RoseBud's Baby

They landed in the city like two bodies pulled by gravity Dee swore was destiny. Angel watched the skyline from the backseat of a cab and already felt small. Dee had one goal pressed against her chest like a loaded gun: be the most famous ass in porn. Angel went along because love doesn’t ask directions. Before the boxes were unpacked Dee laid out the rules. No pussy. Not with Angel. Anal only. Practice, she said. The cameras would love it. Angel nodded, took the lube, let Dee open her. At first it was just fingers sliding in on spit. Then deeper. Then the kind of stretch that left her walking sideways in daylight. Nighttime got worse. Angel started dreaming the dark in her own bed. Thick shapes crawled from the walls, grabbed her hips, drilled her open until her guts fluttered and she woke shaking. Dee slept through every scream. In the morning the dream still burned between her cheeks. Then Dee offered her a show. Live bodies watching. Angel should have asked who paid. She didn’t. They met in a concrete room beneath the Armory, old brick sweating under bare bulbs. The crowd waited in leather and silence. Dee stripped Angel, spread her on a steel table, and brought out the hardware: fat silicone cocks, a black strap-on, a jar of thick lube that smelled like rubber and salt. Dee worked Angel first. Two fingers, three, wrist deep. Angel grunted through her teeth, hole blooming red around the knuckles. Dee pushed past the second ring and Angel’s ass swallowed the whole hand up to the forearm. She breathed, pushed, and the first thick rose petal of flesh unfurled, glistening, shy. The watchers leaned closer. Angel’s turn next. She strapped the harness on trembling thighs, lined the massive toy against Dee’s waiting pucker, and drove. Dee took every inch without lube, eyes half-closed, jaw tight. When the toy bottomed out Angel’s knuckles followed, splitting Dee open until another swollen bud pushed free, darker, meatier. The room held its breath. They switched again, fisting each other in tandem now, sweat flying, lube stringing between them like spit. Every thrust dragged another wet petal outward. When both girls were spread wide, ruined, the watchers came forward with candles and knives, collecting the soft, twitching roses like payment. Dee smiled at the ceiling. Angel lay ruined on cold steel, still pulsing, still open, realizing the dream never ended when she woke up.