Hattie's grip was a vice. Nails digging into her wrists, hips pressing against her own. Crashing, consuming, shamelessly humping like they were whores on death row, desperate for one final fuck. Hattie's breath was ragged in her ear, strangled moans slipping past hisses declaring how much she hated her stepsister, how she longed to bruise and abuse her. Ella's stomach seemed to sink, but her hips—oh, those damnable hips, arched upward into Hattie's, seeking heat, wet, soft, cunt. She felt Hattie's grip on her wrists tighten, tighten, tighten, fuck. A scream tore from her throat, and Hattie released her, just as she choked on a moan and came all over Ella's thigh. Her wrist burned from the harsh touch, and upon examining it, she saw the hand print. And she wanted to vomit.
She hadn't expected her to leave, she really hadn't. It had all been so sudden, so heartrendingly thoughtless that Hattie wondered if Ella even turned to look at her before leaving her room. They had been so quiet, so hushed and raw as they fucked beneath the blankets of the Daisy Room. Ella had stayed, stayed quite beside Hattie, breathing delightfully shallow and strained with sobs and Hattie blamed the curse of her goddamn jealousy, always taking over, such a troublemaker. She had drifted off, dreaming of palaces and princes and Ella. Oh, Ella-dear. The perfect punching bag. And as the sun filled the room, and the other ladies awoke, she frantically reached for Ella, to touch, to feel skin, pale skin marred with scars and marks from her own fucking clumsiness. And she had felt nothing. Ella was gone.
It was such a rare occurrence, their kisses. Tenderness was always sorely lacking, and when it happened, when Hattie's lips actually collided with her's and stayed, stayed and moved sucked bit oh god Hattie never stop, it always shook her to the very core. It was intimate. Possessive. Passionate. It made Ella weak. Weaker then the orders did, weaker than a tight grip on her neck did. Breathless, she licked Hattie's lips, smiling, "Again."
Ella's arms had wrapped around her so tightly she feared she would suffocate. Her face buried into Hattie's shoulder, tears staining her skin. Sobs bounced off the walls, and Hattie remarked, "Pathetic," as Ella moaned and whined about missing mother. Hattie missed her own fair share of people (fatherpleasecomebackimissyou so) but she didn't cry about it while naked with the girl she was supposed to be fucking. But apparently, Ella did. She did and she did it until she was spent and limp against Hattie's body. With a sneer, Hattie resolved that all she could do was hold her. And pray this didn't happen again.
Fate was a cruel mistress, Hattie knew. Still, she couldn't deny the temptation that came along with the Queen. The delight she drew from kissing what belonged to the King, from fucking it, from ripping dresses far more expensive than her finest Sunday best. It was ecstasy, pure ecstasy, and with each fuck, each kiss, each riptearshedmineellamine, she felt her sanity ebb further away.