The lesbian bar is seizure-inducing.
Borderline naked bodies bump and grind on the dance floor while lights splash the walls of the room with color. The DJ bobs her head, calling out to the dancers and receiving cheers in response.
None of the women catch Augusta’s interest.
Mood sour, Augusta returns to nursing her beer. Her bandmates have disappeared, but their heads poke out through the writhing mass of bodies. Smiles adorn their faces like gems on a crown, making Augusta’s eyes ache as their bodies move like water, matching the rhythm of the ear-splitting music.
Augusta huffs and takes another. It goes down her throat smoothly, strong and dark, and fills her stomach with warmth. Augusta cranes her head back, chugging the rest of it, before slamming the can down and earning a dirty look from the bartender.
She asks for another can, but before she can open her wallet, a familiar voice calls out.
“Put it on my tab,” Pietà says, sliding into the empty seat beside Augusta. Their shoulders brush. Bleached wavy hair mixes with Augusta’s dirty blonde.
Augusta scoots away.
“Her tab,” she confirms, never one to turn down free booze.
Part of Pietà’s snake-like hair clings to Augusta’s arm as if velcro, so Augusta flicks it away. To her misery, it’s softer than her own. Pietà’s trips to the salon, alongside an intensive hair care regimen, are not in vain.
Augusta wrinkles her nose.
The bartender places down another beer. Augusta slurps the foam and pops the bubbles in her mouth with her tongue. Through her peripheral vision, she notices that Pietà is staring at her. Her eyes are swimming with mirth as they flicker between the dance floor, where Augusta’s bandmates are having the time of their lives, and Augusta, who’s sitting all alone.
“Go to hell,” Augusta spits, lips curling into a sneer. Irritation bubbles beneath Augusta’s skin, full of acid and eating her from the inside.
“I didn’t even say anything,” Pietà chuckles. She drums her fingers on the bar, clicking her manicured nails against the smooth, wooden finish. She calls the bartender. “I’ll have a Long Island iced tea.
Augusta takes another gulp of her beer. Her head is fuzzy. It’s her third beer, but she isn’t at the point of blacking out and she needs to get to that point if she’s going to deal with Pietà in this environment. “That’s lame.”
“I like alcohol that doesn’t make me regret having taste buds,” Pietà replies simply.
The Long Island iced tea arrives quickly, complete with a lemon slice wedged on the rim. The straw is striped with red like a candy cane.
“Thank you,” Pietà says. She takes a small sip, sampling it, then quickly drinks the rest of it, cheeks hollowing as she sucks the straw. She pokes around the ice, seeking every last bit of her cocktail, then tilts her head back. An ice cube slides into her mouth and she chews, crunching on it loudly.
Augusta shudders. However, a fire burns in her. She chugs down the rest of her beer, filling her stomach with more magma, and calls for another. Pietà copies her. The bartender slides them both their drinks.
“Do you want to make it a competition?” Pietà asks as she mixes her drink with the straw.
Augusta narrows her eyes. There’s a pressure in her head and the music swirling around her suddenly doesn't sound completely awful. Of course, it’s hard to compete against Augusta’s band, but they’re putting in a good attempt. “What does the winner get?”
“Anything they desire,” Pietà hums. “Except the irrational, like me returning to Italy.”
“Then I’m not interested,” Augusta replies. “The only thing I want is for you to go away.”
The bartender raises his eyebrows but says nothing.
“Your words wound me,” Pietà sighs, but there’s a mocking smile curving her lips. “If you manage to outdrink me, then I’ll leave you alone for a week.”
Augusta’s interest is piqued. She takes a sip of her beer. “Including phone calls and texts?”
“It’ll be as if I never existed,” Pietà confirms. “But only for a week.”
Augusta nods. “What’s the torture if you win?”
Pietà beams. “You wear the lingerie I got you for your birthday.”
Augusta cringes, The lingerie is a wedding dress white with wings, as if stolen from a Victoria's Secret model fresh off the runway. Fortunately, there is no halo. “Then you need to be gone for two weeks.”
“Deal,” Pietà says. “You drank a beer before I sat next to you, so I’ll drink one extra so that we’re on the same page.”
“It’s a Long Island iced tea, how alcoholic can it really be?”
“You’d be surprised.”
The bartender confirms it. “It’s stronger than the beers you’ve been drinking, sweet cheeks.”
“Don’t call me that,” Augusta grumbles.
“Does that mean you prefer bambola, then?” Pietà asks as she slurps down her cocktail.
“I don’t even know what it means.”
“You don’t need to,” Pietà replies. “Just know it’s a term of affection because you are very dear to me. My sweet Augusta.”
Augusta scowls. “Shut up.”
“My darling. The apple of my eye,” Pietà teases.
“You’re annoying,” Augusta barks as a flush crawls up her cheeks and to her ears. “Just finish your drink so we can start taking shots.”
“What’s your poison?” the bartender asks, already getting out two shot glasses.
“Whiskey,” Augusta says.
“Tequila,” Pietà says. “I decide because I’m the one paying.”
“Fine,” Augusta huffs.
The bartender fills the shot glasses. “With salt and lime?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Pietà replies.
Augusta shakes her head. “You’re such a pussy. Using a chaser during a drinking competition.”
“I’m not a masochist like you are.”
Augusta’s temple begins to throb. “You — “
“Done,” the bartender says, handing them all they need.
“On the count of three?” Pietà asks as she swirls the tequila like it’s fine wine.
“Nah,” Augusta throws her head back, downing her shot.
Pietà shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
She follows suit, then bites into her slice of lime, wrinkling her nose.
“Next,” Pietà tells the bartender.
And they proceed. Two shots, three shots.
Then Augusta is out for the count while Pietà doesn’t look the least bit phased.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Augusta groans, slamming her head on the table. The world is spinning. Her throat and nose were doused with gasoline and then ignited with a match. Maybe she should have accepted that chaser.
“I’ll take you home,” Pietà says. She opens her purse to grab her wallet. She rummages through it and takes out a handful of bills. She hands them to the bartender. “Consider the rest a tip.”
Augusta can hear the bartender narrow his eyes. “You two are going to get a taxi, right?”
“Of course.”
The world slides to the left as Pietà hooks her arm around Augusta’s waist and guides her off the bar stool. Augusta tries to make eye contact with her bandmates, but they’re lost to the dance floor, a blurry mass of naked skin and color.
“One step at a time,” Pietà says.
They walk at an agonizingly slow pace, dictated by Augusta. She stumbles and flails, the liquid ground rushing to meet her several times, but Pietà’s grip is strong. Augusta and the floor never make contact.
The night air is as sharp as steel, sending goosebumps throughout Augusta’s skin despite the heat replacing the blood in her veins. Pietà pauses, then guides Augusta to the wall.
“What the hell are you doing?” Augusta manages, droopy eyes staring blankly at the street lights, which dance across her vision. She leans against the wall, grimacing at how it scrapes against the exposed skin from her tank top.
Pietà is a blur, indicated only by the shock of bleached, white hair. But she’s shifting. Shrugging off her coat.
“Here?” Augusta hisses, eyes darting around furtively. “In public?”
Augusta’s stomach bubbles further with nausea. They’re not even in an alleyway or somewhere similarly secluded. They’re on the sidewalk of a bar and the bouncer is a few feet away, staring at them intently.
“Why not?” Pietà says. She wraps the coat around Augusta’s shoulders. “I’d rather not let you suffer. If you’re still cold, we can turn on the heater.”
Augusta blinks. The coat is warm from Pietà’s body, soothing the goosebumps that rose across Augusta’s skin in a wave, but Augusta is already hot from one too many drinks. Worse, however, is that it smells of Pietà.
Her acrid perfume, clinging once to Pietà, is invading Augusta. Latching onto her skin and digging its way past muscle, to her bone. Settling in her marrow to lay eggs that will hatch and ruin the rest of her.
Augusta breathes in through her mouth, refusing to allow any more entry. The churning in her gut softens during inhalation. The alcohol will come rushing out sooner or later, but Augusta will be damned if it’s sooner.
“The parking lot is close,” Pietà says, hooking an arm around Augusta’s small waist and guiding her forward once more.
“I know,” Augusta grumbles, navigating the bump and broken sidewalk. Weeds sprout between the cracks and Augusta’s heel sinks into one of the many gaps. She lurches forward, ankle twisting, but Pietà doesn’t let her tumble.
However, it draws attention to Augusta’s shoes.
Pietà’s eyes widen. “You’re wearing the stilettos I bought you.”
Augusta digs her nails into Pietà’s coat, grateful for the barrier. She refuses to touch putrid skin. “They matched my outfit.”
“I’m glad,” Pietà says. She rubs circles against Augusta’s hip, exposed from her low-rise ripped jeans. Augusta shivers. Pietà’s hands are frigid compared to the three in the morning air.
Pietà wrangles Augusta into the passenger seat and leans over Augusta to click on her seatbelt. Augusta yowls when a strand of hair is caught in the pillar loop.
“Oh, your poor, beautiful hair,” Pietà says softly, carefully separating Augusta’s hair from the pillar loop. “Let’s hurry and get back. You need to rest.”
“Drive slow,” Augusta demands, leaning against the headrest once her hair has been rescued. Her scalp aches but she only lost a few hairs. She isn’t disfigured. “I’ll throw up otherwise.”
“Of course,” Pietà replies. She gently closes the passenger’s side and then quickly makes her way to the driver’s seat. She shoves her keys into the ignition, revs the engine, and they’re off.
To Augusta’s amazement, Pietà obeys. Her car freshener, which hangs in the rearview mirror alongside a wooden rosary, is the only thing that prevents Augusta from remembering she’s in a car.
Augusta opens her mouth to comment on catholicism. There’s no way a person like Pietà would belong to a faith, but her stomach is full of lava and if she were to utter a word, she would erupt like a volcano.
Augusta clenches her jaw and sucks in air from between her teeth. It stabs her lungs, mixing uncomfortably with the alcoholic heat coursing through her veins. Pietà hasn’t turned on the heater, probably trusting her coat to keep Augusta warm.
She slumps in her seat. Augusta leans her head against the window and focuses on breathing, eyes closed and ignoring the swimming splashes of color floating in the dark. Her mouth is dry, as if full of cotton, and her tongue sticks to the roof of her tongue.
The car rocks slightly, driving over a bump. The whir of a garage door opens next and Augusta groans.
“Not your place again,” Augusta whines. “Take me back to my apartment. I don’t want to be around your cats.”
“You’ve acknowledged their species,” Pietà beams. “Next you’ll be calling them by their name.”
“Don’t count on it.”
Soon enough, Pietà is at her side, guiding her out of her seat. She gently clutches Augusta’s elbow. Augusta’s eyelids crack open as she steps out of the car, immediately seared by the ceiling lights, and it’s too much. Movement, seeing, Pietà’s stench —
She twists her head and spews all over the passenger seat.
“You poor thing,” Pietà croons. She holds Augusta’s hair back. “I shouldn’t have pushed you too hard. You had no hope of out-drinking me.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Augusta gags. Her throat and nostrils are on fire. Alcohol glides down her to her stomach easily, but the reverse is an entirely different story.
“It’s a mere fact,” Pietà says. Her other hand rubs gentle circles on Augusta’s back as if she were a mother soothing her child. Augusta wants to bite it off. Amputate Pietà with her teeth and spit out the severed limb.
She raises her hand to swat Pietà’s away, the next best thing, but her stomach rebels once more and she’s back to square one. Burning, burning, burning. Coughing, coughing, coughing.
Eventually, her stomach empties, leaving only strings of white stomach acid and spittle.
“Let’s get you inside,” Pietà says when Augusta is finally able to breathe again. The room has stopped spinning and Augusta just feels like she was scooped clean and rubbed with bleach. Her insides burn, stomach acid lingering on her tongue, and her eyes are heavy.
Pietà places her hand on Augusta’s lower back. Augusta stumbles away — the touch more scalding than the vomit she had just puked out.
“I’m good now. I don’t need you to manhandle me,” she grimaces. She shoves the coat off and tosses it to Pietà, who catches it with one hand.
“I would never do something so brutish,” Pietà sniffs. She opens the door to the inside of the house and a furball darts out. Donatello is the only one with such exuberance.
He rubs himself against Augusta’s legs. She raises her foot to kick him away but Donatello trots away before the strike can land. He walks daintily to the still-open door of the convertible, takes a delicate whiff, and then gags.
Donatello scurries away, back to the safety of Pietà’s house.
Pietà narrows her eyes. “You were going to hurt him.”
Augusta shoves past her, determined to get something to drink. Her dry mouth is killing her and she feels the acid eating away at her teeth.
Pietà’s hand darts forward, squeezing Augusta’s thin wrist. Pietà’s nails dig into Augusta’s soft skin, sending tendrils of pain up Augusta’s arm as bruises bloom — circling her wrist like a manacle. “You were going to kick Donatello.”
“And?” Augusta rasps. She tries to yank her arm away, but Pietà’s grip is iron. “He was in my way.”
“He’s your brother,” Pietà scolds. “All of you are mine and I won’t have quarrels.”
“The cat is on the same level as me?”
“You’re on the same level as the cat,” Pietà corrects. “Respect your seniors.”
“Over my dead body,” Augusta sneers. “I’m not going to lower my head to an animal. It shouldn’t even be a competition."
Pietà chuckles. “It’s not. I love you all equally. There’s no need to compete with Beppe, Donatello, and Napoleone, bambola.”
Finally, she releases Augusta. Augusta rubs her wrist, wrinkling her nose at the purple bracelet it left behind. She’s going to need to wear long sleeves to hide it. She doesn’t want to deal with overprotective bandmates.
They’ll assume it was from a bad hookup at the bar. The bar was supposed to be a hangout to indicate that they’ve all mended their relationship. Augusta had choked out an apology, spitting out a pathetic excuse she doesn’t remember and was mildly forgiven.
If Augusta keeps up the good behavior, then her record will be wiped clean.
An admission of physical violence would put that all in jeopardy. They would view Augusta as weak, which is infinitely worse than what Pietà puts her through.
It’s just sex. Augusta can handle sex.
She storms to the kitchen and opens a cabinet, hunting for a cup. She finds only spices. The next cabinet is also full of spices.
Augusta gives up. She turns on the sink and cups her hands together, filling them with water and drinking greedily.
Pietà shrieks. She shoves Augusta away, pushing her to the couch in the living room. “Stay put. I will get you water and food.”
“Only water,” Augusta croaks. She’s still parched, but it’s better than before. “No food. I’ll throw it all up again.”
“You’ll get nightmares if you sleep with an empty stomach,” Pietà informs. “Lucky for you, I have leftover soup from yesterday. I was unwell.”
Augusta ignores her, swallowing down whatever saliva she can accumulate in her mouth to soothe her throat. It’s as if the walls of her esophagus are stuck together.
“Are you not gonna ask why I was unwell?”
“No.”
Pietà sniffs. “It was because I missed you. I couldn’t see you yesterday because my colleagues at work were utterly incompetent. They need to stop allowing their emotions to dictate their work ethic.”
Augusta perks up. This is the first time Pietà has brought up her coworkers. Augusta can never deny gossip. “What did they do? Tell me everything.”
Pietà preens under the attention as she transfers the soup to a microwavable bowl and fills a cup with water from a Brita filter. “Where do I even begin?”
“From the beginning,” Augusta demands. “Don’t leave any details out.”
“Only if you eat.”
Augusta sighs loudly, crossing her arms as she slouches. “Fine.”
The microwave beeps and she brings the food to Augusta like a servant, placing it on the coffee table beneath a large coaster.
“Good girl.”
“That’s disgusting,” Augusta hisses. cringing. She snatches the cup of water from Pietà’s hand and greedily sucks it down. Her stomach sloshes, full of fluid, but she immediately feels better. “You sound like a sleazy old man.”
“So you prefer bambola, then?”
Augusta wrinkles her nose. “I guess.”
“It suits you better, so don’t worry. If you were a good girl, you’d be no fun.”
Augusta rolls her eyes. She spoons the soup. It’s a mellow brown with nothing floating in it. Leaning forward, she takes a sniff. “Chicken?”
“I made the broth myself,” Pietà says. “It’s best to soothe an upset stomach and soul.”
Augusta scoops a spoonful and takes a sip. It burns her tongue. She blows on it carefully. “So. Drama.”
Pietà groans, lips curling into a sneer. “A few months ago we received a new intern….”
Augusta realizes she’s starved and devours the soup. The fluid fills her up, perfect for an upset stomach, but she leaves a small portion to toy with. If she were to empty the bowl, then Pietà would give her a second helping, which would then create a break in the gossip.
Pietà waves her hands around and Augusta is enraptured, jaw slightly parted as she absorbs the drama.
“What happened next?” Augusta eggs, leaning in close with wide eyes. She shakes her leg, vibrating with excitement.
“You won’t believe it,” Pietà groans. “She…”
By the end of the tirade, Augusta is wiped. The glory that made her jittery has fled her body, leaving her like a freshly wrung towel. Mindlessly, she finishes the last of her cold soup, which settles in her stomach like a lead ball.
“Do you want another serving?”
Augusta shakes her head. “I want to sleep.”
She rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm and yawns.
Pietà chuckles. “You smudged your eyeliner.”
“What about it?”
“It’s very trashy, but fitting,” Pietà says. “You remind me of a raccoon.”
“Whatever,” Augusta flops onto her side and tucks a pillow behind her head. “Turn off the light when you leave. I’m gonna sleep.”
“You’re going to ruin my cushion with your makeup,” Pietà scolds. “And end up with cavities if you don’t brush your teeth.”
“Don’t care,” Augusta says lazily. “Now go away and let me sleep.”
Pietà, to her surprise, doesn’t push.
“If you insist,” she says. “But remember that tomorrow you need to uphold your end of the bargain.”
“‘Kay,” Augusta replies. She doesn’t remember what they bet on, but she’s too fatigued to rummage through her memories.
“Good night,” Pietà says as she flicks the lights off. “Have sweet dreams about me.”
Augusta ignores her. Pietà toils in the bathroom, no doubt going through a 10 step skincare regimen. She manages to fall asleep to Pietà cooing at her cats, wishing them sweet dreams as well and promising treats for being so good today.
Tossing and turning throughout the night, Augusta tries not to think about Pietà’s suffocating stench and the fact she’s on Pietà’s couch in Pietà’s home. Tomorrow she’ll be helpless, but tonight she is sheltered by sleep.
…
August wakes up to the bubbling of boiling water. Fresh coffee wafts to the living room, accompanied by the crinkle of a plastic bag.
Augusta groans and rolls into her stomach, clamping the pillow over her ears. Her eyes are sticky and she can feel her pores clogging, but she’s bone tired. Her skin is plastered to the couch and her mouth tastes of sleep, as if the chicken broth she had drank fermented.
Pietà hums a song from Augusta’s debut album. Before she better understood her craft. It doesn’t hold a candle to her band’s more recent works, but it’s nostalgic.
Pietà had only sent her luxury items in those days. A mysterious wealthy donor who doused her in gold. Now Pietà is under her skin like a parasite, feasting on her organs and draining her of life.
The bubbling stops, leading to the undeniable noise of coffee being poured into a cup. It’s followed by the scrape of a chair, then intermittent slurps.
August tries to go back to sleep, but she can’t. Grudgingly, she sits up and yawns, stretching her arms until they shake. She twists her back, savoring the pop of her spine, but admires the lack of soreness. Pietà’s couch was long enough for her to stretch entirely.
“Good morning,” Pietá trills, nibbling on a danish. “Would you like an espresso as well?”
“Sure.”
Augusta stumbles to her feet, aware that she never removed her stilettos, and trudges to the bathroom. Yawning, she steals some of Pietá’s makeup wipes. She pauses when she looks into the mirror. She does look like a raccoon.
When she’s refreshed, she returns to the kitchen. The espresso is already ready. Augusta takes a seat and scarfs down a cheese danish. She blows on her drink, hoping it will cool down faster.
Augusta is still a zombie despite several hours of rest. Her head doesn’t pound because she threw everything up the previous night, but her body is heavy. Her bones are filled with lead and her chest is tight as she finally recalls what she bet.
Lingerie. She needs to wear lingerie for Pietá.
Pietá engages in small talk, questioning her about her sleep and plans for the day. Augusta grudgingly answers and asks her own questions, hoping to postpone the inevitable. Pietá glows at the show of interest, as if a dog with a treat, and Augusta conceals her wrinkled nose by taking another sip of her espresso.
When they’re finished eating, Pietá whisks away their dirty dishes and washes them quickly, placing the mugs onto a rack once she’s done.
Augusta pats her pocket, looking for her phone. It’s not there. She scrounges between the cushions and eventually, her fingers make contact with something hard. Yanking it out, she begins to dial the number for a taxi.
Pietá plucks the phone out of her hand. “Who are you calling?”
“No one.”
Pietá examines the screen. “A taxi? My, Augusta, are you trying to skimp out on our bet?”
“Yes,” Augusta answers bluntly. She snatches her phone back and walks past Pietá, shoulder-checking her. “Over my dead body will I wear that monstrosity.”
Pietà clicks her tongue. Before Augusta can unlock the door, Pietà pins her against the wall and crushes her wrists. Immediately, Augusta the shackles of bruises darken to violet.
“I don’t think so.”
“You can’t hold me accountable for this. I was drunk,” Augusta snaps.
Pietà laughs, high and thin. “No, you were moping. Drinking your beer all by yourself because you didn’t want to join your bandmates dancing. Did they invite you out of pity? Or did you force your way into their outing so that you wouldn’t be alone?”
“We made up,” Augusta grits. “I apologized. They accepted. Then we went out to celebrate.”
“You’re like children. Did one of your bandmates need to be chaperoned and guide the mediation? Who was it that coaxed you to apologize and betray your true self.”
“No one. I apologized on my own.”
“Amazing,” Pietà breathes. She tightens her grip, making Augusta suck in a sharp breath through her teeth. “I applaud your ability to feign remorse. I’m sure you said something abhorrent since you’re an abhorrent person, so how did you manage to get them genial enough for an outing?”
Pietà drops her voice. “Did you offer your body?”
Augusta can’t help it. She laughs. “I should have. They’d definitely treat me better than you.”
“Would they really?” Pietà asks. She leans forward and nuzzles the side of Augusta’s neck, digging her nose into the warm skin and huffing at her fluttering carotid artery.
“Yes,” Augusta hisses. “They wouldn’t invade my personal space. They wouldn’t coerce me with recordings of my ex. And they wouldn’t fucking rape me.”
Pietà slots her leg between Augusta’s like a key fitting into a lock. “Rape is such an ugly word.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You’d know all about it, I suppose,” Pietà hums, lips vibrating against Augusta’s neck. Augusta’s skin is hot and clammy. Pietà slides easily against her, skimming the sweat like a water glider. “But unlike you, I don’t need to get my targets inebriated. Just a snap of my fingers and you obey.”
Augusta cranes her neck, seeking to limit contact with Pietà. But Pietà’s hair has wormed its way into her mouth and the strands are snakes around her tongue. Constricting. She spits it out, but like the owner, the strands are clingy.
The scent of Pietà’s perfume is curdled like spoiled milk. Chunky, forcing its way down Augusta’s trachea and blooming in her lungs like the spore of a mushroom. It metastasizes, eating away at her lungs, and last night’s nausea is nothing compared to her current sickness.
Pietà dips her head, trailing down to Augusta’s left breast. Augusta’s heart stops, but Pietà isn’t mouthing her tit. Instead, she’s pressing her ear against her chest. She’s listening to Augusta’s heartbeat.
“So fast,” Pietà comments. “I’m enamored by this effect I have on you. Even though you act so stoic and uncaring, you’re a rabbit. Full of fear and anxiety and stress. Truly, I am lucky to be able to see you in this natural state. To be the cause of it. But one day, I’d like for your heart to beat due to elation.”
“That’ll never happen.”
“I know.”
Pietà withdraws. She releases Augusta’s wrists and Augusta immediately begins rubbing at them. They’re violet blemishes. She’s going to need to wear gaudy bracelets to conceal them at her next practice session.
“Now go shower. I left a fresh towel on the rack. The lingerie will be in the master bedroom.”
Augusta huffs. She kicks off her shoes and knocks down the entire shoe rack. Pietà’s cats startle and dart away to their cat tree. Augusta hadn’t even noticed them.
Pietà sighs like a weary mother and immediately sets to righting the shoe rack. Augusta makes her way to the bathroom, strips off her clothes, and showers.
She scrubs until the water gets cold, postponing it for as long as she can. Now she reeks of Pietà, having used her body wash and shampoo. But like all of Pietà's other violations, it’s only temporary. Augusta just needs to grit her teeth and endure it. Then she can go home and drink until she properly blacks out.
Augusta wraps herself in a towel and trots to Pietà’s room, leaving a series of wet footsteps on the hardwood flooring. She snoops through Pietà’s room, wrinkling her nose at a framed picture of her in her debut era sitting on the bedside table. Jewelry is neatly organized in a drawer like a dragon’s hoard.
Augusta nicks a platinum ring and slides it on her index finger.
She rummages through the walk-in closet, envious of its existence, and when she accidentally opens the drawer for Pietà’s undergarments, she immediately slams it shut.
Her loitering is interrupted by three sharp knocks on the door. “Are you almost done?”
“Almost.”
With a sigh, Augusta finally acknowledges the bed. White, silken lace lingerie lays on the bed with angel wings clipped to the back. Augusta tries to tear them off but they’re stitched too tightly. She doesn’t have much arm strength as a musician.
Grudgingly, she flings her towel to the floor. It will be Pietà’s problem to clean. Her skin has dried during the investigation, so the garments slide on easily.
Too easily.
“How the hell did you get my size?” Augusta asks loudly, snapping the strap of her garters.
“Trade secret,” Pietà answers. She gently pushes the door open, as if slamming it would scare away Augusta, and runs her eyes over Augusta’s form.
Augusta crossed her arms to conceal her breasts, masquerading it as crankiness. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
“Amazing idea,” Pietá hums. “Let me grab my camera right away.”
She spins away. Augusta lunges, clasping her sweaty fingers around Pietà’s wrist. “No, don’t do that.”
“But you suggested it. How can I ever ignore your genius? It would be so amazing to look at you whenever I fancy it. Your selfies leave much to be desired”
“You looked through my phone?”
“You need a better one,” Pietà sniffs. “The Blackberry you use doesn’t capture the extent of your beauty.”
Augusta clicks her tongue. “My blackberry is fine. But you should get me a better phone anyway.”
“Consider it done.”
Pietà’s eyes flicker to the ring on Augusta’s finger. She clutches Augusta’s hand and rotates it. The ring shines from the sun rays peeking through the blinds. “You look good in my jewelry.”
“It’s mine now,” Augusta informs.
“I’ll just get another one so we can be matching.”
“I don’t want it anymore.”
“If you insist,” Pietà says.
She slides the ring off of Augusta’s finger and returns it to its proper place. Turning around, she prowls toward Augusta, who backs away until the back of her legs bumps against the bed. She falls back on the mattress.
“You look decadent,” Pietà traces the edge of one of the feathery wings. Her finger trails to Augusta’s chin and inclines her head. Augusta stares down Pietà, jaw clenched, and gazes into her own reflection, visible through Pietà’s dilated pupils. “I should have made you wear a halo as well.”
“That’s even more stupid,” Augusta says.
She ignores Pietà’s index finger prodding her lips, but can’t anymore when Pietà slides them past Augusta’s teeth. Instinctively, Augusta bites, sinking down on fragile flesh.
Pietà clicks her tongue, but doesn’t wince “That’s rude.”
Augusta releases her grip before blood can fill her mouth. Or worse, before Pietà is amputated. It would trigger Pietà to do something worse than leaking the videotapes.
“Good,” Pietà says.
She explores the inside of Augusta’s mouth, running the pad of her finger over the bumps and ridges of her teeth. She strokes Augusta’s tongue briefly before ramming her fingers into the back of Augusta’s throat.
Augusta doubles over. She retches.
Pietà withdraws her fingers. “I think we’re even now.”
The line of spittle breaks once her fingers are far enough, splattering onto Augusta’s chin.
Pietà swipes her tongue over the damp spot and slides her lips over Augusta’s, enmeshing them. Her poisonous saliva is eating away at Augusta, blistering her tongue and scalding her throat. Augusta’s stomach churns with the benevolence Pietà believes she is infusing.
Pietà’s mouth is minty. She’d probably puke if Pietà tasted like coffee and cheese danishes. Augusta knows her own mouth is of that caliber, but unfortunately, it doesn’t dissuade Pietà.
“You taste so good,” Pietà breathes, hot air fanning Augusta’s lips.
“You don’t,” Augusta replies.
She winces when Pietà trails a series of open-mouthed kisses over her sharp jawline, nipping at it, before descending onto her neck. Pietà sucks Augusta’s jugular, hard enough to bruise.
“What the hell?” Augusta hisses. She clutches the roots of Pietà’s hair and yanks Pietà away. Her lips are shiny with spit. “Don’t leave marks. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I need to show people that you’re unavailable,” Pietà answers. She squeezes Augusta’s breast over the bra. “That you already belong to someone. Besides, it’s not like you have a concert anytime soon.”
Augusta grimaces. “You need to buy me makeup so I can cover it up.”
“Your drug store concealer isn’t enough?”
Augusta flushes, offended. “Just buy it for me.”
“If you insist,” Pietà hums. Her hand slips beneath Augusta’s bra and she pinches a nipple twisting and teasing.
Augusta clenches her jaw, nostrils flaring as she refuses to release a sound pleasure. It’s disgusting to feel good from sexual assault, but her damn body is a traitor. Already, a molten heat pools in her lower abdomen. She’s throbbing.
“A little touch can already get you so wet,” Pietà comments. She stares down at Augusta’s damp panties and marvels like a child at a dinosaur exhibit. “You’re so easy.”
“Burn — burn in hell,” Augusta warbles as Pietà’s hand dips between her legs. Through the cloth, she strokes Augusta’s clit. The sensation is utter torture. Pietà has memorized the idiosyncrasies of Augusta’s body and manages to yank out a moan.
“So cute,” Pietà comments, eyes flickering to Augusta’s lip. Augusta bites it, stifling herself, but Pietà kisses it away and sucks on Augusta’s lower lip instead. It’s gentle, but Augusta wishes it were fiercer so she’d feel properly taken advantage of.
Pietà’s hand slips into her panties and slides into her. Augusta gasps and clutches Pietà’s shoulders, digging her blunt nails into Pietà’s skin. Pietà twists her wrists and strikes that special spot.
“So cute,” Pietà croons, flooding Augusta’s vision with stars. She closes her eyes, not wanting to see Pietà’s smug face, and it burns. “You’re so soft and sweet. The perfect woman.”
“Stop,” Augusta moans. “I hate you.”
“But you love this,” Pietà punctuates the last word with a sharp thrust. Augusta’s toes curl as her leg begins to shake. “Your words don’t align with your body. Dishonesty is unbecoming of you.”
“Fuck you,” Augusa spits. She cracks her eyelids open to see where it landed, but it’s nowhere on Pietà.
“What a bad temperament you have.”
Augusta is crumbling. Falling into smaller and smaller pieces as Pietà pleasures her against her will. She ducks her head, concealing her face with her hair, as she resists a burgeoning orgasm. She stopped touching herself after Pietà first raped her, unable to get Pietà’s touch and tongue out of her mind, but it made her more sensitive. It made her weak.
It made her easy.
Augusta’s body tenses to a painful degree when she comes, sooner than either of them expected indicated by Pietà’s gasp. She shivers, sticky and gross and tired, but Pietà doesn’t retract her hand.
“Cut it out,” Augusta gasps. She squirms and extends her arms, trying to push Pietà away, but Pietà is a stone piston. Fucking her through the tidal wave of her orgasm. “Stop. I already — “
“Came?” Pietà finishes. “The female body can withstand multiple orgasms.”
“Not mine,” Augusta retorts, voice shaking.
“It can,” Pietà says. “It will. I don’t like broken toys.”
Augusta lowers her head until her chin digs into her chest. The waterfall of her hair conceals her further as disgust and rage bubble within, mingled with bone-sucking shame as Augusta is violated and violated and violated.
Pietà may not like broken toys, but she’s damn good at breaking them.