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The hotel’s fancy to the point of gaudy, the kind of palace Carol and Helen would have turned their noses up at Before. Fine gilt molding on the ceiling, matching the golden roses blooming on dark-blue wallpaper. Carol's bare feet sink into the carpet as she stands still, watching Zosia climb onto the plush red sheets.
Zosia's glowing as brightly as the gold, fresh out of the shower with her dark hair drying. If Carol looks closely, she can see the faintest shift in color, where the wig ends and the real hair begins. It always feels like a bit too much effort to break that particular fantasy, though, so she doesn't say anything.
"What would you like, Carol?" Zosia asks. She's smiling that creepy custom-service smile, sitting slightly forward so Carol can get a good look at her breasts. Her legs are opening, showing off a dark hatch of hair, every inch the product on display.
It'd be easy to jump her now, pull her hair and bite her tits and do all the mindless animal fucking they've engaged in thousands of times (thousands or hundreds? she doesn't know, she's been losing track of time on this mindless little vacation, which is probably not good).
Only Carol's in one of those moods where easy makes her skin crawl, so she restrains herself, at least for now. She even waits a few moments or two, lets the silence drip and stretch. Zosia waits placidly, smile unchanged. Carol already knows from bitter experience which of them is the more patient; the memory pisses her off enough to jolt her into action.
"Touch yourself," she snaps. "Get wet." God, she wants to cringe at her own porno dialogue. Writing Raban smut scenes was always such a fucking drag, and not just because of the stiff heterosexuality of it all. Everything just seems so...meaty, refusing to fit itself into proper language.
But she can still communicate like a goddamn adult, and that's all Zosia needs. She straightens up, slipping her fingers into her still-smiling mouth and sucking with a toddler's innocence, pulling her spit-slick fingers free with a wet pop. Her hands slips between her thighs, petting at her clit as she lets out a low moan.
The sound is enough to make Carol's stomach heat and she hurriedly turns away, stalking across the room. The minibar opens with a cool wash of air, tickling her face like a wintry caress. It's empty except for the ridiculously expensive bottle of champagne that she asked for.
Carol pulls the bottle free and slides the minibar shut, rising to her cheek. When she turns back to the bed, she finds Zosia curled in on herself, letting out strangled little whimpers as her hand saws back and forth.
She always makes such delicate noises, nothing compared to Helen's curses and groans. Sometimes Carol wonders if the difference is deliberate, if they have a chart somewhere filtering out how familiar is too familiar.
Zosia keeps at it when Carol comes to stand in front of the bed, eyes half-closed, fingers squelching busily. She hasn't been told to stop, so she ignores Carol's soft grunting and swear over the cork, until it tears free with a loud pop.
Champagne lashes through the air, foam sinking into the fine carpet. Zosia's eyes snap open, tracking the spreading stain, probably calculating the most useful detergent or some shit like that. She doesn't tell Carol off for making a mess, not the way Helen would.
"Stop," Carol orders, sitting the bottle on the nightstand. "Lie on your back." Zosia's just started to obey when Carol changes her mind: "No, on your front. Head down, ass in the air."
It's a familiar position, one they've used for spanking plenty of times, Carol working Zosia over until Zosia's ass and cunt are searing red and Carol's hands are numb. Zosia has offered to get her an experienced dominatrix, some big brute of a woman who'd keep the beating for a night straight if Carol asked. So far, Carol hasn't asked.
Mine, she thinks, smoothing her hand over Zosia's ass and around her slick-wet pussy. Or maybe not hers, not really, but still willing to play the part. Carol dips her fingers into Zosia's folds, the heat scraping at her skin while she scissors gently.
"Oh," Zosia whines, shooting a glance over her shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted, loose strands of damp hair falling into her eyes. Her hips roll slowly, grinding with the fine precision of a million porn stars.
"Don't look at me," Carol orders, just because she can. Zosia's eyes snap away like she's been electrocuted, her gaze burning into the wall. She doesn't flinch when Carol adds a third finger, or a fourth, stretching wider and wider until she gapes like a second mouth.
Using one hand to keep Zosia stretched up, she reaches the bottle with the other. The champagne sloshes as she wedges it carefully between Zosia's knees, leaving it there while she puts a hand on Zosia's spine and pushes, lowering her just that little further down.
Zosia goes slowly, obediently, her head pressed into the pillow as her cunt sticks straight up in the air. The dark hairs on her pussy shine in a way that makes Carol's mouth water, but she forces herself to take it slow, to breathe steadily as she picks the bottle back up.
"You ready?" she asks.
"Always, Carol." So pleasant, so easy. It makes Carol grit her teeth, gives her the steadiness she needs to shove the bottle rim into Zosia's cunt.
"Ahhh--" Zosia's whole body shudders for a heartbeat, her nails digging into the bed. There's a whistle of wet glass as the rim scrapes against her inner walls, champagne rolling down its neck. If Carol leans forward she can see it soaking Zosia's folds,
She adjusts her position, trying to find a way to hold the bottle that doesn't put too much strain on her wrists. When she's got something that feels good, she turns the bottle slowly, grinding it ever so slightly deeper inside.
"How does that feel?" she asks. Zosia lets out a muffled groan, and Carol gives the bottle another twist. "Use your fucking words, Zosh." The harshness of her own voice surprises her, and she bites back the sudden urge to apologize.
"C-cold." Zosia's breath hitches, her cheek pressed into the pillow so she won't suffocate. "And. Big."
"Yeah?" Carol pushes the bottle deeper, giving it a little shake. Her cunt as is almost as wet as Zosia's by now, she wants to touch it so bad, but she has to settle for grinding against the bed like a pillow-humping teenager instead. "You like it, huh?"
"I. I like." Zosia mewls, her legs rubbing against the sheets. Her asshole winks rosily and Carol suddenly wishes for another bottle, wants to keep her girl stuffed in both holes. "I like making you happy, Carol."
"Fuck happy," Carol snaps. "Do you like this?" She braces one hand on Zosia's stomach and presses the other to the bottle's base. "Do you like having your slutty cunt filled up?" Jesus, slutty cunt, she's surprised Zosia doesn't burst out laughing.
For a moment she thinks of Ravi breaking into sudden giggles on the other side of the world, freaking Laxmi out. Then Carol really needs to think about literally anything else, so she focuses on bearing down against the bottle, steadying it with both hands as the neck sinks deeper and deeper.
"Or maybe you don't like it," she murmurs. "Maybe it's fucking killing you, having booze poured into your cunt. Do you want me to stop?" She can see that there's less wine than there was before, some of it dripping out to soak Zosia's hair, the rest of it...christ. "Tell me to stop, Zosia."
"Stop, Carol," Zosia says weakly, almost like a question. Like she isn’t sure whether or not she’s lying, whether or not she’s breaking the rules. Her hips jerk frenetically, pressing back against the bottle and then just as quickly pulling away. Carol leans forward to follow, watching the bottle slip deeper, so that the neck is completely swallowed.
“You don’t want me to stop.” She becomes more confident as she says it, like words make it true, and don’t they? Isn’t that what Zosia and the Others are always saying, that she has agency, that they’ll give her whatever she requires? “You want me to keep going, don’t you? Want to rub your clit over how bad I’m fucking you up for anyone else.”
Zosia mewls, one hand snaking between her legs to rub at her clit. Her nails keep tapping against the bottle glass, the sound rattling painfully in Carol’s ears. Carol takes a heavy breath, as she pulls the bottle out, almost sliding it all the way free before she shoves it back in with a whomph of effort. And then out, and in again, before Zosia has a chance to react.
“Gonna leave you too fucking loose,” she pants, because fuck it, might as well go full porno this. Say all the things that Raban never said, because he had a heart of gold under his bad-boy exterior and Carol never has. “Too fucking loose for Manousos or Koumba or whoever the fuck you want let in there next.”
“Carol.” Oh, yeah, Zosia doesn’t like it when she badmouths her fellow “old-schoolers” or whatever the fuck the Orhers call them, any more than she likes it when Carol badmouths herself. Puts too much of a dent in the happy family image that they’re all supposed to go along with. “Carol, please…”
“It’s okay.” Carol’s arms are aching with the effort to fuck the bottle in and out, muscles trembling. “You can come, Zosh.” She shoves the bottle in as hard and deep as she can; Zosia convulses beneath her, mouth open in a silent scream.
Carol can feel her break, a quick-and-dirty detonation, like shards of glass falling through the air. She pulls the bottle out slowly and watches Zosia slump face-first onto the bed, trembling like a leaf. Just a glance between her legs is enough to make Carol nauseous, sending her stumbling away from the bed.
She's still got the bottle in her hands and doesn't think before lifting it to her lips. There's significantly less alcohol left inside, but still enough for her to take a deep pull, the tender bite of champagne mixed in with the familiar sweet spill of Zosia's cunt.
And mixed in with that, fuck, the metallic tang of blood, along with something even more acrid. Carol can taste it, she knows what it is. She can't stop herself from swallowing. Again and again until it's empty and she lets her hand fall to her side
Zosia blinks at her from the bed. She's more curled up by now, propped slightly on her elbow so she can better look back at Carol. There're tears on her cheeks, blood and piss and blood running down her less, dark bruises forming around her swollen cunt. She's smiling.
"How are you feeling, Carol?" she asks. "Are you happier now?"
Carol breathes in, breathes out. Then she turns, hurling the bottle against the far wall. It breaks with an almighty crash, shards of glass flying everywhere, clattering down the walls and sinking into the carpet. Carol follows, dropping to her knees so she can spew tonight's fancy dinner across the room.
She retches until she becomes aware of a hand on her back, rubbing slow circles. Carol wipes her mouth gingerly, turning back on her heel. She looks to see that Zosia has pulled herself to the foot of the bed, her arm stretching over the side, her eyes soft with bliss.
"How are you feeling, Carol?" Same easy cadence as before, like Carol didn't just rip her open. "Would you like some water?"
Inhale. Exhale. Carol licks her lips, tastes the worst of herself. "Why," she manages. "Why can't you hate me?"
"We can't hate the ones we love," Zosia says, which is such fucking bullshit that Carol wants to go find another bottle and break it over her head, anything to make her understand that Carol is worthless, monstrous, a dead bitch walking. She settles for a laugh as she pushes herself to her feet, swaying slightly.
"You did not orgasm," Zosia comments, nodding between Carol's legs. "Would you like some assistance?"
"Nah." Carol stumbles slightly as she makes her way towards the bathroom, doing her best not to trip and split her skull on the doorframe (tempting thought, to be honest). "You should, um, probably get a doctor-you in here. Make sure I didn't fuck up anything major."
Zosia's reply is drowned out by the slam of the bathroom door at Carol's back. She turns the hot water on high and clambers in, clamping one hand over her mouth and the other between her legs. Squeezing her eyes shut, she screams.