Victoria gets hands-on her.
Vicki rises from her chair, the rustle of her day gown the only sound in the dim room. She moves to the table where a teapot sits, its porcelain gleaming like pale skin in the low light.
"You've been so hungry, pet. Let me give you something to quench that thirst."
She pours a stream of amber liquid into a delicate cup, and the scent that rises is strange—jasmine layered with something darker, something that makes my mouth water even as my pulse quickens.
I take the cup when she offers it, my fingers trembling against the warm porcelain. The first sip blooms across my tongue, sweet and heady, and I feel the heat spread down my throat, pooling in my belly like liquid sunlight.
"Good girl," Vicki murmurs, settling beside me on the velvet cushions.
"All those tentacles. But multiple hands can arouse to the apex too."
Her hand finds my knee through the ruined fabric of my nightgown, and I don't pull away. The tea is working through me now, softening the edges of the room, making the drawn curtains seem to ripple like water.
She opens the portfolio again, but this time she turns past the Hokusai, past the octopi and the gasping wife, to a new image.
Ingres's The Turkish Bath stares up at me—a circle of nude women, pale limbs entwined, steam rising from marble, faces slack with pleasure.
"Look at them," Vicki whispers, her breath warm against my ear.
"So much beauty. So much hunger to be satisfied."
I stare at the illustration, and the tea makes it seem to move. The women stretch and turn, their breasts heavy with want, their hands reaching for each other across painted canvas. The steam curls toward me, and I smell it—rosewater and musk and the unmistakable scent of aroused quim.
My thighs fall open without my permission, and Vicki laughs, low and knowing.
"That's it. Let it take you."
The drawing room dissolves. I'm lying on silk cushions, and the air is thick with heat and moisture.
Hands—so many hands—are upon me.
A dark-haired woman kneads my breasts, her thumbs rolling my nipples into stiff peaks while her mouth follows, sucking one aching point deep between her lips.
I cry out, arching into the wet heat of her mouth, and another woman's tongue traces the shell of my ear, whispering filth in a language I don't understand but my body does. Fingers slick with oil glide over my belly, my hips, parting my thighs with deliberate slowness.
"She's so wet," someone purrs, and I feel breath against my inner thigh, then the first long lick through my folds.
My hips buck, seeking more, but hands hold me down—four, six, eight hands pressing me into the cushions while mouths worship every inch of my trembling flesh. The woman between my legs spreads me open with her thumbs, exposing my clit to the humid air before sealing her lips over it, sucking with a rhythm that makes rainbow colours burst behind my eyes.
Another woman straddles my face, her pussy glistening inches from my mouth, and I don't hesitate—I grab her hips and pull her down, burying my tongue in her slick fleshy mound.
We move together, a tangle of limbs and moans.
"Mmm, mmm, mmm," when I draw air.
I'm devouring her while being devoured, the feedback loop of pleasure spiralling tighter with every flick of my tongue, every suck of her mouth on my clit.
She tastes like honey and salt, and when she grinds against my face, I feel my own orgasm building like a wave about to break.
"Don't stop," she gasps, her thighs clenching around my head.
"Don't you dare fucking stop." I moan into her cunt, the vibration making her shudder, and then she's coming, flooding my mouth with her release—and I'm coming too, my back arching off the cushions as the woman between my legs pushes me over the edge.
But they don't let me rest. Before the tremors fade, I'm being turned, positioned on my hands and knees. I hear the click of buckles, the rustle of fabric, and then something thick and smooth nudges at my entrance.
"Take it," a voice insists, and I push back, impaling myself on the strap-on in one long, desperate slide.
"Oohh! Aahh!" echoes in the harem. Its my voice.
The woman behind me grips my hips and begins to fuck me—slow, deep strokes that drag against every nerve ending.
"Such a hungry little cunt," she growls, picking up the pace. "Sucking me in so greedily."
Another woman slides beneath me, taking my nipple into her mouth while her hand finds my clit, rubbing in tight circles that make me sob with overstimulation.
I'm being fucked and touched and worshipped all at once, three women devoted entirely to my pleasure, and the orgasm that crashes through me is so intense the walls seemingly vibrate.
I'm screaming, I think—wordless, animal sounds torn from my throat as my cunt clenches around the strap-on, as the woman beneath me pinches my clit and extends the pleasure until I'm shaking, until tears stream down my face.
"Arrghh!" That must be me?
The harem fades like morning mist. I blink, and I'm back in the drawing room, lying naked on the daybed—I don't remember undressing—my skin still tingling with phantom touches.
Vicki is leaning over me, her face inches from mine, and when my eyes focus, she smiles.
"Welcome back, pet."
Then her lips find mine, soft and insistent, tasting of jasmine tea and something sweeter—my own release, perhaps, stolen from my skin.
I kiss her back, desperate and hungry, my hands fisting in her hair as the last tremors of pleasure ripple through my thoroughly wrecked body.