#threesome.

The first Triangle had taken his time. Made sure you were excited enough to effortlessly accept two cocks. Not at once. He would have loved to see you double stuffed. But his less experienced coworker had snuck inside you before he could bring it up. Rude. Still, it was fun to see a pretty girl’s face contort as she playfully pretended to struggle to accommodate the girth.  

If the other players knew you were getting preferential treatment, or thought you were a plant, things might get messy. He glanced at your thighs, which had already been coated with cum when they led you to the hallway. Were you sleeping with another player? Other players? Nice.

You were perfect at taking dick. One after another, the first Triangle thought. Perfect at taking him after other players, after his coworker. You panted, tongue out, face pressed against the pastel wall by a black glove. When he was alone in his cell, he’d probably cum again, mask off, inhaling your sweat off of it. Instead of licking the slick right off his fingers. 

The black gloves weren’t terribly comfortable in or around your openings, but raw fingering was A-OK. Not that you were in any position to tell the Guards what to do. 

Outside of work, the first Triangle usually preferred full nudity. Both his own and his partners’. During the games was different. He wasn’t risking you seeing any bare skin. If you wanted to flick your pebble, it made no difference to him. You got so wet just anticipating a threesome. If you didn’t, he’d have used the discreet vibrator you wore on a necklace, concealed under your shirt. He’d felt it while groping you, testing your compliance. Lifting it out of your cleavage, he gently dropped the pendant over the green ___ printed on the white cotton. Not even needing to tilt his head to get you to understand he knew what it really was. 

Sometimes players smuggled stuff in. This was new, though. Dirty girl. 

Way better use of a necklace than a pill case, you mentally huffed while the Pink Guard examined the accessory. 

Lucky for you, the other Triangle was happy to stroke at your clit with his pinkie. If you’d looked down, the sight of a partner desperate to please would have ushered you into the first orgasm. (Of the session, not the day.) Climaxing onto his twitching digits. Glossy goo sleeping all the way down his warm palm to his wrist. If he’d been more experienced, he might have realized you were ovulating.

Not that it mattered if you got knocked up. Just two more games to go. Even if you won, you wouldn’t have time to balloon up like 222. His more experienced coworker, who’d had a vasectomy, didn’t bother mentioning being snipped. You were an all round risk taker. A taker in general, judging from the way you used other players sexually and took more and more fingers than he’d seen anyone take in their cunt before. So wet. So slippery. 

Because the thought of you bringing your own vibe to the island, making use of it while hidden away on one of the top bunks, your little gasps attracting the attention of a bunkmate…! Maybe he says something to the guy below him. Next thing you know, the faux-phallus is supplemented with real dick. It looked like the previous guy’s semen was cleaned out, but spilled onto your thighs. Or someone pulled out and finished on them. The thought of that likely scenario made him blow his load, bucking his hips against your plush ass. Ramming into your grip, any lingering concern over your comfort had melted away.

This guy was gonna bust soon. You could tell. 

Second Triangle’s cockhead was peeking out, eager to reintroduce itself after a break. It was bad enough he couldn’t kiss your pretty pussy quite yet, or at least lick up the mystery jizz. He had to withdraw his fingers and back up as his fellow guard shuddered into you. Lest your crotch bump into his mask. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled, promptly straightening up as the soft cock slipped out. His hands had migrated to your biceps. You let your cheek rest against the cool wall. Then you crossed legs. Futilely holding their mixed cum inside. 

“I don’t feel like waddling to the bathroom right now,” you whined. “Can one of you eat me out?”

They looked at each other. 

It wasn’t like the second Triangle’s reputation really mattered here, and he had just fantasized about licking up someone else’s semen. (Off the thighs of a hot babe, but still.) His own, though?

As they both stood before you, a sigh escaped your lips. “Quit eyefucking each other and do rock, paper, scissors or something.” 

It really wasn’t your place to tell the Guards what to do. Yet the first guy made a fist and rested it on his palm, ready to throw. Post nut clarity should have warned him not to. Just let go of your arms and- When would he get this opportunity again?

“What are you two doing?” 

They stared past you, while you had to swivel your head to see who it was. A Square. He wasn’t addressing you, maybe because he didn’t expect you to behave any differently. Cameras were everywhere, after all. Frustrated, you stuck your pendant into your mouth. At this rate, the battery would be used up before you won. Not that this Square probably knew that, let alone what it was. 

He addressed his underlings. “Removing masks would result in immediate termination.” 

The three of you stood facing him. Arms hanging at your sides. Unsure how to proceed. Nobody spoke. Then the Square Guard took up his walkie talkie. 

“What-?” you started.

“Either we get a disposable Circle, or Player ___ comes with me.”

The two Triangles watched as you pulled up first your panties, then your track pants. And chose the second option. 

They picked you up at both ends. Laying you neatly on your bed. If you’d been an outside observer, you’d have predicted the vampires would tear ______ apart, twisting her midriff until viscera spilled onto the linoleum. Ready to be lapped at by the rest of their sneering coven, emerging out of the shadows-

You jolted when Marlow pressed his stone cold cock against your warm lips. Zurial followed suit, his own erection nearly frigid as it was rigid, poking at your folds. 

“I don’t expect you to take all of us. Not right away. Not if you don’t want to.”

You would’ve bit your lip if you weren’t worried about accidentally nipping Marlow. He quickly explained, “I mean Zurial and myself inside you. Not the rest. You’re not for them.” Only us. 

“Can you… warm up first? Marlow?” You smiled shyly. “My gums are sensitive.”

He nodded. “How do you want me to do that?” A hand cupped your side boob. “Or do you want me to choose for you?”

His hands had warmed up considerably, from fondling your softest parts while Zurial undressed you, so you had to think for a minute. If Marlow chose the heat of your breasts, then he might tweak your nipples. And then you’d be sure to finish much too quickly. You fantasized about his nails growing to claws again, leaving light scratches on your heaving chest. Zurial groaned, your pussy wetting his tip. Still, they remained patient. You suspected they could both last a long time. So it was fine to stave off your own climax(es). Even so, Zurial was painfully hard and you wanted so, so badly to relieve him. 

Even with their open predation of humans, you wouldn’t have given up this encounter for anything. Afterwards, you would ask them what they’d have done if you had “chickened out.” Zurial shrugged and admitted he’d just jerk off in the snow. Marlow grinned and said he could wait indefinitely till you were in the mood.

A vampire’s penis, you noted, looked more alive—not undead—than the rest of their bodies.

Their victim’s blood pumped quickly through their veins, rushing towards their members. Tearing away all thoughts of anything else but you three’s joint goal of all getting off and getting each other off.  

The memories of your fellow humans being hunted took on a new context. Marlow and Zurial were apex predators. So you decided to feel honored they were more or less treating you as a sexual equal. Honored that they wanted you reclined while you sucked off Marlow and allowed Zurial to search for the best angles. You wordlessly reached for the former’s cock.

If you were with another human, one who was this hard, you’d be worried about premature ejaculation. Marlow could hold out as long as you needed. He didn’t want you to feel like you were fellating an icicle, after all.  

“Both hands, ______?” he asked. You nodded, shifting onto your elbows. Giving Zurial a premium view of your ass. “The sooner you let Zurial inside you, the sooner he’ll match your warmth.” 

Zurial: “Will I be seeing your tits again soon?” 

Nodding again, you set to work. Marlow added, “She can take us both on all fours another time.”

Another time. 

One hand closing over the base of Marlow’s erection, you realized you hadn’t kissed either partner yet. The other hand joined its twin on his length as you bent down to plant a smooch on his cockhead. His appreciative smile was so benevolent, an outside observer would have trouble believing Marlow was really a “bloodthirsty monster.” Zurial planted icy kisses on your inner thigh. As piercingly cold as it had been, you missed his erection. 

Once Marlow had sapped enough heat, his temperature then matching yours, he coaxed you onto your side again, asking you to spread your legs, revealing your eager cunt for his fellow. 

You used the free hand that wasn’t guiding Marlow’s dick into your mouth to Zurial’s. For a few agonizing seconds you were worried your vagina was going numb, until Zurial started receiving its heat into his loins. Then he sheathed himself inside.  

You thought for sure the clergymen were going to mark your feet like they’d done to their nuns. With that horrible cross brand. No ceremony. (Beyond Enzo scrubbing your feet raw. Not a pleasant thing to wake up to, bound or not.) It almost would have been more understandable, given the conspiracy you’d uncovered, than what they ended up doing to your poor innocent feet. 

You flushed when the priest laid a gloved hand on your belly. Over your womb. He looked almost wistful. You weren’t sure how he wanted you pregnant. Through the sacrilegious conception Sister Cecilia and who knew how many other women of the cloth had been subjected to. Or the traditional way.

Considering he was both breaking his vows to the Church and the Hippocratic Oath…

“Geneticist, not a physician,” you muttered. He was still subject to ethical standards. And divine judgement. Whatever he and the rest of the corrupt sect did to you would just cement their descent into perdition. 

You really, really wished Tedeschi and the deacon would renounce their wickedness, their exploitation of chaste bodies. But again, that was between them and God now. 

Judging by Enzo’s leer and Tedeschi’s pompous smile, the two men were only going to sin further. 

Unlike Cecilia and her predecessors, you were going to be consciously inseminated. With a baster or whatever phallus substitute they employed. They didn’t view their mission of artificially ushering in the Second Coming as defilement. Plus, you weren’t a nun. Just some nosy interloper. So why shouldn’t they violate your womb for their own vile purposes?

Father Tedeschi relished your warmth through the thin fabric. If he’d moved his hand a couple inches lower, he’d be sinning. But as your pastor, why, it was perfectly acceptable for him to care for your uterus. 

He wasn’t going to fornicate with you. The word fuck actually crossed his mind. Fucking was something someone did to someone else. Even though your feet were going to bring him (and Enzo) ecstasy, he wanted your consent. Too bad he wouldn’t get it. Not that night.

Ever since you first entered the convent, under false pretenses, Tedeschi fantasized about washing your feet. It was humble. Not perverse. (If you’d tried explaining foot fetishism, he’d scoff. Even if his reveries did include pedicures and exfoliation.) There was a whole holiday, during Holy Week, to celebrate foot bathing. 

The fact your social stations and the context made it completely different from an actual holy man serving a beggar didn’t register.

“Please,” you whispered. Unable to raise your voice. “I’m begging you.”

Tedeschi almost looked ready to twirl the branding iron. For all you knew, your insolence might be punished with a beating. 

“If I wasn’t bound, I would be begging on my knees.” 

I prefer you on your back, thought Tedeschi. On a whim he’d brought oil. And he, and his fellow, was glad he did. His index and middle finger half-raised. Deliberating whether to anoint you? Instead he let the oil slide down to his wrists. Treating it like hand soap, his hands ran over each other. 

Your bare feet were already tender from Enzo’s vigorous scrub brush. They hadn’t been too dirty, the convent was kept immaculate. Even in this torture chamber. Indeed, he’d nearly forgotten to roll his sleeves back down before donning leather gloves. 

A loud gasp interrupted your whispered promises of penance. For anything they thought you deserved punishment for. Enzo’s mustache brushed against your podal pinkie. Then his lips. 

He said something to his partner in Italian. Then planted a kiss on each other toe of your right foot. Tedeschi’s mouth just went for your left big toe, his oiled hands grasping your ankles.

The ultimate humility. That’s what they would tell you afterwards.

After oiling your feet, lovingly running his fingers through your interdigital clefts, pinching your toes, ensuring oil got under your nails, you wondered if they were just going to burn your feet away. If all their administrations were a goodbye kiss. 

Enzo was careful to keep his gloves clean as he went to release his superior’s rigid cock. As much as you tried to avoid vanity, your tootsies got moisturized frequently. Both men appreciated that. 

It jutted out from Tedeschi’s robe, the flushed member a stark contrast to the sable cloth. Even in the dim light, throbbing veins captured your attention. 

“Relax, ______,” he commanded, once more grasping your ankles. At some point the iron had been forgotten. Just a tool to install fear. For you. Neither of them wanted your beautiful soles chastened by the cross. 

Much of the oil had trickled down your calves. Meaning the priest wouldn’t sully his cassock as he fucked himself with your feet. Your legs went limp. 

“This…!” you sputtered. “This is onanism!” 

You thought using a term of biblical origin might at least might them feel a little repentant. They clearly were going to finish what they’d started. But if only you could appeal to Catholic guilt.

Father Tedeschi shrugged, while Deacon Enzo pushed the hem of your dress up to your knees. No farther. Your loins weren’t going to be attended to tonight. Not by them, anyway. 

“Our seed won’t touch the ground. We’ll ingest it.”