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Stelle can’t stop thinking about the game she and Kafka played.
What should’ve been something of relative value turns out to haunt her every waking moment with the ‘What-if’ of what proved to be a lie or truth. She didn’t use her questions wisely, didn’t have a strategy in figuring out what could be cast aside as mere idyllic bullshit and Kafka’s God-given honesty - it’s her own fault. All Stelle’s left with now are answers that could prove disturbing under the right light.
‘You’re genetically a part of me, Stelle.’
Kafka looked at odds with herself upon spiling her answer, as if she herself knows it’s quite a gut-punch after the… texts she’s sent, pictures for verification. Her lips quirked into a crooked smile as she waved Stelle along to cover for her while she tended to Blade’s infliction. No time to dwell on it, apparently - get used to the fact your apparent mother makes you feel hot, Stelle!
That’s wrong. Dan Heng’s numerous entries on the immorality of incest tell her so, be it biologically, psychologically, emotionally…
Maybe she was better off ignorant in her bliss.
She can’t sleep. Her bed is hot and stuffy no matter how many articles of clothing she throws onto the floor, the fabric of her boxers starchy and rough on fading scars. Might as well kick them off to join the others in their discarding, but aeons know her hands tend to wander when she spots the soft flesh between her thighs. Himeko once described her as being “child-like” upon catching her looking through every square inch of the Astral Express, a kid with his hand caught in the Omni-Synthesizer that she gently smacked away.
It’s the same with her body, too. It… was the same with her body. Knowing it could possibly be made from Kafka’s sends a strange shiver down every vertebra of her weeping spine, numbed fingers tracing the perk of her own nipples, hardened muscle under the thinning layer of fat where her stomach droops. In a feverish, demented sorta way it’s almost comforting to think she might be a part of Kafka like that. No matter where she is Kafka’s with her, the structure of her cells and the beat of her heart created by such a mysterious, higher being.
But then she throbs thinking of her, and— she can’t. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t.
Stelle wonders if she truly cares, though. Kafka certainly doesn’t with the way she acts at times, and Stelle’s seen enough from others to have a rough idea of what flirting entails. Maybe it isn’t seen as a sin where Kafka comes from, if she’s speaking the truth then she hailed from a place where ‘devils’ are a thing to exterminate. Then again, if Kafka was the exterminator of such beings that would mean she wouldn’t approve of their debauchery either?
Fuck. It has to be the lie, then. Right?
It’s not fair. She struggles enough to sort out what exactly she harbors for Kafka in the first place, if anything, and this isn’t aiding the matter in any tangible sense. Really, this should be enough to hate her once and for all because Stelle is pretty sure abandoning a possible child but not before forcing a parasitic entity inside them is good parenting. Natasha wouldn’t do that to any of her kids!
Yet, Cocolia totally would’ve.
Bronya still clearly loves her mother despite what happened.
Stelle buries her face into one of her pillows and groans miserably. Her internal battle hasn’t stopped the sickly sweet warmth building in her groin, caving ribs with every shaky breath and the urge to just touch simply delicious in pure imagination. Hips slowly rutting into the mattress while she suffocates herself to offset the tried-and-true shame. Only for Kafka. Nothing else sparks such a disgusted feeling.
Her phone vibrates, and what a welcome reprieve to another self-brought spiral.
Except it’s an unknown number.
[Anonymous]: Hi, Stelle
Stop it.
[Anonymous]: I was taking a walk this evening and found something that reminded me of you
The chat bubble disappears and Stelle holds her breath as she awaits in perverse horror to whatever dastardly photo Kafka is no doubt going to send her, wonders if Elio’s stupid script transcribed her late-night woes and Kafka wanted to add onto the torment for her own amusement.
Probably, ‘cause as soon as the image loads she’s met with the beaten plum of Kafka’s gloves caressing against a dark leather material, looped ‘round and met with a silver ring reminiscent of the ones stuck to the knuckle on Kafka’s fingers, her own branding.
A collar.
[Anonymous]: Isn’t it cute? If only I had an obedient little mutt for it
Stelle wills herself to hate her but is unfortunately only left with the urge to fuck her pillow. Surely this is a friendly, typical subject for a mother to be having with her possible daughter… surely…
[Stelle]: Good luck with that.
She examines the photo more closely and realizes Kafka must’ve broken into whatever pet shop this was considering the only light comes from the grainy flash of her camera, the street outside the window lit by moonlight. Did she really do that just to send a picture to Stelle? (Why does she find that attractive?)
Kafka’s response hardly takes a minute, if that.
[Anonymous]: I don’t need luck. Just time
[Anonymous]: Goodnight, Stelle
The account goes inactive afterward. Arguably the shortest conversation they’ve ever had. A tease, a sliver of possibility before pulling the rug right underneath Stelle’s feet. Sometimes she wonders what would happen if she indulged Kafka, didn’t play stubborn and admitted she’d wear the collar no matter if their blood tasted the same. It was something of a relief to admit, hesitantly, she missed her. Another late-night conversation, loneliness creeping in, and her mind not bothering to warn her what it could bring sharing such a thing.
Stelle slips her hand underneath the waistband of her boxers.
…She doesn’t care, does she?
Her cock throbs upon the immediate touch, pressure in a tank needing to be released lest it absolutely bursts. Stelle still isn’t really all that adept in getting herself off, but her imagination works well enough and when she imagines the cool touch of Kafka’s glove gliding across her shaft she might as well come then.
The hard press of ridged rings brushing against the tip, hot breath to the ear - Kafka keeping her bent down and subservient while ever-so-slowly jerking her wrist. Tits pressed to her back and the amused hum threatening to break into plastic laughter sending a spasm down her thigh.
It’s okay. It’s fine, Kafka would eventually grow tired of the charade and pull Stelle back up by the collar, coos at the strangle of her windpipe as Kafka strips down enough to have Stelle where she wants her. Dogs are best when they roll over and expose the flesh of their sensitive stomach, but they’re also mindless creatures mounting to what presents itself as victory.
She’d feel so good. Not like the sweaty, stained fabric of an abused pillow being fucked by Stelle’s sacrificial need for pleasure, but plump-thighed and wet for that stupid mutt to give her what she’s wanted since creation.
Not Stelle’s fault. To blame a child is to blame a mother, and Kafka made her this way for destiny’s fickle plans. If Kafka so desperately wants her to believe in such a fate, then it must be written in the dying stars to come inside what she once crawled out of.
‘Don’t worry yourself of the future, Stelle. I’ll take care of us.’
Stelle doesn’t remember Kafka ever saying that to her but it rings so true her chest tightens, balls grow taut, cries as the child’s first exposure to artificial light and stains her pillow with sticky cum.
Her body trembles in the aftershocks, at the reality of what she did to falsehoods and half-truths to a woman who may or may not care for little more than fancy and destined endings.
…But that’s for future Stelle to worry about.