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It was entirely Rumi's idea.
Ever since the battle with Gwi-ma, things had been good between them. Better than ever, really—especially now that there were no more secrets. It had only been days later from the whole mess that they'd all admitted their feelings for each other. How easy it had been, falling into a relationship with her best friends: as natural as breathing. She'd never felt more certain of anything in her whole life. She'd kept them at arms' length for so long, it was a relief to finally just be completely, unabashedly honest. They would love her no matter what. They always had.
But she couldn't quite shake the guilt completely. Nearly half a year later, it lingered, stuck with her like a wound that wouldn't heal right. She lied to them for so long. Broke their trust. They'd forgiven her a hundred times over by now. But Rumi could still remember the looks of betrayal on their faces that night at the Idol Awards when her true nature had been revealed. The hard, thin line of Mira's mouth. The way Zoey's hands trembled as she raised her Shin-kal. All of the years they'd been closer than blood had crumbled away in a single, terrible second.
And so as much as she tried, Rumi sometimes couldn't help but feel that she didn't deserve to be so easily forgiven for everything that had happened.
The thought had come to her one ordinary weekday, sprawled out on the floor of the dance studio after a particularly unforgiving choreography session. It was so simple, really. She needed to atone. Needed to be punished. She wanted to be completely stripped bare and made to suffer penitence.
Which is what she says to Mira and Zoey nearly a fortnight later, once she's finally mustered up the courage. Perhaps it's not so great an ask, but it's the asking itself that really unnerves her. She's still unused to voicing all of her desires out loud; usually Mira has to draw them out of her.
So of course, it's Mira who says:
"What exactly are you asking for, Rumi? Use your words."
Rumi is entirely certain that Mira—and Zoey—know exactly what it is that she wants. Mira just wants to hear her say it.
"Well..." Rumi flushes, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly.
It really shouldn't be so hard; they've done it before. Spanking. It's just that in the past, it had been more of a playful thing. Nothing more than a smattering of sharp smacks with Mira or Zoey's palm and then they'd moved on to other, much more pleasant, things. Like Mira pushing Rumi off her lap and onto her knees, guiding Rumi's mouth between Mira's thighs. It had always felt like more of a supplemental exercise, rather than the whole point of the thing. They hadn't really spoken much about impact play beyond a quick exchange (is this okay?) and some enthusiastic moans.
Mira is still looking at her expectantly, legs crossed, hands folded placidly on her lap. Her expression is neutral.
Zoey, however, perched on the arm of the couch, can't quite seem to hide her amusement, the corners of her mouth twitching up into an almost imperceptible smile.
Rumi clears her throat, tries again. Perhaps it is best to just put it plainly.
"I want you to spank me. Not like before. I—I want you to make it hurt." She says it all in a rush, not allowing herself a second to hesitate. She blushes hotly, embarassed.
The words lingers in the open air. An invitation. A plea.
Mira's eyebrows lift oh so subtly. "Is that so?"
All Rumi can do is nod, her face hot.
Mira and Zoey exchange a look, one Rumi can't interpret. A pause follows, and then Mira says, "If this is what you want—what you need—then I can give it to you. But I'm not going to be nice. You can cry and beg and I won't stop until you tell me to." Another pause as she fixes Rumi with a serious look. "Is that clear?"
Rumi nods again.
Red. Their safeword. She hasn't ever had to use it before; none of them have. But then, they'd never done anything as drastic as what she's asking for now.
"We'll start with something simple," Mira says. She uncrosses her legs, sitting up straighter. "Strip. You can leave your underwear on for now. Not your bra. Underpants only."
Rumi does as she's told, quickly divesting herself of her t-shirt and jeans.
Mira sizes her up; a long, lingering sweep of her eyes that makes Rumi feel ridiculously self-conscious. It's not just the soft patterns decorating her skin—despite everything, even now she sometimes has trouble sloughing off the fear of them being seen—but because the glint in Mira's eyes is wolfish. Dangerous. It makes Rumi feel like a tiny creature about to be devoured whole.
That thought sends a pulse of arousal directly to her core, heat flooding low in her belly. She fidgets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
At last, Mira breaks the silence, beckoning Rumi to her with a crook of her fingers. "Come here," she says, voice sultry, and that sends another jolt through Rumi, who steps forward as if entranced. Fuck, she's wet already.
Mira's fingers encircle her wrist, pulling her in for a kiss. Their tongues meet, briefly, and Rumi hums into the kiss, letting herself get lost in the sensation for a moment. She'll never grow tired of kissing her girlfriends. She could lie in bed all day and do nothing but enjoy the feeling of their soft mouths against hers, warm breath on her lips, the slide of their tongues.
Unfortunately, they've got other matters to attend to—and Mira pulls away, suddenly, grip tightening on Rumi's wrist.
"Rumi." Mira's tone is cooler now. More authoritative. "Shall we begin?"
It's a little humiliating, being the only one of them who's naked—well, nearly naked—and made to position herself across Mira's lap for a spanking, but Rumi can't deny the thrill the act elicits in her. She's certain her underwear is soaked already. She's doubly certain that Mira already knows, has spotted the dark wet spot on the gray, cotton fabric, her hand flitting over the curve of Rumi's ass.
"Warm-up first," Mira tells Rumi, and promptly brings her hand down without further ceremony.
Rumi jumps, startled. It doesn't hurt. Her underwear provides scant protection, but she's taken much worse from Mira before.
Mira continues like that for a bit, her hand coming down firm and steady, making sure to cover every inch of Rumi's bottom. Rumi lies still and silent as Mira spanks her, sneaking glances at Zoey, who's moved to the ottoman across from them and is watching with rapt attention. After a while, it begins to sting a bit, but it's nothing that Rumi can't handle. What she actually can't handle, however, is how every slap is like a bolt of electricity right to her core. Fuck. She's enjoying this too much. She hopes Mira doesn't notice—she'll be mean.
She shivers involuntarily at the thought, and, as if on cue, Mira pauses.
"That's enough of that."
She tugs Rumi's underwear down to her knees.
And now Rumi feels very exposed indeed, the penthouse air deliciously cool against her warm ass and cunt. She shifts a fraction and feels the slickness on the inside of her thighs. Surely Mira must be able to smell it—maybe Zoey can too, if the dark, hungry look in her eyes is any indication.
Mira's fingers drift lazily up Rumi's hamstring. And then her fingers are stroking, right there, and—
"If I didn't know any better," Mira comments, in an austere tone that makes Rumi deliciously weak, "I'd say you were enjoying this. Are you enjoying this, Rumi?"
Rumi bites back a moan as Mira pushes a single finger inside her, and can't help but grind into the flat of Mira's palm.
"I...yes. A little. Mira-nim." She adds Mira's name quickly, making sure to tack on the honorific. She shouldn't forget her manners—she doesn't dare.
Mira tuts—and why does it both embarrass Rumi and turn her on more—and murmurs, "How pathetic." Her finger slides in and out, agonizingly slow. "You should see yourself right now. Already dripping and desperate. We haven't even begun in earnest."
Rumi chokes down the urge to whine as Mira removes her hand.
"Tonight isn't about your enjoyment."
A quick, sharp spank.
"Tonight is about you being punished." Another spank. "But don't worry," Mira continues, her voice dangerous and honeyed, as she starts in on a steady series of spanks, her hand falling hard and fast. "I'll make sure you don't enjoy it. After this, I'm going to take you into my bedroom and thrash you appropriately. The crop, I think. You remember that, don't you, hm, Rumi?"
Rumi groans. She does. It had been just once—Mira demonstrating to Zoey how to use the implement. Rumi, as their very willing victim, splayed out over the side of the bed. It had only been a few small, quick hits, over her pajamas. Rumi had giggled nervously, but she'd enjoyed the sting. She'd been so turned; she'd come so fast when they'd made love a little while later.
"I bet you do," Mira is saying, from somewhere above her.
Her hand doesn't seem to tire at all, spanking Rumi with the same fluid, even strokes. Rumi can feel herself slipping into a bit of a haze from the strange rhythm, half delirious from want. It's hard to stay still; she wants to press herself against Mira's thighs and find some relief. She's likely making a mess all over Mira's favorite jeans.
It's beginning to hurt now. Still not unbearable, but at least uncomfortable. The heat is beginning to build, her skin feeling taut. Rumi grunts as the next few strikes land a little lower, right at the apex between her ass and thighs.
"That hurt, huh?"
It's the first thing Zoey's said since they've started. She's divested herself of her hoodie to reveal a plain, navy tank top underneath. Rumi can see the pink tinge on Zoey's chest, creeping vine-like up Zoey's neck and coloring her cheeks. She's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, and, God, Rumi wants to kiss her. She wants to kiss Zoey all messy and frantic, teeth and tongues and no finesse at all. She wants—
Mira's hand hits that same sensitive spot again. Rumi winces, mutters, "Fuck."
And that stills Mira's hand.
"I didn't give you permission to complain."
She's cold as ice.
Rumi's mouth goes instantly dry. She stiffens. Oh. Oh. "I—I'm sorry, Mira-nim," she says plaintively. "I won't do it again."
Mira's hand comes hard and fast, a flurry of harsh blows. "No, you won't."
Tears begin to well in Rumi's eyes. Something about the blossoming pain and Mira's reproachful tone makes something twist deep inside her. She feels properly chastised. "Please, Mira-nim," she whimpers, squirming, the pain overriding her desire to obey Mira and keep silent. "Please, it hurts."
She moves on instinct, hand flitting behind to try and shield herself from the rain of blows. It's a stupid, pointless move that Rumi instantly regrets as Mira catches her wrist. She wrenches Rumi's arm away, pinning the offending hand against Rumi's back.
"That's the point," Mira says caustically. "You asked for this. Remember?"
All Rumi can do is nod mollifyingly.
It feels like it goes on for hours, Rumi's ass growing more and more inflamed with every passing second. Her soft cries come out muffled, face pressed against the couch cushion. With her free hand, she clutches to Mira's leg like a lifeline; if Mira notices how Rumi's fingers are digging into her calf, she says nothing. Zoey, for her part, offers no commentary. No consolations. It's almost worse that way—the penthouse is filled only with the sounds of each heavy slap and Rumi's pitiful little cries.
Despite this, she's still ridiculously turned on. The shame and pain of it all has done nothing to curb the ache between her legs. In fact, it seems like the harsher Mira is, the more Rumi is forced to sit with her own embarrassment, the more she enjoys it.
(Which is something to unpack much, much later.)
At last, mercifully, it comes to an end.
Rumi exhales shakily, her whole body going limp as Mira rubs tiny, soothing circles over what Rumi can imagine is very red, splotchy skin. It doesn't do much to take away the deeper ache, but it feels nice, and it seems to lessen the sting at least a little bit.
The reprieve only lasts for so long, however.
Zoey, standing up, proffering her hand to Rumi:
"Bedroom."
Rumi lies naked and face down on the mattress.
Mira has fetched her crop from the narrow storage box under her bed and is currently giving it a few practice flicks; it whistles faintly as it cuts through the air, finding no target.
Head resting on her folded arms, Rumi watches Mira warm up. Mira has such a focused expression on her face; Rumi can't help but be charmed by how seriously Mira is taking this—and it makes Rumi feel safer, too, knowing that Mira will never genuinely hurt her, that she'll never intentionally push too far. Still. Mira had promised that it would hurt, and Rumi doesn't know exactly what to expect. Her backside still hurts from Mira's earlier, tenacious administrations with her palm, though the immediate ache has dulled a little. Thankfully. Rumi had caught a glimpse of herself in Mira's full length mirror while undoing her braid—a request from Zoey—before settling herself on the bed. She had blushed, embarrassed at how red her ass looked, the color particularly stark against her patterns.
Zoey, for her part, has turned Mira's chair from its usual spot overlooking the balcony so that she can view the unfolding scene from a comfortable distance. She's been unusually quiet all evening so far—perhaps, Rumi thinks, she's content to let Mira dictate the scene and just enjoy the spectacle.
They've certainly put on a show for her so far.
Mira, at last apparently satisfied, crosses the room and bends down so that she and Rumi are face to face. Her eyes are dark, focused. Mira leans in and presses a slight kiss to Rumi's forehead, then her mouth. It's a sweet, soft gesture—and then Mira gathers a fistful of Rumi's now loose hair and gives it a slight, if firm, yank.
Rumi winces. "Ow! Mira-nim..."
Mira holds her like that. "You remember what's expected of you, correct?"
Rumi nods wordlessly.
They'd discussed it on the walk from the living room to Mira's bedroom, revisiting the earlier conversation from the evening. Red or nothing; otherwise Mira could do whatever she liked for as long as she liked. She could instruct Zoey, too, as she liked—at least so far as when it came to what to do to Rumi, and Rumi's cunt had throbbed again in earnest at the thought of being utterly ruined at Mira's behest.
Her soaked underwear had been completely discarded beside the couch, once Zoey had helped her stand again, weak-limbed and aching. Now, as she lay on the bed, she imagined herself dripping onto Mira's duvet; she felt shameless and wanton.
She wanted to touch herself so bad. Mira's earlier teasing had only made her more desperate.
"Good." Mira released her grip on Rumi's hair and straightened back up. "Now, don't forget your manners. Take your punishment and it'll be over soon enough."
Rumi nods again, gripping the sheets in anticipation.
A long, silent pause follows —so long that Rumi begins to relax—that when at last the first crack of the crop against her ass occurs, it's so sudden and sharp that it takes Rumi's breath away. Fuck. Fuck. The next five swats follow in quick succession and it's only then that Rumi's brain is able to properly catch up with the searing pain cutting through her.
"Mira-nim," she pleads softly, already crying again."Mira-nim, please, it hurts, I'm sorry, I can't—"
It's pointless, of course; Mira isn't going to heed any of her protests, slotted between choked sobs and cries of pain. Every blow from the crop brings forth a new bloom of pain.
It would be easier if the agony from the crop did anything to quell her lust. Unfortunately however, it does not; if anything she's somehow even wetter than before. How pathetic is she? Getting so turned on while being given such a beating.
However delicious the pain is though, inevitably it builds to the point of being unbearable—Rumi begins to twist and pull away after a fresh strike finds its mark.
Rumi has been a Hunter for years, has endured countless blows from and been knocked about by demons with significantly more force than Mira could ever muster. She's nursed bloody noses and ugly bruises. A spanking should be no issue—but Mira is being particularly unforgiving with the crop and it feels like every nerve ending is concentrated in her backside.
"Keep still," Mira orders.
The crop lands at the sensitive junction of Rumi's ass and thighs—the same spot that had made her jump before even when it was only Mira's hand. The placement is clearly intentional; Mira is testing her, trying to draw a reaction.
Rumi cries out, trying hard to lie in place.
"Spread," Mira says, tapping the crop on the insides of Rumi's thighs to illustrate her point.
Rumi parts her legs obligingly, face tucked against the crook of her arm. She can't bear to meet Mira's gaze—can already picture her dark eyes and knowing smirk. It's mortifying.
Mira hums. "Look at you," she murmurs condescendingly. "I don't even need to touch you to know how wet you are."
She brings the crop down on the inside of Rumi's thigh, but it's more of a show of force rather than an actual strike. Rumi jumps anyway, letting out a guttural moan.
"Pathetic. Have I been taking it too easy on you?"
When Rumi doesn't answer, Mira hits the inside of Rumi's other thigh with the crop, harder than the first time.
"Answer me when I ask you a question."
Rumi grits her teeth, forces herself to keep her legs open. "No, Mira-nim. It...it hurts."
Mira chuckles flatly. "I bet it does. But you clearly like that." Another smack of the crop, this time on the back of the same thigh. Rumi whines. "Isn't that right?"
"No, Mira-nim."
"No?" Mira says, light and mocking. "Then why are you so wet?"
"I..." Rumi falters sheepishly.
Mira doesn't seem to mind that Rumi doesn't give a respectable answer. She's probably relishing it. "Mm. That's what I thought."
The strikes begin again in earnest. Despite Rumi's best efforts, however, it isn't long until Rumi's lost her composure again, bucking and crying, turning away so that Mira can't strike her and is forced to stop again.
"If you can't be a good girl and lie still," Mira drawls, sugared and icy all at once, "then I'll have Zoey make you. You don't want that, do you?"
The tip of the crop inches up the curve of Rumi's spine. She shivers, arching against the touch of the implement. She isn't sure what Mira has in mind by making her stay still, but the threat alone is ominous enough. "N-no," she manages, sniffling. "I'll be good."
Mira hums flatly. Then comes the sharp searing pain of the crop against Rumi's ass again and again and again – three rapid blows, harder than any of the others so far. It's too much; Rumi can't help herself; she cries out, twisting away on the bed. It's only a second later that she realizes her mistake. She hurriedly settles back down into her original prone position, but it's already too late.
Distantly, she can hear Zoey chuckle from her seat over by the window.
Mira tchs. Just one short, disapproving sound.
Rumi's skin prickles. Her ass and cunt throb, twin heartbeats.
"Please," she whimpers, head bowed, fresh tears springing to her eyes. "Please, Mira-nim. I'm sorry. I—"
"You what?" Mira's next to her now. She reaches forward and grabs Rumi's face, gripping it tightly and angling it upwards so that Rumi is forced to meet her sharp gaze. "You couldn't hold still for even a moment. I suppose you really do need to be properly disciplined. Perhaps then you'll be able to follow directions."
She releases Rumi forcefully, shoving her face back down towards the mattress
"Zoey."
It's a command, not a question.
Rumi stares at the pattern of dark, tear-stained splotches on the sheet below her and listens to the sound of Zoey getting up and padding over to the bed. She doesn't look up until Zoey's fingers gently encircle her wrists, pulling them together until Rumi's palms lie flat against each other, as if in prayer. She watches silently as Zoey leans down and begins to expertly bind Rumi's wrist together, braiding her favorite short, sea foam-colored rope into a simple handcuff knot. She must have grabbed it on the way to Mira's room earlier. After she's completed the tie around Rumi's wrists, she threads the rope between the posts in Mira's headboard and ties that as well.
Once Zoey is finished, Rumi tentatively flexes her forearms, testing the strength of the knot. It holds fast.
It had been overwhelming, the first time Zoey had tied her, even though at that time it had only been a practice run so that they could both get a feel for things. She hadn't enjoyed being restrained so. But since then, she's slowly discovered the sensation of the hemp rope becoming increasingly comforting.
It's also incredibly hot, the helplessness of it all. Rumi can't help but press herself against the mattress, seeking any kind of pressure. She's achingly, desperately wet, can feel it on the insides of her thighs.
"There we are," Zoey says, leaning back to admire her handiwork. "Not too tight?"
Rumi shakes her head.
Zoey hums, sounding pleased. She crouches down next to the bed, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Rumi's tear-stained cheek. "Bad girl," she purrs, though not unkindly, her breath hot and damp against Rumi's ear. "But you're going to behave now, aren't you?"
Rumi can only nod dumbly, mouth dry.
"Good." Zoey pats her arm, then straightens and moves out of Rumi's line of sight.
From the foot of the bed, Mira and Zoey discuss something in hushed tones. Probably discussing what to do with her next. Zoey chuckles at something and Rumi's heart skips. She strains to listen in to their conversation, but all she can hear is the steady strum of her pulse in her ears, heart hammering away in her chest with trepidation—and excitement.
"Are you ready?" Mira asks, suddenly, and it takes Rumi a moment to realize she's being addressed.
"Y-yes, Mira-nim."
"I expect you to take the rest of your punishment like a good, obedient girl. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Mira-nim."
"We'll see. You made those same promises before, and now look at you. I had to have Zoey tie you down. And while it's a lovely sight, I don't want to have to bind your ankles, too. You don't want that either, do you?"
The idea of being completely bound and helpless on the bed while Mira beats her senseless is oddly invigorating. However, Rumi knows better than to offer Mira any extra ammunition, so instead she says quietly, "No, Mira-rim," and hopes the slight tremble of her voice doesn't betray her true opinion.
"Good."
The blows come in a flurry, blurring together into one singular, ceaseless burn. Rumi feels hot all over, weeping openly now, completely unabashed. She squirms on the bed helplessly, clutching knuckle-white at the duvet. Every swat feels harder than the last; a few catch her right at the top of her thighs and it takes her breath away.
Mira is unrelenting.
And with every flex away from Mira's crop comes the delicious pressure of the mattress to meet her—and then she can't think at all, face pressed against her arms, whole body aching, frenzied with agony and pleasure. Her breath comes in shallow, heady pants, her head pounds. Her whimpered pleas for mercy come out in a garbled rush, pleaseMira-nimpleaseIcan't, punctuated by a woeful, hitched howl every time the edge of the crop makes contact with a particularly bruised area.
"Rumi," Mira says suddenly, and her voice is lighter now. More tender. Concerned. She's stroking Rumi's hair, all gentle. "Are you okay? Breathe, Rumi."
Rumi, through a haze of tears, nods. She focuses on the smooth, soothing lilt of Mira's voice.
"Breathe. There. That's it. Nice and slow."
Mira's hand drifts from Rumi's head to her back, then down to her ass, carefully running over the tender skin there. Rumi winces at the contact, flinching, but a moment later she's settled back down, luxuriating in the light, reassuring touch. Her breathing slows, little by little. She rubs her face against the crook of her arm, blinks, vision no longer swimming.
The bed dips again as Zoey climbs back in, a bottle of water in hand.
She holds it for Rumi, who gulps it all down greedily, not caring if some dribbles down her chin and onto the sheets. The cold water feels positively divine against her hot skin.
"There's a good girl," Zoey purrs. She pats Rumi's face dry with a handkerchief.
Mira says, "You're being such a good girl for us now. Taking such a harsh punishment. You should see how pretty you look. All flushed and bruised."
As she speaks, her fingers slip delicately alongside the curve of Rumi's ass, then dip inside her cunt, just up to the first knuckle. Rumi whines, parting her legs to encourage Mira to continue. But Mira only keeps on with her teasing, seeking out Rumi's clit and administering some agonizingly feather-light touches. Rumi trembles, pressing into the mattress. She thinks that she could come just from this, barely being touched, a pathetic, sweaty mess, her ass raw and stinging sharp as a knife edge.
After a few long moments, in which Rumi has let her mind go blissfully blank, Mira stills her fingers and says, "Do you think you could take a little more?"
Rumi isn't sure.
"That isn't a 'no'," Mira admonishes, but there's no bite behind her words. Only a hint of concern. Then, "Should I end the scene?"
A part of Rumi wants to say yes, that she's had enough, but another, bigger part of her wants to push past the edge of her limits to explore beyond what she's allowed for herself up until now. She asked for this—shouldn't she see it through to the end? For as much pain as she's in now, she can't deny that she's enjoyed it, too, wetness coating the inside of her thighs, her cunt begging to be properly fucked.
She props herself back up on her elbows. "No, Mira-nim." She's still playing into the scene. "You may continue."
Mira chuckles and rewards Rumi by presenting her fingers to Rumi's mouth, slick and sticky with Rumi's arousal.
Rumi accepts them dutifully into her mouth with a small moan, sucking them clean. Beside her, Zoey inhales sharply. Rumi glances up to see Zoey's glazed expression, lips parted slightly, a deep blush coloring her cheeks. Her bangs, slightly damp with perspiration, cling to her forehead; with her hair down, it frames her face prettily. Zoey's so turned out right now, Rumi thinks, and imagines Zoey's drenched underwear, imagines putting her tongue to something better than Mira's fingers—
"That's enough."
Mira removes her fingers sharply.
"It's time for the rest of your punishment."
Rumi makes a tiny sound of agreement, once again bowing her head in submission.
Mira circles the bed. She's picked up the crop again, tapping Rumi lightly with it as she moves. One tap against her calf. Another on her shoulder. And then, the flat face of the crop head pressed right against her cunt, for one deliciously long second. Rumi whines, rocking her hips into the fleeting touch. God, she's desperate. She would hump the bed to completion right here and now, if Mira demanded it of her.
She might do it anyway.
A chuckle from above. "Can't control yourself at all, can you? Needy little thing."
"Mira-nim," Rumi whines quietly. "Please."
"Don't worry," Mira tells her. Another slight tap, this time against her left ass cheek. "If you're good and do as I say, this will all be over soon. And then I can use you properly." The crop returns to Rumi's cunt, rubbing against her, eliciting another whine. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Rumi nods enthusiastically. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
The crop presses harder.
"Yes, Mira-nim," Rumi offers meekly. "Please. I'd like you to use me."
Zoey exhales a long, shuddery breath. "Fuck," she mutters, and Rumi wonders how Zoey's able to refrain from touching herself.
Perhaps it was Mira who told her not to—what they'd whispered about earlier.
She doesn't have time to wonder any further though, as Mira begins to speak:
"I'm going to give you twenty strokes," she says, tapping Rumi's ass with the crop again as if to illustrate her point. "You're going to keep count. And you're going to thank me. If you miscount or forget to thank me, we'll start all over again. We'll go through it as many times as it takes for you to get it right. Understood?"
"Yes, Mira-nim."
"Good."
Rumi can imagine Mira's smug, self-satisfied grin.
The crop comes down without warning, hard before Rumi has a chance to brace herself. She yelps, writhing, and only just manages to squeak out a hurried, "One. Thank you, Mira-nim."
Mira doesn't speak, just brings the crop down again.
"Ah! Two. Thank you, Mira-nim."
New tears prick at Rumi's eyes. It hurts. A lot. But she wants to be a good girl for Mira and Zoey, so she focuses on her bound wrists in front of her, stumbling through her lines with each additional stroke. Mira isn't hitting any harder than she was before, but she's also not giving Rumi any leeway either.
They manage to get to fifteen, before Rumi loses her concentration, gasping and crying out with a loud sob as the crop hits a particularly tender spot. She can't think about anything except the sting of the crop, wriggling and tensing in a useless attempt to ease the raw, burning sensation. It isn't until she's managed to compose herself a tiny bit that she realizes—
"You've forgotten to count."
Rumi nods miserably, unable to speak.
She expects Mira to scold her further, to say that they'll have to start all over again.
But to Rumi's shock, Mira instead says, "Shall I be nice and allow you to keep going from where we left off? Hm? Zoey?"
Zoey leans over and cradles the side of Rumi's face against her palm lovingly. Rumi sniffles, leaning into the touch appreciatively.
"Aw, you've been a good girl tonight, haven't you?" Zoey coos. Her thumb strokes along Rumi's cheek. Then, to Mira, "I think perhaps we can just let her get it over with."
Mira makes a small, amused sound. "Is that so?" Rumi imagines her twirling the crop in her hands, considering Zoey's words. "Well. I shouldn't be merciful," Mira says, slowly, "but I'll make an exception tonight."
A beat.
"If only because I can't wait any longer to fuck you."
Rumi takes the remaining strokes of the crop with renewed determination.
Once Mira's finished and Rumi's had a chance to catch her breath, Zoey crawls onto the bed on hands and knees and undoes the ties around Rumi and the bedpost. She drops the rope off the side of the bed unceremoniously, massaging Rumi's wrists and offering hushed words of praise.
"You took that so well." Zoey kisses Rumi's wrists. "Such a brave girl. Are your wrists okay?"
They're a bit sore and pink from Rumi tugging on the restraints so tightly, but she's otherwise fine. The discomfort there is nothing compared to what she's just endured from the crop.
Mira joins them on the bed a moment later.
"How are you doing, sweet girl?" She takes Rumi's face in her hands and kisses her warmly, momentarily shedding her frostiness like a nightgown.
Normally Rumi would appreciate Mira taking the time to check in with her. And, distantly, she still does. But right now, she's really, really turned on, and she can't think about anything except the wet ache that's been plaguing her since the very second she laid crosswise against Mira's lap. All she can do is whine impatiently.
Mira laughs. A high, lilting thing. "That's right; I did promise to fuck you once we were finished with the crop," she tells Rumi. "But, it would be rude not to attend to Zoey first, don't you agree? She's been so patient."
Zoey returns the laugh.
"Yes. Please." Her smile is playful, but her eyes are dark with need, and Rumi knows that any manner of logical thinking has also fled from Zoey as well. "I've been dying, Mira. And after I did such a lovely tie, too..."
They undress Zoey without ceremony or further discussion. Rumi tugs Zoey's joggers and underpants down to her ankles with one swift, fluid motion; Zoey kicks them away haphazardly off onto the floor where they're joined in quick succession by her tank top and bra, tossed aside by Mira.
Mira tugs Zoey in by the waist, kissing her roughly. Rumi watches them hungrily. She wants to taste both of them. Their mouths. Their cunts. Wants to be pinned down on the bed and used to exhaustion. She wants...but she knows better than to do anything without their permission. So she sits and watches, silently—watches Mira's hand slide around and grasp Zoey's breast, her thumb working over a hardened nipple—and longs for them to just get all the teasing over with and take their pleasure with her.
Mira's hand moves to between Zoey's thighs and Rumi's brain temporarily short-circuits at the sight of Mira's fingers stroking Zoey's clit and the obscenely loud, slick sounds the action provokes.
Rumi whimpers. She's been forced to endure many things up until now. But being forced to watch her girlfriends like this right now and unable to participate at all may be the worst she's ever had to face.
"Aw." Mira turns away from Zoey's mouth to flash Rumi a sly grin. "Do you want something?"
"Don't tease her, Mira," Zoey sighs with a grin, parting her legs further so that she's completely exposed to Rumi, all wet and pink. "Put her to use."
Mira pretends to consider this. "Well, go on," she finally tells Rumi, gesturing towards Zoey with a flippant wave of her hand. "Attend to her. No fingers. Use your mouth."
Rumi doesn't need to be told twice. She's flat on her stomach again in an instant, positioning herself between Zoey's legs, inhaling the heady scent of Zoey's arousal. She can see how turned on Zoey is, her cunt slick and swollen, and Rumi can't wait to taste her. She moves in slowly, trailing a line of small kisses and tiny, playful nips of her teeth, her arms going under and around Zoey's thighs for support. When at last her mouth makes contact with Zoey's clit with a long, languorous lick, Zoey jerks against her. Her fingers immediately tangle in Rumi's hair, holding her in place and spurring her on.
Rumi doesn't need any encouragement. She's been wanting to do this all evening. But she forces herself to go slow, to savor every second of Zoey's breathy moans, the little jerk of her hips every time Rumi's tongue presses just so against her clit.
She's so busy attending to Zoey that she doesn't notice that Mira's repositioned herself on the bed until she feels Mira's knee coaxing her thighs further apart so she can settle between them. Mira's hands slide down Rumi's back in parallel lines, pausing at her ass to squeeze appreciatively. Rumi flinches a little at her sore skin being manhandled, but a moment later she's pushing back into the touch, craving more.
"Eager girl," Mira mutters.
Her fingers skirt along the inside of Rumi's thigh. Then—
Mira pushes two fingers into Rumi easily, pumping hard and purposefully. At the top of every thrust, she pauses, curling her fingers just a tiny bit. Rumi groans against Zoey, who rolls her hips against Rumi's mouth in response. It creates a feedback loop inside Rumi that frays every single one of her senses. All she can concentrate on is Zoey's cunt, Mira's fingers, and the lingering sting of her ass; a euphony of pleasure.
It isn't long before Mira adds a third finger. The stretch is welcome; Rumi's so full; she can't help but grind against the bed, seeking any kind of pressure to relieve the aching throb of her clit.
"Yes," Mira coaxes, her tone sugared and thick with lust. She knows that Rumi can't come from penetration alone. "There you go. Fuck yourself on my fingers. I want to see you come for us."
Zoey moans somewhere above Rumi. "Mira—"
"She can do it. Isn't that right, Rumi? You're so worked up, aren't you?"
Mira's fingers keep their steady, rough pace as she speaks, driving Rumi to new, delirious heights. She can already feel herself racing towards orgasm, hips canting wildly.
But before she can get too close, Mira graces her with another hard, open-palmed spank with her free hand. The fresh pain makes Rumi squirm.
"No coming until you've finished with Zoey," Mira warns. "Otherwise you'll get punished again."
And then her hand comes down on the other cheek. Rumi's ass burns, the sting, once temporarily forgotten, roaring back to life.
She tries to focus completely on Zoey's pleasure, digging her fingers into the soft skin of Zoey's thighs, narrowing her tongue to a point and lavishing Zoey's clit with a series of quick, hard licks. It doesn't take long then for Zoey to begin to tremble, her muscles tightening under Rumi's hands—Rumi knows Zoey's close to tumbling over the edge.
"Ah, yes, that's it, Rumi—" she pants, her breathing slow and stuttered. Her thighs close around Rumi's head, clamping her in place.
And then she's coming, hard, against Rumi's mouth, bucking and crying out. Rumi's tongue never ceases; she helps Zoey ride out the orgasm and every small, shuddering aftershock, until at last Zoey relaxes and has to gently push her head away with an exhausted, shaky laugh.
Mira's fingers, temporarily stilled while Zoey climaxes, once again begin to thrust. Rumi groans, clenching around them. She buries her face against Zoey's thigh and begins to hump the bed, chasing her own orgasm while Mira's fingers slowly gain speed. They slam into her, pushing as deep as Mira can manage.
"You made her come so hard," she says to Rumi. "You should see her right now. She's so flushed and sweaty and dazed."
Zoey laughs again. She strokes the top of Rumi's head. "Rumi. Such a good girl. What a talented mouth you have. Go ahead and come for us."
Rumi nods against her, holding on tight to Zoey and grinding down against the mattress, trying to find the right angle. She's so, so close after being edged practically all evening—she can feel herself hovering on the cusp of orgasm, release just out of reach. She moves against the bed, not at all in rhythm with Mira's thrusts anymore, and imagines how slutty she must look right now: her own desperate rutting paired with the lewd sounds of Mira's fingers working in and out of her. Her wetness seeping onto the duvet.
She doesn't even care. Her whole body is tensed, dancing on the precipice. She needs—
"I—I'm close—please—I'm going to—"
"It's okay," Zoey says encouragingly. "Mira and I already said you could come."
And then Rumi does come with a small, choked moan; she's hurtled off the edge of a cliff; her orgasm rips through her with a wild shudder and she sees stars explode behind her eyes, her blood pounding in her ears. And Mira's fingers don't stop and Rumi's hips seem to move of their own accord and she cries out as she comes again. The second one is smaller, less powerful, but it's enough to leave Rumi breathless anyway.
She goes limp on the bed, completely spent. The world spins.
Mira shushes her gently as her fingers slow, easing her down, before she removes them completely.
Rumi lies there, boneless, for several long moments, until at last she's come back down to Earth. With great effort, she manages to pull herself up into a quasi-seated position, nestled between Zoey's legs, her head against Zoey's stomach. Rumi's exhausted and aching—but she's also sated. Very, very much so, every part of her.
And, most importantly, she's happy. She feels...lighter, somehow.
Mira joins them at the head of the bed, the frame creaking and dipping with her weight. She holds out her fingers to Rumi, sticky and glistening.
"Would you like to taste yourself?"
A playful smile. Gone is the cool mistress, replaced by regular old Mira. Which is just as good, really. Better, even, because she's theirs.
Rumi makes a show of licking Mira's fingers clean, delighting in the slow bob of Mira's throat, the way the tip of her tongue catches between her teeth.
The night is young. And Mira's yet to fully enjoy the fruits of her labor.
Mira seems to read her mind. "Later," she promises, grinning, and pulls each of them in for a kiss.