Re: Promenade; Elevator [Adult]
"God isn't here," the concubine corrected. It was not the same as being nowhere. "God is nowhere for us." That was more truth. It was truth that came with the sting of slivers beneath skin, where the nerves were raw and bright. It hurt, but it was supposed to hurt. Being born to rut with sin was meant to hurt. Hurting was part of the pleasure, just as it was the price. Only in not having did one know what one was missing. And she hurt, this concubine who was one of many. She felt the lack of God like a halberd, regret seeping from her wounds like blood.
The black that garbed her bloodless body fell to the concubine's knees, the gauze obscene on the floor of the elevator, dust and ash surrounding the fabric and casting the floor into depravity. Beneath the discarded black, she was perfect. Sin was always perfect, and it was more tempting for its perfection. Pale and pink and devoid of hair, she rucked the bride's fabric higher.
The hand that slid beneath the ruined pink was long fingers and knowledge, and those fingers deftly slid beneath folds and rubbed knowingly. Those fingers plunged deep, fucking the woman against the wall. Her thumb rubbed circles around the bride's clitoris, and she leaned forward and breathed lifeless heat against the pink fabric that blocked her mouth from the skin she touched.
She felt the toes against the match that rested beside her knee. She did not care. This bride could not burn her dead. There was no killing the dead. No one knew this better than the concubine, whose scars of loss would had killed someone with a heart that beat melodies in their chest.
"Are you pleased?"
"Do you want more?"
"Do with us what you will."
The black strands slithered forth, and they held up the rose fabric, helping.