Emily hears it and her ears flick and she grins.

"There he is," she says.

She doesn't wait for Moxie to finish. She reaches down, takes you in her gloved hand, and lines you up herself — no ceremony, no tease, just the head of your cock pressed to the slick of her cunt and then the whole length of you swallowed in one downward roll of her hips. You go in to the root. All of it, finally, the knot released and nothing holding you back, and the relief is so sharp it's almost grief — the pressure that had been walled up behind the ribbon for an hour suddenly has somewhere to go, and Emily's body is where it goes.

She doesn't move slow this time. She sets both hands on your shoulders and fucks herself on you — real strokes, root to tip, her cunt gripping and releasing you with every rise and fall, and you can feel how wet she is, how wet she's been, the sound of it obscene in the quiet kitchen. Each time she drops she grinds down and holds, working you deep, and each time she rises she clenches like she's trying to keep you inside her.

And behind you, Moxie starts moving again.

She never pulled out. The whole time Emily was riding you, Moxie stayed buried to the base in your ass, patient and still, and now her hips roll up slow and the strap drags out of you and pushes back in, and it finds your prostate on the first stroke like she's been aiming for it all morning. She knows your body. She's had all the time in the world to learn it, and she uses what she knows — long, deep, deliberate thrusts that press the dildo flat against the spot inside you and hold it there while Emily sinks down onto your cock at the same moment.

Both of them at once. Emily on your cock, Moxie on your prostate, and the two of them working a rhythm without a word between them — Emily down, Moxie up, Emily up, Moxie down — like they've been waiting all morning to get the timing right and finally have it.

Emily's mouth comes back down on yours and this time it isn't a kiss so much as a claim — her tongue forcing your jaw open, her spit running hot down your chin, her teeth dragging your lower lip until it stings. She does it in time with her hips, so that every stroke of her cunt down your cock is matched by a stroke of her tongue against yours, and the two rhythms blur until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Her gloved hands are in your hair again, both of them now, holding your head exactly where she wants it while she fucks your mouth and your cock at the same speed. Above you her ears are pinned flat and her tail is whipping behind her in short angry arcs, and when she finally pulls back to breathe there's a thread of saliva still connecting you and she doesn't wipe it away this time — she lets it break on its own and land on your chest.

"Look at you," she says, breathless, still grinding down on you. "Tied up, plugged up, can't even move your hands. And you're still trying to fuck me back." She's right — your hips have started moving on their own, small involuntary lifts every time she sinks onto you, chasing her down even though Moxie's arms are locked around your chest and her strap is still buried in your ass. "You feel that, Moxie? He's doing it. He's fucking up into me and he doesn't even know he's doing it."

"I know," Moxie says against your shoulder, and her voice is warm and wrecked at once. "I can feel him doing it on my end too. He's squeezing me every time you drop." Her hand slides up from your chest to your throat — not gripping, just resting there, the pads of her fingers light over your pulse, and she holds it there while her hips roll up into you again. The dildo presses flat against your prostate and stays, and she keeps it there, patient, letting the pressure build while Emily's cunt milks the length of your cock above it. You are caught between the two of them like something being wrung out from both ends, and there is no part of your body that isn't answering to one of them.

Emily leans back and takes your face in one hand, thumb hooked under your chin, and makes you look at her while she rides. Her amber eyes are bright and mean and entirely focused, and there's a flush spreading up her throat under the ginger fur that she'd never admit to. "Say it again," she says. "The way you said it before."

You swallow against her thumb. "Please, Emily."

"Mm." She rewards you by dropping down hard and grinding, working you deep and holding, and the wet sound of it is loud in the quiet kitchen. "Good. Now say it while Moxie's fucking you. Say it while I'm inside you and she's inside you and you can't do anything about either one."

"Please, Emily," you say again, and it comes out broken in the middle because Moxie has chosen that exact moment to drive up into you hard, and the word cracks around the thrust.

Emily's grin goes sharp and satisfied. "There it is." She braces both hands on your shoulders and starts riding you in earnest now — not the slow deliberate roll from before but real, driving strokes, her thighs working, her tits bouncing with every drop, and she's watching your face the whole time with that same hungry focus, cataloguing every twitch. "Moxie, feel that? Feel how hard he just got? He likes being talked to like that. He likes being told what he is."

"He likes being held," Moxie murmurs, and her arms tighten around your chest to prove it, pulling you back against the soft warm wall of her body. Her breasts press against your shoulder blades, her cheek comes down against the side of your neck, and she keeps her hips moving in that same slow deep rhythm underneath you. "He likes knowing we've got him. Don't you, sweetheart." It isn't a question. Her hand is still at your throat and her other arm is still banded across your chest and the strap is still working your prostate in long deliberate strokes, and she says it like a fact she's already proven.

Emily watches the two of you for a second — you folded back into Moxie's arms, Moxie's hand at your throat, her hips still buried in you — and something flickers across her face that she covers immediately with a sneer. "Fine," she says. "Hold him then. I'll do the rest." And she does. She plants her feet on the chair and rides you hard and fast, no more games, no more talking, just the slap of her hips against yours and the wet grip of her cunt and the ribbon-burn still ghosting at the base of your cock where the knot was. Every time she drops, Moxie lifts; every time she rises, Moxie drives. The two of them have found something that isn't a rhythm so much as a single motion with you at the hinge of it, and your whole body is being worked from both ends at once with nowhere to put any of it.

You can feel yourself getting close again — closer than you should be, closer than the knot ever let you get — and this time there's nothing holding it back. The pressure that spent an hour walled up behind the ribbon has somewhere to go now, and it's building toward that somewhere fast, and Emily can feel it because she's watching your face and her grin goes wide and delighted.

"He's going to come," she says. "Moxie, he's going to — look at him, he's going to come inside me."

"Let him," Moxie says against your ear, and her hand presses a little firmer at your throat, and her hips drive up into you one more time, deep and flat and holding, and she says, "Go on, sweetheart. We've got you. Give it to her."

And you do. Your hips lock, your cock jerks inside Emily's cunt, and the release that's been denied all morning finally tears through you — hot and long and shaking, emptying into her in pulses you can feel from the base of your spine to the tips of your fingers, and Emily rides you through every one of them with her eyes half-closed and her mouth open, grinding down to keep you deep, milking you with her cunt until you've got nothing left to give her. Behind you Moxie holds you steady through all of it, her arms locked around your chest, her hips finally still, her breath hot and even against your neck, and she doesn't let go until your body stops shaking.

Then it's quiet again. Emily stays seated on you, still full of you, still watching your face with something softer than her usual sneer and angrier than she'd ever admit to. She reaches down and touches where you're joined — her fingers coming back wet — and she looks at the shine on her glove for a long moment before she wipes it on your chest.

"There," she says. "Now you've come in me with nothing holding it back. Feel better?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. She lifts off you slow, letting you feel the drag of her cunt the whole way up, and when you slide free of her a thin line of come follows and breaks against her thigh. She looks down at it, then at you, then at Moxie over your shoulder, and her ears flick once — the same small tell she gave when she heard you say her name.

"Your turn's not done," she says to Moxie, and steps off the chair. "He's still hard. Look at him."