The Queen

Kiara reads the letter and feels the old pull. Same handwriting. Same mouth that once left bruises on her thighs. Her cunt tightens. She spreads her legs right there on the couch, red hair tumbling over her shoulders, and palms her heavy tits through the thin silk robe. Nipples stiffen instantly. She slides her hand lower, fingers slipping over slick folds, circling the swollen clit her ex used to suck so greedily. The front door clicks. Alyssa stands in the doorway, small suitcase at her feet, dark eyes wide. Kiara shuts her thighs slowly, lets the wet sound linger between them. She takes in the girl—soft mouth, the same chin, the same dark hair falling the way her mother’s used to. Useful. Alyssa wants the job. Kiara gives her one: fetch, carry, obey. Days later, the girl is at the stove in nothing but an apron when Kiara walks in and points to the steaming mug. “That’s mine.” Alyssa pulls it back. They tussle—breasts pressed together, robe slipping open. Kiara wins. She shoves the girl to her knees. “Start with the feet.” Alyssa bends, tongue tracing the arch, sucking each toe while her own fingers drift between her legs. Kiara watches, cunt dripping. She drags Alyssa onto the counter, spreads her, and buries her mouth where the girl is already slick. Same taste as her mother. Same helpless whimpers. Kiara licks deep, slow, the way she used to lick that letter’s writer until she sobbed. Hot chocolate cools on the table. Neither of them cares.