Relator III
FFF
The newly cut key turns in my palm, smooth brass catching the harbour lights that bleed through floor-to-ceiling glass. I drop my bag onto the marble entry—too hard, the thud echoing—and kick off the nude heels that have carved blisters into my heel bones. The silk blouse clings to my ribs, Oliver's dried cum still stiffening the fabric near my hip where I brushed against him during the signing.
I pour two fingers of scotch from the decanter the previous owners left behind. The liquid burns the back of my throat, not enough to erase the phantom taste of semen, the tang that lingers no matter how many times I swallow.
I'm here for a sneak rest. Pretending I could afford a place like this.
The balcony door stands open. I don't remember opening it.
I step through, bare feet chilling against concrete warmed by the afternoon sun. The harbour spreads below, ferry lights cutting through twilight haze. I grip the railing and let my head fall back, vertebrae clicking in sequence.
The scotch glass empties too quickly.
When I turn back toward the apartment, they're already inside.
Two women. One leaning against the kitchen island, dark hair cropped close to her skull, wearing nothing but black trousers and a silver chain that catches light against her collarbone. The other sits on the sofa—legs crossed, some pale floral dress bunched at her thighs, blonde hair escaping a messy bun.
They don't move when they see me. Don't startle or apologise or explain.
"You're in the wrong apartment," I say.
My voice sounds wrong—too steady, too rehearsed.
The scotch hasn't reached my blood yet.
The dark-haired one smiles, slow and knowing. "Circular Key," she says, and her voice is smoke and vibration, local accent flattened by something else—confidence, maybe, or practice.
"We know the owner. So, who the bloody hell are you?"
She pushes off the island. Her bare feet make no sound on marble.
The chain at her throat sways with each step, and I find my eyes tracking it, the way it catches the harbour light, the way it disappears into shadow at her sternum.
"You left the balcony open," the blonde adds from the sofa. She hasn't uncrossed her legs. Her dress—some vintage thing, rayon or silk—has ridden higher, and I can see the edge of dark lace beneath, the shadow of hair against fabric.
"We could've been anyone. But so could you."
She spreads her legs. Her knickers tighten. Her puffy pussy shape is pouting for release.
"I suspect you're prissy little miss agent, where you shouldn't be."
Whoever they were—the two women moved like they already knew the space, who didn't need to search for light switches or water glasses. They moved like they'd been here before. Like they'd been waiting.
The dark-haired one stops close enough that I smell her—sandalwood and something sharper, that wetness before rain.
Her eyes are brown, nearly black in this light, with a small scar bisecting her left eyebrow. She doesn't blink when she studies me, and I feel the examination like fingers—my blouse still damp with sweat and semen, my skirt wrinkled from kneeling on tiles, my bare feet craving a massage.
"Beth, Beth," she says. Not a question. "The realtor."
My hand tightens on the empty scotch glass. "How do you know my name?"
The blonde laughs, low and knowing. "Everyone knows your name, darling. You're the one who sells dreams to people who can't afford them."
She finally stands with a fluid motion that makes her dress fall back into place—almost. The hem still catches at mid-thigh, and she doesn't adjust it.
"We're the ones who keep sluts edgy."
The dark-haired one reaches out. Her fingers brush my collar, the top button of my blouse. I don't move. Can't move. Her touch is warm, precise, and she undoes the button with the efficiency of someone who has performed this action too many times before.
"What—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. "What do you want?"
The blonde appears at my other side, close enough that her hip presses against mine. She's shorter than me, I realise, though she carries herself like someone much taller. Her hand finds my waist, thumb tracing the waistband of my skirt where it digs into flesh.
"Everything," the dark-haired one says, and her mouth is suddenly against my ear, breath hot and moist.
"We're going to take everything you have to give and more, and you're going to thank us for it."
She pushes my blouse off my shoulders. The silk catches on my elbows, and the blonde helps it the rest of the way down, her fingers tracing my spine as the fabric pools at my wrists. I'm standing in my skirt and bra—the practical beige one I bought in a three-pack, not the lace I wear when I'm trying to be someone else.
"Look at you," the dark-haired one murmurs, and her hand cups my breast through the cotton, thumb finding the nipple already hard against the fabric.
"So hungry to be seen. So desperate to be chosen. Well, you have been."
I open my mouth to deny it, to reframe this as a transaction, as strategy, but the blonde's hand slides up my thigh, under my skirt, and her fingers press against the damp cotton of my underwear.
"Wet," the blonde observes, and she brings her fingers to her mouth, sucks them clean with a sound that makes my knees weaken.
"Top shelf taste."
She shoves her fingers in me again.
This time she offers me my own glistening slick.
I'm a hoe; I taste myself.
The dark-haired one pushes me backward, through the balcony door, until my shoulder blades hit the railing. The harbour wind catches my hair, lifts it from my neck.
She unhooks my bra with one hand, and the air is suddenly on my breasts, my nipples tightening painfully in the evening chill.
She lets my bra fly through the evening air.
"Go buy top rack lace sweetie, your cute cupcakes deserve it."
Her fingers in tandem circle my nipple on each of my boobs.
"Every hole," she says, and her mouth closes over my breast, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh.
"Every inch. We're going to lick you open until you forget your name."
The blonde drops to her knees. Her hands push my skirt up, bunch it at my waist. She hooks her fingers in my underwear and pulls them down, slowly, revealing me to the harbour lights, to anyone on a passing ferry who might look up and wonder about the woman spread against the railing with two strangers worshipping her body.
Her mouth is the first contact. Not tentative, not exploratory—she knows exactly where to press her tongue, how to flatten it against my clit and drag upward with pressure that makes my hips jerk forward.
The sweeping lick. The pressing lick. The slow lick that adds the demanding ache for more.
The press. The sweep. The dab, the dab, the endless swirling dab on my exposed arching bud.
My seeking bud. My bead that chases her tongue. My nub that enters its race towards peaking as a tongue, dabs and dabs.
The dark-haired one switches to my other breast, sucking harder, leaving marks that will show tomorrow in every mirror.
"Ooh—"
The sound tears from me, unplanned, unprofessional.
I try to swallow it, to maintain some semblance of control, but the blonde's tongue finds my entrance, pushes inside with a wet sound that echoes against concrete, and my hands grip the railing hard enough to hurt.
"Aahh! Aahh!"
No hiding the sweetest joy of touch. Her tongue crosses my threshold, deep into my internal hallway, where the shards of bliss set off their receptacles, the sensors that ignite my pleasure bells and whistles.
The dark-haired one lifts her head. Her mouth glistens in the harbour light, wet from my breast.
She studies my face with that same unblinking attention, cataloguing every twitch of muscle, every catch of breath.
"You're trying to calculate this," she murmurs, and her hand slides down my stomach, fingers trailing through the blonde's hair where she continues to work between my thighs.
"Trying to figure out what you can get from us. What the commission is. Do you think we want to purchase this frickin house?"
Her fingers dip lower, press against the blonde's tongue where it moves inside me. The sensation is too much—double pressure, the wet slide of tongue and the firm press of fingers—and my knees buckle, but the railing holds me up, cold metal against my spine.
Holy fuck! A finger and a tongue delve together in my girly slutty slit.
"Stop thinking," the dark-haired one commands, and her mouth covers mine, tasting of my own skin and something else—whiskey, maybe, or the hedonistic tang of desire.
Her tongue pushes inside, aggressive, claiming, and I can taste what she's done to me, the faint milky creme of my breast on her lips.
When she pulls back, we're both breathing hard. The blonde has lifted her head, her chin shining with my arousal, her eyes dark and fixed on my face.
"Turn her around," the dark-haired one says, and her voice has dropped to something almost gentle, almost kind.
"I want to see her face when she finally lets go."
They manoeuvre me like I weigh nothing, the blonde guiding my hips while the dark-haired one holds my shoulders.
I end up facing the harbour, my stomach pressed against the railing, my breasts hanging free above the void. The blonde's hands slide up my thighs from behind, pushing my skirt higher, exposing me completely to the evening air.
"Every hole," the dark-haired one repeats, and I feel her breath against my ear, her body pressed along my back.
"That's what we promised. And we keep a promise."
Her hand moves between my shoulder blades, pressing me forward until my forearms rest on the railing, my face turned toward the harbour lights. The position opens me completely, vulnerable, displayed.
The blonde's mouth returns, but lower now—not my cunt, though I can feel her breath there, hot and moist.
She drags her tongue upward, slow and deliberate, pressing against my tight ring of muscle.
"Cute balloon knot," she says as her tongue dips and dips again into my rills.
"Oh god—"
The words tear from me, broken, uncontrolled.
The sensation is too intimate, too exposing—the wet heat of her tongue circling, pressing, the dark-haired one's hand sliding around to cup my breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to arch my back.
"Oohh! Aahh! Oh My! Yes! Yes! Oohh!"
They work in rhythm, the blonde's mouth relentless against my asshole, tongue pushing, licking, while the dark-haired one's fingers find my clit from the front, rubbing in tight circles that make my hips jerk between them. I'm trapped between two sources of pleasure, two mouths and hands and bodies using me exactly as they promised.
A finger in my mouth. A tongue in my starfish. A tongue in my fanny.
"Spit on her," the dark-haired one commands, and I feel the blonde obey, the wet sound of saliva gathering in her mouth before she presses it against my exposed cunt, letting it drip down to mix with my arousal.
She uses her fingers to spread it, to work it inside me, two fingers pushing deep with a sound like something being opened.
A squishy, squishy, spreading squish. Flesh expanded by spit.
The dark-haired one rises, grips my breast and moves around me, positioning herself at the railing's edge where she can face me.
She holds my jaw with one hand, forces my head up until I'm looking at her, at her dark eyes and the small scar and the mouth that tastes like my skin.
"Open," she commands, and when I part my lips she spits into my mouth, a warm wet glob that lands on my tongue with shocking intimacy.
"Swallow."
I do. The act feels more degrading than anything else they've done, more claiming.
She smiles, sharp and pleased, and spits again, this time against my cheek, letting it drip down while the blonde's fingers find that place inside me, that spot, and the press.
"Orrghh! Fuck! Orrghh!"
She has my G-spot, the bitch. I have no control.
The sound I make is not human. It's a keening, broken thing, high and desperate, as pleasure builds with terrifying speed.
The dark-haired one watches my face, logging every twitch, every gasp, her hand still gripping my jaw.
"You're going to squirt," she says, and it's not a prediction but a command.
"All over this balcony. All over us. And you're going to scream while you do it."
The blonde's fingers work faster, curling against that spot with relentless pressure, while her other hand spreads my ass cheeks wider and her tongue returns to my asshole, licking, pressing, fucking into me with the same rhythm as her fingers.
The dual sensation is too much, overwhelming, my body arching between them like a bridge of pure nerve.
"Please—" The word tears from me, unplanned, unprofessional, the begging I swore I'd never do.
"Please, I can't— I've never—"
"You can," the dark-haired one murmurs, and her free hand moves between her own legs, pressing against the fabric of her trousers where I can see the outline of her arousal, the wetness darkening black cotton.
"You will. Because this is what you are, Beth. This is what you've been trying to sell. Not houses. Not dreams. This. Your cunt, your ass, your mouth. Your willingness to open for anyone who makes you feel needed."
Her words cut deeper than the physical sensations, finding the hollow place I've been filling with transactions, with calculated risks, with the careful architecture of survival.
I want to deny it, to reframe this moment as strategy, as another commission in a different currency, but the blonde's fingers press harder, finding some angle that makes the harbour lights blur and the denial dies in my throat.
"Now," the dark-haired one commands, and something in her voice, some frequency of absolute certainty, triggers what her fingers have been building.
It starts as pressure, unbearable heat gathering behind my pubic bone, and then releases in a rush that feels like a needed release and dying and being born all at once.
Liquid jets from me in rhythmic pulses, soaking the blonde's hand, her face, splashing against the concrete balcony with a sound like rain on stone.
Splash, splatter, pitter-pat. Plash! Plash! Plash!
I scream—there's no other word for it, a raw, guttural sound that carries across the harbour, that might reach the ferries, the opera house, anyone listening for the sound of a woman being completely undone.
"Hnnghh!"
The dark-haired one watches my face with something like tenderness, her hand still gripping my jaw, her thumb tracing the corner of my mouth where spit and tears have mixed.
"Again," she says softly, and the blonde obeys, fingers pressing deeper, finding that same spot with renewed pressure, and I feel the building start almost immediately, impossibly, my body apparently capable of more than I ever believed.
Am I a frickin fountain on a timed jet release?
The second release is harder, more violent, liquid arcing in a jet that catches the dark-haired woman's trousers, darkening the fabric where her own arousal has already wet through.
Sheez— I spray like a burst pipe.
High, thick, the gurgling gush.
The arching gush.
The forceful gush.
She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away from my face.
The blonde is moaning now, the sound vibrating against my ass where her mouth has returned, licking at the mess she's made of me, gathering my release on her tongue and swallowing with audible satisfaction.
"Please—"
I don't know what I'm asking for. For it to stop, for it to never stop, for someone to explain how I became this person, this body, this open vessel of continual want.
"You can be everything," the dark-haired one states, and she finally releases my jaw, her hand moving to her own trousers, unbuttoning them with efficient fingers.
"You will. Because we're not finished reading you, Beth Jones. We're only on the first chapter."
She pushes the trousers down, steps out of them, and I see her own flesh, flappy and flushed, a bulb of a clit, straining forward with the same urgency I've felt in every client who thought they could fuck their way to the life they wanted.
The blonde rises from behind me, her chin shining with my release, and begins unbuttoning her own dress with the same unhurried confidence.
I understand then that I was never the architect of this evening. That my overconfidence, my careful calculations, my belief that I was the one harvesting desire from others—these were simply the conditions that made me visible to them.
Readable. Available. But from whom or where?
The dark-haired one steps forward, her nub's erection brushing my thigh, leaving a wet trail that cools in the harbour breeze. She grips my chin again, but softer now, almost companionable.
"Tell me what you want," she says, and for the first time that evening, it sounds like a genuine question. Like she might actually be interested in the answer.
I open my mouth to perform, to offer the expected transaction—this for that, pleasure for commission, body for security. But what emerges is something else entirely, raw and unprocessed: "I want to not be the one who decides."
The words hang between us, embarrassing in their truth. The dark-haired one's smile shifts, becomes something almost tender. She nods, once, as if I've finally spoken a language she understands.
"Then we won't let you," she says, and pushes me backward, onto the tiles still wet with my release, and the blonde is there too, her dress gone now, her body pale and soft and already moving to cover mine, and I feel the harbor wind on my exposed skin and the weight of two bodies pressing me into the ground I've soaked with my own wanting, and finally—finally—I stop trying to read myself and let them do it for me.
God, one face sits me.
The other scissors my pussy.