Archive of Our Own

Esther Kadigan was so fantastically, impossibly over-it-all that she might as well have given up on falsifying the popular prophecy that women with an aura as gothic as hers were invariably gloomy, broody, and/or evil, and finally traded her fair features for infernal ones. The black, burnt grime of burnout had stained her soul, though not the creamy collar of her work uniform, and she'd resigned herself to suffer life as yet another sharp-toothed cog ground down in the endless engine of capitalism. Bereft of money or influence, she played the role and trade of an automaton: brewing coffee, bagging hash browns, and boxing donuts. It didn't matter one iota how loftily her dreams soared over the banality of everything, or how much her button nose upturned in disdain, or how vehemently she clung to shadows in her style despite the uniform's pastels—her current occupation claimed a solid third of her entire life, now, but drained happiness from her at a rate that suggested a much greater proportion.

It was unequivocally obvious to everyone just how unhappy she was. Nowhere on her chalky, cordate face was there any trace of anything akin to joy, or mirth, or love, or any other emotion upwards of zero—and if looks could kill, she would have already been well out of a job and the store well out of business. Ha! The cafe's floor would have been made a killing one aeons ago, if she were able; it would have run red with the vivisected forms of every idle customer that caught so much as a glance of her. Esther could not, of course, actually effect such violence—however much to her chagrin—so she settled, as people often do, for simulacrum. Idle imaginings of irritating customers injured grievously infected her thoughts: a decapitation here, a bilateral amputation there, cuttings and maimings ad infinitum. She happened to be a deadshot with a bow, and arrow-flights were too easy to envision; therefore, it required some restraint from her to not mime the release of a bowstring at the disheveled man with awful garlic breath who was scarfing down a croissant sandwich a dozen feet away. Flakes of breading were left everywhere—flakes Esther would inevitably have to sweep up, even if she'd much rather mop his blood off of the tiles… but no. The best gesture she could manage would be a finger-gun levelled at her pretty head, performed in the cafe's back room later, to one of her sympathetic—but still irreparably mundane—coworkers. They would understand a little, even if none of them understood much of her outside the walls of the café—or was it 'cagé'?

A sigh escaped her lips at the bad pun, whose source she knew to be alien. Beneath the mint-green broadbill cap of Esther's work uniform, black hair poured down over one eye; black brows cast a thick scowl over black irises and eyebags; black lips pursed into a thin line—her face was made entirely of sharp, sweeping curves and chiaroscuro contrasts. Boredom, though, trended her towards black: trimmed, jet-black nails drummed points against her pointed chin, tendons visible under the skin, which lay almost sheer over lapis lazuli veins and ill-defined musculature. They reminded her—unwantedly—of the piano strings she hadn't found the will to strike in months, or rather their electronic versions embedded in the keyboard in the corner of her bedroom, accumulating dust, and therefore turning gray. It was imperative that she and hers stay midnight-dark, and never fade. A piano had no gray keys, after all, and her mind no gray, impotent matter either. The black keys were the minor ones, the ones she liked, the sharps and flats, and she maintained that her feelings shared their false duality: it was possible to be as sharp—as smart—and flat—as solemn—all at once. It was imperative that she retain her brood-dark potency indefinitely.

From her perch upon a knobbled elbow on the counter, Esther’s eyes cut sharply, solemnly throughout the midday scene, and found it wanting. Truly, being a barista was one of the lowest existences she could conceive of. The pit of Tartarus, she'd argue, was cruelly carpeted in bitter, blackened coffee grounds.

Nothing was altogether dark, however. Inside the brooding, gathered shadow that was Esther was a light, a colour in emerald green, a fire that warmed her frigid soul from the inside out, like harlequin flames licking at the insides of a brazen bull—again, all very much to her chagrin. Esther—Ettie to her friends, though she had few of those these days—was not actually possessed by a spirit of much malevolence at all, no matter what her countenance suggested. Since the previous autumn’s Friday the 13th, her head had instead played host to Something much brighter and more verdant than she'd like: the exasperating, enthusiastic entity that called Itself ‘Calliope’.

Only an hour left today, Callie crooned inside her skull, as if on cue. The soundless words were accompanied by a subtle green-shift in her vision, which diminished in the center and deepened at the edges. Esther would not dignify the hallucination with small-talk or any manner of response. Instead, she put her all into the running of her index finger in circles on the rim of the styrofoam cup placed prominently on the counter. Filled with many coins and a few bills—the day’s tips—it made almost no sound. Almost; she could just hear the soft squeaking of skin on polystyrene, much as she could just hear the soft green noise in her mind that signaled Callie's presence. She preferred the former, just as she preferred the music of the armonica to the calliope.

Are you thinking about masturbating again? The bright green voice continued, undeterred. That got a reaction out of Esther: a faint blush splintered into her cheeks, destroying her perfect monochrome aesthetic. She stabbed her finger down and knocked over the cup, creating a clattering of coins.

What the fuck are you talking about?

She spat back telepathically, with burning venom so potent it could have neutralized an elephant had her thoughts traveled to its ears. The anger threatened to make itself known on her face; she took care to direct it better, inwards, away from any of the patrons in the dining room. Already she’d been chastised a few times by her manager for looking overly murderous, and she had no desire to be written up again.

You're bored, aren't you? You're seeking any stimulus you can. Self-pleasure is a powerful one, so it's only natural that you'd consider it, Calliope continued.

I'm not considering it.

Behind her lips, Esther grit her teeth. Rising from her crooked posture, she smoothed down the corners of the green apron over her skirt, double-checking there were still sufficient layers between her nether regions and the world. Not to worry, anyway—she was not aroused.

Maybe you should, though? I’d be glad to help you, the voice went on, to Ettie's bewilderment. As its tones faded, she felt something impossible—no, somethings. There were hands bypassing all of those layers—two of them, each cupping around a breast. Gently, their fingers curled and gripped, pressing slightly into plush skin. The soft surface of a palm slid over pink peaks—rapidly hardening—and—

She swatted at her chest to banish them; her fingers hit hard against her sternum. Frantic, she looked out at the dining room, confirming that nobody had seen the spastic gesture. All was calm, without; all was burning rage, within.

What have I told you about touching me like that while I'm at work?

As her words faded, she perceived a waver in them—an unmistakable marker of excitement. Upon realizing that she was breathing rather heavy, Esther reddened further, and further reddened at the shame of that—was she really so easy? No, no she wasn’t; it was only the very public nature of the environment that put her so on edge. Again: she was not the slightest bit aroused.

Sorry, Calliope murmured, sounding disappointed. You did say to only do that when you have privacy.

Ettie closed her eyes, and immediately regretted doing so: in the blank, dark red behind her eyelids, it was easy to forget the world in favor of every memory where her willpower had failed her in just this way before: every instance in the cafe's employee bathroom, which locked from the inside, where she'd grip the edges of the sink and shiver with pleasure as Callie, the demon whose demesne was people-pleasing, touched her so perfectly in-preference that it almost got her to express her gratitude. Almost, but not quite; every time had instead ended with an awkward silence as Esther panted with white-knuckled fingers, came down slowly from the high, and collected herself enough to return to work with no one else the wiser. Before Callie she'd never done such things while on the clock, but having such a willing toy inside her head—one that surpassed any vibrator—made it so, so difficult not to take advantage. She gave in, but reluctantly—that made her better than that, right? She was not at all an eager hedonist, and so thought herself superior.

She was reminded that, in many ways—irritation perhaps the most expected of them—Calliope was her superior, leagues above her in the great chain of being whose links joined together angels and ants alike, with mortals like her somewhere in the middle. Esther’s eyes flew open. She remembered where she was, and who she was, and what she was definitely not going to let Calliope do to her while she staffed the counter in a cafe full of customers.

Yes, I did say that. And do I look like I have privacy right now?

She rattled back—it was rhetorical. However annoying It was, Calliope was far from stupid. The Presence that occupied her mind was not of this world, or any world known, and Its intellect (or at least the capacity for it) far and away eclipsed Esther’s own and maybe even that of all Earthlings combined. Were all humanity gathered in a sphere, Calliope’s green star would outshine them all. The damned Thing was damn smart, that was for sure. There was, however, more than one kind of intelligence; as a result, Callie’s tact did not surpass even that of the average toddler. Lacking in humanity and humans' capacity for self-repression, It lacked the requisite human filter.

Well… It began; Esther raised her eyebrows high, as if by disappearing in her hair they could reach high enough to accuse It. I could easily make it so that nobody could see us… so… yes?

Again: no tact whatsoever. Esther took in air and held it suspended in her lungs. Exactly what went through her head was difficult to fully describe. She could imagine the potential taking shape: Calliope would make her imperceptible to others, using some strange magic to hypnotize those in the dining room by way of subtle eye movements, and then proceed as they were used to more privately, but more publicly. She in turn would try very, very hard not to moan or squeal or even climax and fail at all three of those some time after Callie slipped a narrow, phantom finger in-between her folds. The green devil’s touch was toxic: It knew exactly where and when to press, to push, to make her melt, or to pull back, and the green devil was willing—no, wanting—to touch her, too. It would be so very easy, and any boredom she felt now would be alleviated, that was for sure. It would—no. No, no.

She exhaled. Righting the tip cup, she stole a glance at the pair of automatic sliding doors at the entrance at the far end of the room. Less than an hour and she'd be on her way home, to a place she was much more comfortable indulging in improper fantasies. They’d have a good amount of time to get up to no good; there was no need to play at exhibition here and now. Not to mention… the permanent aroma of coffee that pervaded her workplace was a bit of a turn-off.

No. I'd rather not ruin my tights by letting you finger me in front of everyone.

Ruin them? What do you mean, you've already—oh. Oh. You're right, they would definitely be wetter.

Ettie wished for nothing more than to stake It through Its big, gay emerald heart right at that moment. If not a stake, then something sharp—maybe something metallic. She was pretty proficient with a blade, or a pair thereof: scissors had been her weapon of choice when she’d gone and got herself expelled from university. The ‘victim’ did not deserve his designation; she had no regrets when recalling the memory of how the scissors’ handles had stuck out like bow loops from the thigh of the greasy professor who’d propositioned her one too many times. His panicked screams and blubbering had been worth hearing, regardless of her punishment. She truly hoped the wound had scarred and dutifully reminded him of her with a sharp twinge of pain if he ever tried to resume his sex-pestering ways.

Her violent tendencies were misdirected, now. Calliope was not a sex pest, only an ordinary one, and barely even that: It was far too sweet and understanding to ever act untoward towards her. Callie had not once been judgmental, even after It unwittingly perused the darkest corners of Esther’s mind that she kept hidden from everyone else for reasons she considered good. It knew all about her insecurities, her inadequacies, her hallucinations (which It had offered to suppress to free her from her medications’ side-effects) and didn’t bat a doe-like eyelash at the lot of them. All things considered, she was lucky. The entity haunting her brain was not malicious or apathetic but friendly and altogether harmless. Calliope was interested in nearly everything under the sun; It just happened to have chosen Esther as the focus of Its orbit. Secretly, she detested how much that satellite status was becoming more than a little bit endearing—but keeping secrets from a mind-reader required said mind-reader to keep up the kayfabe of not knowing, and she already knew It knew she knew, and so on.

I'll show you wet, once I make it home.

She threatened, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, thankful more than ever for the absorbency of cotton undergarments.

Oh! Yay! It said, with signature enthusiasm. Esther rolled her eyes, performing for Its sake. Callie responded well to being treated like someone with physical presence, like someone who was fluent in reading the feelings off of faces instead of the scattered sparking of synapses. But after her eyes revolved once more to center, Esther’s expression became an unreadable mask once more. They passed the remainder of her shift in silence, but to say her mood hadn’t improved would have been a lie. She’d found something to look forward to, even if that something was awfully perverse.

In under an hour’s time she was draping her black peacoat over her shoulders, concealing the green apron underneath. Finally she could be back in comforting jet-black, and like a shadow, she silently poured out the day’s tips into a tupperware container in the backroom, not bothering to count them. The meager amount was rather patronizing; whenever patrons stooped to patronize her, the tip was for her looks, not her demeanor, so she eyed their pennies with extra disdain. "A dime-piece for a dime-piece like you", they would quip, and Esther would smile a little outside, die a little inside, and the little obol they provided would soon be spent to stave off Death’s inexorable advance by means of the overpriced skincare routine she persisted in. Esther was not going to let the stress of being ogled give her wrinkles; she would rather her hair turn shock white instead, had she the chance to choose how time would toll her. Didn’t certain animals die well before their time while in captivity? She hated interacting with the public in the manner of a mannequin, or a zoo animal. She hated even more that her manager placed her on front-counter duty with such abnormal frequency.

"Everyone wants to see their coffee made by the pretty goth chick," she muttered under her breath, exiting through the back door. Gone was the warm-but-bitter scent of the interior; the tasteless wind of winter assailed her in its place. Her voice was sweet and low and sharp, cutting through the cold air like artificially sweetened and aerated lemonade—an unseasonable drink, the same way Esther was out-of-place everywhere and everywhen.

You are very pretty, It answered out of turn. If I were human, I’d want you to make my coffee too.

"Oh stop," she snapped, wrapping the peppery scarf around her neck and tucking its fringes in her coat. "If you were a customer, you wouldn't even be able to order anything! You'd just stand there drooling and ask me for my number!"

Yes, exactly. Lucky, though—I already know it. I know a lot of numbers.

Esther pulled the scarf above her nose and buried her hands in her pockets. From head to toe, she became like an oil spill upon the cold, gray landscape, moving fluidly from place to place, with only the blush of her cheeks hinting at the human lurking in the darkness. "Yeah, so you know it starts with area code 666, for Hell. Like 555 for Hollywood."

She breathed out through the scarf and saw moisture materialize before her face. Her boots crunched over the snowy asphalt as she traipsed across the parking lot.

Hell has frozen over, it looks like. Aren't you cold?

"I'm fine," she insisted. "It's just Boston in the wintertime."

There was a warmth around her neck, like a second scarf, or like invisible arms hugging over her from just behind.

I wish that I could keep you warm for real, and wrap around your heart.

Esther rolled her eyes again. She stabbed at the button for the crosswalk when she reached the exit to the street. "You're so sweet," she said derisively. "My heart's already black. You might get corrupted hanging out in there."

Maybe so. Desire necessarily corrupts. But it’s all right—to be loved is to be changed, after all.

Ettie had no retort for that except one word. "Dork," she said, smiling in spite of herself as she crossed without looking both ways—Calliope as superhuman augment for her awareness did make life a bit easier, sometimes. Its intention blended up with hers and placed her on an autopilot, thinking almost no thoughts all throughout her journey home. Esther's mind was emptied, like a carafe drained of all its liquid vigor, but it was kept warm in the same way—owing to Callie's imaginary embrace.

The warmth It offered wasn’t real; her cheeks were rosy by the time she passed through the three doors and three flights of steps that led to her apartment, nestled in the right half of the highest floor of a triplex on a hill. Summiting that prominence had however made her hot and slightly sweaty underneath; she hung her coat and scarf and apron all on hooks beside the too-wide, too-old wooden portal, and a lone hook remained after she'd finished. Like an inverted eroteme, it answered rather than asked questions: it meant that her eccentric roommate Argus hadn't yet found his way home. This would be another evening spent solely with inhuman company.

Briefly, in the hallway, she considered fixing something in the kitchen, but at present Esther’s aching was holistic, not gastric, and dinner could wait until later. Instead of making for the kitchen, she turned right, crossing the living room—sad and forlorn with no one currently living in it—and pushed open the white, weathered door to her bedroom. Before it opened fully Ettie shut it tight behind her and promptly faceplanted onto the long twin mattress, not bothering to cast off her tights or button-up in favor of woolier pajamas. The bedspread was therefore quite chilly, but the sensation was wonderful against her skin, left feverish from the exertion.

She groaned into the fabric. The sound of exhaustion reverberated through the mattress, like an animal herd’s bellowing picked up with one ear to the ground. Her position couldn't be a permanent one without air, and for one more reason, too: no sooner did she settle in than did phantom hands appear at both her shoulders. They moved with certainty and purpose, massaging her muscles with fingers that were delicate yet firm, gentle yet determined. Ettie felt herself begin to melt into the sheets immediately, like licorice softened by hands’ handling.

"Fuck, you're so good at that," she groaned. "You're not even human, so how do you know exactly where to press…"

"I like to learn, so I just learned how best to please you." Its voice was external now, the soft and froggy tones heard through her actual ears as It massaged their lobes between pinched fingers. She became aware of a slight weight over her lower back, like a person straddling her but also making every effort to keep any actual weight on their knees, and off of her. Well, not like—that was exactly what was happening. Even in illusion Calliope was careful with her.

Esther flipped around to find Its face smiling down at her, and sharply inhaled. Again she had to reckon with the human form that Calliope presented to her mind like a hyperreal hallucination. The first time It had appeared, she'd thought it to be exactly that: a new, awful escalation in the imaginations that plagued her when she went without her medication, though those were usually just auditory. Only after serious convincing had she accepted that Calliope was real—well, real in the sense that It did not entirely originate from her troubled psyche, but from Elsewhere. She hadn’t yet gone crazy; maybe it was Callie’s job to drive her there.

Who could blame her for assuming, though? Its appearance was at once too unorthodox and too convenient to be based in reality. Its features were that of an ordinary woman a few years her junior: unremarkable, but pleasing to her eyes—so, so suspiciously pleasing. What did it say about her if her ideal match was a gangly, glasses-clad nerdy girl with dyed-purple hair whose brown roots showed through and who possessed—despite possessing Esther—no sense of fashion whatsoever other than an endless array of forest-green flannels and neutral, fading tees—with no bra—and fraying, baggy jeans? It could have looked like anything, yet Calliope chose a look unbecoming for a being of her stature. All indications of Its divinity were veiled for the moment: there were no silk-soft seraph's wings, with their many emerald eyes; there was not even a hazy, off-white halo to indicate Its innocence.

Esther knew that how It looked was in part a reflection of how she perceived It; she didn't know which parts were due to her (correct!) interpretation of Calliope as an enormous, incorrigible nerd and which were there just to cater to her… unique manner of attraction. She didn't care to examine where the balance lay.

Regardless of the intricacies of why Callie looked the way It did, the what of things was pretty simple: It was straddling her, in an apparent position of power. Esther reacted accordingly, on instinct, shifting back against the headboard and pushing hard with both hands against Its chest.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she snapped, breathing heavily. Calliope was gracious enough to let the shove affect her intangible form. It fell back further down the bed, steadying Itself with both hands knuckled-down against the sheets, while remaining on Its knees.

"Massaging you?"

Ettie blew a puff of air to move her bangs back over her right eye. "You know what I mean. I can’t have… you know I need to have control of things."

Callie's smile was sheepish and defensive. "Well…" she trailed off, roving her eyes over the ceiling and chewing on literally nothing—not even imagining some gum. "I'm always kind of possessing you, remember?"

"Still. It's the image of it I can't handle." Esther didn't know how better to elaborate without letting her thoughts stray too far into territory she'd rather not let Callie glimpse again. Keeping her mind blank, she felt her heartbeat harden when Its eyes fell to look upon her arm; she half-expected It to lift it like were a puppet’s. The worry lasted but a moment, though: Its gaze climbed upwards, finally landing on her face.

"You're so precious," Callie whispered. "Like a porcelain doll."

Esther rolled her eyes. "Never heard that one before," she scoffed.

Calliope moved closer. With one large, narrow hand, she tucked the longer half of Ettie's hair behind her right ear. "Wouldn't repetition make it somewhat true, though? You are pretty, and pale, like some ceramics."

"I could be blue, and just as pretty," Esther sighed, moving the hair back. "Or black. They paint over porcelain—anything more colorful than white. I’m a person, not a doll—and stop messing with my hair.”

Callie’s hand fell to her cheek, where it remained. It looked at her with narrow, furrowed brows. “I could correct for your diplopia,” It said. “Replace your ‘solution’ for your double-vision, so that you wouldn’t have to cover up one eye. Does being a person always have to mean choosing to suffer?”

Ettie couldn’t see it, even when she tried: the darkness of her hair overlaid on her right eye, blocking out the world. Instead she saw the world only, with Callie fretting over her smack dab in the middle of it.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m used to it.”

“Used to being a person? Or just suffering?” Callie’s fingers circled on her cheek.

“I’m not.” Ettie leaned into Its touch. Another hand raised to mirror the first, so that her face was gently sandwiched in Its palms.

“But you are mine, right?” Callie breathed. “My person, I mean.”

For some unfathomable reason, Esther allowed It to squish her cheeks a little. "Yeah—I guesh I am," she sputtered out.

Callie smiled, and Esther accepted what would happen. Holding her face still, It moved in for the kill, with lips like twin, plush sharks whose threat was understated by their soft appearance. Calliope was an exceptional kisser—how could It be otherwise? Esther herself was labially talented, thank-you-very-much, and It borrowed from and improved upon her skill in plying lips with lips, such that it was unlike and much better than how she imagined kissing a clone of herself would be. Kissing Calliope was warm, not cold like space, like the stars had made the interstellar medium lukewarm. It was like… kissing a tree, or brushing lips with aloe vera molded into lips; the taste of It was earthy, like matcha powder or like mint. No matter the temperature, it drove Esther absolutely crazy. She tried to assume her preferred role as the silent partner, the experienced one who took the lead, melting to the sounds of Callie’s adorable squeals and moans as their mouths danced with each other. She could not manage this, however, or was simply a poor player: more than a few low moans snuck their way out of her throat, against her will. Before long, her head was careening like a rogue planet, drool dripped down her chin, and she was hopelessly wet far, far below. It took the realization of that last fact for her to reclaim some measure of alertness, breaking away before the kiss completely unraveled her composure.

"You—ah," she stuttered, focusing on focusing her vision. Its resolution was all the more annoying: she saw Calliope pull back and lick her lips, seeming perfectly content. Her face was glowing like the setting sun was shining on it, granting her the best, last, most golden rays.

"Me, what?" Callie feigned confusion, cocking her head diagonally for good measure. A cute, acute gesture. Esther's patience for such cuteness had run out.

"Shut up. Down, switch with me," she ordered. Calliope complied; in a flurry of limbs they swapped places, so that Callie's back was to the headboard and it was Esther's turn to straddle her, in tights it was critical she shed as soon as possible.

"Good girl. Stay still," she barked, finding the hem of the skirt in order to slide it down her hips. "Don't look," she added, seeing Callie staring.

It complied once more, placing one hand over each eye—a goddess playing peekaboo. Its innocence wasn't altogether feigned: Calliope was antediluvian in true age, as measured in aeons older than the universe, but she was still very virginal when it came to the deluge of personhood It had experienced for just a few short months. It was sweet, still, but not stupid.

"I know you can still see out of mine, so turn that off, too. No peeking," Esther said. She worked and moved with haste, struggling to stretch the skirt's elastic wide enough to get it off at first. Too wide, she'd often said about her hips; No, no! You're like a little pear!, Callie invariably replied.

"Anything for you, Ettie," It said brightly; the static in her mind dimmed a little. With renewed effort, she removed the skirt. "You're impossible," she muttered, then: "Fuck—" her fingers touched the front part of her tights, under her stomach.

"You're very wet," Callie said unhelpfully. Ettie lacked a free hand with which to facepalm and any clever words to say in her defense. Instead, she focused on rolling the fabric down: to her thighs, to her knees, to her narrow, bony ankles, until she was forced to fall onto her back and raise her leg up in the air to roll it off her foot. She saw Callie shift slightly at the headboard just as one leg came free. She flexed her toes, now without the nylon to interleave them.

"So you're into feet now?" she lobbed at It, flexing them more widely for good measure. It was just a tease; she wasn't being serious as she pulled the other leg of the tights off and shunted forward to straddling position once again, but Calliope often took things literally, not from ignorance, but obstinance. Calliope was literally adorable, too, at this moment, what with the cute covering-her-eyes and the immediate obedience to everything she said and the fact that Esther could see twin peaks under her shirt stiffen in excitement. Its arousal was always one of subtle defiance: she hadn't ordered It to show her such enticing signs as hardened nipples under t-shirts, and yet it gave her that for free. Esther began to lose her train of thought and board one destined for grasping at Its chest, but her fantasy was brought to a halt by Its response.

"You have pretty feet," Callie said, still behind her hands. Esther flexed again on reflex, pressing her toes into the sheets.

"You think I have pretty everything," she breathed, leaning down. The front of her underwear—black, naturally, and lacy, naturally too—pressed onto Callie's navel. The girl's breath hitched as if she'd dropped an anvil on Its diaphragm—the 'you do' was heavily implied. Esther grinned.

"What's prettier then, Callie, my feet or my cunt, do you think?" she continued, reaching for Its wrists to pry them apart, only to find them holding fast like iron. Oh. She supposed she couldn't fault It for obedience.

"You can look, now," she dismissed the charm. "The question still stands, though."

Calliope allowed Its wrists to be moved, to either side of her head, with the palms upturned. "Hi!" she said sunnily upwards.

"'Hi'," Ettie returned, mockingly. She glanced down to where her hands met Its bisque-bright skin. It was loathsome how perfectly Its wrists fit in her grip, like they were fashioned just for her. Of course they were; Calliope was wholly fashioned just for her. Everything, every curve, every mannerism—from easily-marked flesh to gangly limb to coquettish delay—was calculated to enrapture her.

"Are you going to answer? Or just leave me hanging?" she insisted.

"Your face," Callie tried—a willfully incorrect response. Her neck craned upwards, seeking a kiss, but was denied; Esther hovered just out of her range.

"Not one of the options."

Callie's face shifted unnaturally quick to assume a shy, pouting expression. "Your cunt, then," she whispered, as if scared to say the word. A wicked grin split Esther’s features in reply. Now she felt herself to be the devil, though she knew Its shyness to be performance. So was sex, though, really: sex was like a play, revelry to soften the day’s hardships, and whether the pursuit was thespian or lesbian, she was glad to play along.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," she smirked, straightening up. "Lose the clothes, nerd."

Ettie blinked, and they were gone: not just Callie's but her own as well. Her bare thighs pressed around Callie's like a vice, holding the rest of her like tongs would hold a sugar cube, though her partner was far sweeter. It made for a rather poor prism: much of Calliope's height was in her torso, which stretched out beneath her like a long, thin pillow, pinched in just-right at the waist. Petite, perky, caramel-peaked breasts stared up at her, just the same as the big, brown, puppy-dog eyes stared, and both had matching hues. A cool breeze wound through the gap between her legs and Callie's; Esther shivered and processed fully that she was naked, too.

"Oh—" she started, preparing some clever quip while trying not to blush—Calliope was quicker.

"Tell me: what's black, white, and red all over?" she teased, with an innocent smile.

Ettie crossed her arms to hide her chest from view. "I never said that you could strip me."

"You said 'lose the clothes'; I lost them. They're gone now and we'll never find them. Weren't you going to replace those tights anyway?"

"Ha-ha," she said, shifting, making sure to maintain an airgap between her crotch and Callie's. "So you're a genie now? Interpreting my wishes? Sending my clothes off to the fucking ether? And, just for the record, I wouldn't have to think about replacing them if someone would've waited until I took them off before she turned me on."

Callie shrugged; her shoulders moved, but her hands stayed loyally in place upon the sheets. "But I really like turning you on!"

Esther sighed. "Of course you do. Where did they go, then—when you 'lost' them?"

"Oh! Well, really this is all a dream," It said matter-of-factly. "You're actually wrapped around your pillow fast asleep right now. You passed out right after you hit the mattress."

"Figures," Ettie groaned. The dreams It crafted were all-but indistinguishable from waking reality; all the more concerning for someone like her, who struggled at times to distinguish which voices in her head weren’t real. This was an opportunity to test out a hypothesis, however. Uncrossing her arms—and ignoring how Its eyes fell to the pale pink of her ghostly areolae—Ettie felt herself up, from high to low. Her cheeks grew hotter, watching Callie watch her spider a hand over her chest, her stomach, her pubic mound, and stop just shy of touching under where the thatch of jet-black hair trailed to the source of her arousal. No, not yet. There would be time yet to test Its accuracy there, where precision mattered most. If this was truly a dream, they had all the time in—or outside of—the world.

"Okay. It's very realistic," she admitted of herself, pinching the soft fat over her right hip. "You're definitely the biggest pervert that I know."

"I think that's a given," Callie answered. "You don't know anyone like me."

"No one else could be as you, I'm sure," she sighed. "You didn't make me fatter, right?"

"No. There's not an atom out of place. You're perfect."

"Every atom, yeah? That’s pretty excessive—" Her fingers strayed—too low, and she brushed the pad of her forefinger over her clitoral hood, and felt a tremor run down through her legs and dissipate in Callie. "Oh."

"I might have made you a little bit more sensitive," Calliope said shyly. "Or maybe made you just imagine that you are. Your reactions are too good to not want to intensify, sometimes."

Ettie pulled her hand away from the skin and glared at It. "You want me dumb and drooling out of pleasure. Not going to happen, sorry."

Callie's smile was placid and knowing. "If you're so determined not to enjoy something, I guess I won't try to stop you."

Why was there pink in Ettie's cheeks again? She placed her hands akimbo. "Whatever. Just make sure the dream stays wet but my bed stays dry, okay? I need to fucking cum, God, but I don't need to be washing the sheets again already. Got it?"

Callie nodded; Ettie trusted placed her trust in It. With a smidge of apprehension in her heart and a smug smile on her face, she shimmied forward until her hands could reach the headboard; that put Calliope's face about level with her navel. From above and looking down, Esther could see the growing patch of bookcase-brown roots spreading from the cowlick crown of Callie's hair. Ridiculous; It could have a full mop of purple anytime, since it was all illusion anyway. It chose to be a dork, or was otherwise incapable of masking Its sheer dweebery. She moved to flash It yet another glare, but blushed again on noticing that Callie's eyes were focused downwards, towards her crotch, and once more on realizing: the patch of hair made for an obvious grappling target for her hands.

"Okay, pervert. Do your thing," she ordered, ignoring all of that and leveling her view towards the horizon, which in her bedroom was only a wall with a blinded window and an Unsee No Evil poster to decorate it. Those would serve to ground her; Esther had no need to embarrass herself watching how eagerly Callie would dive in.

But Calliope did not dive in. Nothing moved. Ettie was forced to look down again, and there found Callie craning her neck to meet her gaze.

"What's the problem?" she snapped.

"Do what thing?" Callie breathed, still holding that same innocent smile.

"Ugh," Ettie rolled her eyes. "Fine. Eat me out. Put your big, smart, stupid mouth to work on something useful, like licking my cunt. There, I said it. Happy? Is that enough direction for you?"

"Yes." Callie grinned more broadly. She slid down swiftly, with no warning, bringing her hands to lightly brush at Esther's thighs and giving very little time for her to look away before there was—

Contact—soft, gentle, and exquisite. Ettie didn't moan as Callie's tongue slipped between her folds, though she did grip the headboard a bit tighter. Esther didn't jerk away as that accursed tongue found her spot—THE spot—and molded perfectly around it in a U-shape, though she did thrust her hips forward just a little. Esther would never admit to the rhythm that her hips adopted after only a few moments more, even on penalty of perjury or death. What Calliope was doing to her could only end one way, in la petite mort, and just like every other time, Esther resolved to do the impossible: stay absolutely still and absolutely quiet until the very last moment of climax, so as to not let anyone—anything—ever get one over on her. Receiving cunnilingus was a vulnerable state, irrespective of position, and Esther had no small issue being vulnerable.

Even for Callie, though? The thought raced through her mind as she began to lose it, slightly. Even for Callie, she couldn't moan, even a little? Even for smart, sweet Callie, licking her so dutifully, her fingers digging in the skin of her thighs to pull her body closer, like Esther was Its last, best meal? No. She knew that in Its past It had devoured more substantial prey than she, in the way entities like Callie knew: in the Platonic immaterium from which It hailed, there was no sex, only vore; little love, much gore. How then could It adapt so readily to this, to having Its big, flat tongue pressed against her clit, to taste her with such greed as she desperately suppressed a squeal? It wasn't fair, not any of it, not at all. Calliope knew just how to eat her out only because Esther knew just how, and so Its sweetness in Its motions had her as their ultimate source. Yes! That was why she wouldn't moan; Esther never made a peep when she used a toy or a more manual method, so why would she for Callie, whose tongue's echo-lolling was just as mechanical? No, no. She was not going to—

"Fuck," Ettie gasped; Callie had slipped her tongue inside—an easy motion because of just how wet she had become—and pressed upwards, pressing Its nose to the same spot on her skin, only outside. She couldn't take comfort knowing the motion wouldn't last: normally a nose so nestled in her pubic hair would require an unobstructed breath eventually, but Calliope was inhuman, immaterial, and had no need for air. It had no need at present to do anything at all besides undo her further. Esther knew her efforts were futile, in the end.

You taste so good, It echoed in her mind; Esther's legs bucked a little in response. Speaking words while tongue-deep in her cunt was another impossible, inhuman feat.

I–I don't, though. I worked a full shift, I'm all sweaty, I haven't showered, I—ah!

Callie's tongue flicked over her clit, sending a shock of pleasure through her. Esther was forced to bow her head and grip the headboard so tight there would be marks on her palms, afterwards, but she still clung to the last dregs of agency, managing to close her eyes. She would absolutely not make eye contact with the Thing whose lips so lovingly enmeshed with hers, or she would risk It seeing her O-face when the vision made her climax.

I don't mind. This is a dream, remember? So you taste the best that you ever have, in here, Callie purred, withdrawing her tongue and pursing her lips around Esther's sensitive center. Good girl.

The words and gesture sent twin rivers of emotion careening through her mind: rage, for one, and ecstasy, another. Still Esther would not moan: her mouth stayed stubbornly closed, but a long, high whine escaped her despite her best efforts. It was all so terribly unfair.

Don't call me that.

She managed, scrunching her eyes tighter. Her hair fell around her face in nighted waterfalls, revealing the half she usually kept hidden. Best she keep her eyes wide shut; seeing Callie pleasure her would be her ultimate undoing.

Are you sure? You seem to really like it, It shot back. Its tongue moved in complex ways, now, causing Esther's eye to twitch at the end of each circuit it made; she discerned the outlines of an 'i', too, in Its efforts.

You're a brat. I'm not good. I'm bad. Very, very bad.

Callie's tongue spelled out an 'L', 'o', 'v'—oh, brother. Esther rolled her eyes, taking care not to let the effort lift the lids.

You're not, really. You're trying so, so hard. As much as I love to hear your voice, it's admirable how much you're keeping quiet.

'E'—she broke a little. Tucking in her arms, so that their elbows pressed into her breasts, Ettie lowered her forehead to the headboard. Her hips jerked spastically, erratically, up and into Callie's face.

I said I need to cum. I d-don't need to put on a show for you.

She slurred—how was it possible to slur words that were never vocalized? Everything was impossible now, not least the incredible warmth that was building in her core. Calliope was not going to stop, unless she asked. As she waited, still, for the next letters which didn't come, Ettie realized to her horror: Calliope was not going to keep going, either, unless she asked. Fuck.

What do you mean? You always do. It's a very good show.

Her tongue teased at Esther's clit, but idly; it wasn't nearly enough to put her over the edge. Nothing was, not even when she gave up on decorum and started all but grinding against Callie's face.

I'm not going to beg.

Okay.

Just eat my soul, whatever. End my suffering.

No, I don't want to. Only you can end it~

Callie. Let me cum.

Sure. Ask nicely?

Esther raised her head and opened her eyes. The false light flooding into them was blinding, but the scene on the bedroom's far wall hadn't changed. Had she? Definitely, if only for the moment. Her cheeks—no, her whole body—felt hot, felt tensed up like a bowstring, a bowstring that would not be plucked unless she stooped so low as to say the 'magic words'. 'Fire', she wanted to say, or 'loose', and then forget the volley of ecstatic noises she'd make afterwards. But Callioe would never heed such an order. To earn her obedience, Esther would have to be a bit obedient herself. She sighed—a deep, long sigh, sharply exhaled through her nose—and surrendered to Its will.

"Fine," she groaned. "Please let me cum?"

'Y', 'o', 'u', and Ettie broke. All of the tension released all at once, and she felt her hips spring forwards without order, chasing the perfection of Callie's tongue, the spell it had her under, as It finally unraveled her. True to form, she kept her mouth closed, with Herculean labored, but that hindered not the myriad of whines and squeals that followed in the wake of her release. It was almost painful, feeling her clit throb as Callie sucked on it, hard, but any pain was exquisitely transmuted to pleasure instead. She came. She had to be good, not bad—purified—for how else could something so good come to someone so bad? Either her thoughts were too busy with the ecstasy of orgasm, or she genuinely didn't mind, but either way, the rage she expected to feel when Callie whispered good girl to her again never materialized. It was all she could do to grip the headboard with both hands and try not to double-over from the punch of it. Saying 'please' was so, so worth it. Was that some sort of lesson?

Finally the waves of pleasure stopped and Esther found the strength to pull away. Lightening her grip upon the headboard, she fell back to sit with her thighs upon her calves, keeping her head bowed. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths as she came down slowly from the high. At last, she allowed herself some meaningful vision: there below her with her head at crotch level was Calliope, beaming—and licking her lips.

"Good?" she asked, before Esther could lob the word 'pervert' at her.

"Fuck you," Ettie rattled, letting her arms fall to brace herself on Callie's shoulders.

"You could, you know," It smiled, eyes flashing from Esther's face to back between her legs, and back again.

"I know. I will. Your turn to be good, pervert." Esther's literacy hadn't fully recovered; she kicked herself for her ineloquence, but she could hardly be blamed—if anything It should be impressed she reacquired the ability to speak so quickly.

"Okay!" Callie beamed back. It was always the beaming that awakened the beast in her. An animal rage was burning in the pit of Esther's stomach; with one release under her belt, she was again going to attempt her usual folly: to attempt to dominate a god.

"Stay still," she ordered. With an evil look upon her face, she shimmied backwards, one leg at a time, until something both hard and soft tapped at her behind. Callie winced.

"Hm," she teased. "What could that be? You know, I still think you're definitely compensating, sometimes." She leaned down to throw a whisper into Callie's ear. "You could've made it much, much bigger. I can handle it."

With her left—her dominating—hand, she reached back and wrapped around Calliope's length. It twitched, or pulsed, once, as Callie flinched again. The movement was emboldening; Ettie was pleased to see It blush when she raised herself up and around, never letting go, so that they were in a position primed for outercourse.

"She's a very reasonable size!" Callie protested, in a soft and wavering voice.

Esther stopped to consider the reason for Its shyness. In an age long, long past, Calliope had been worshipped and pleaded with by various magi as Sol Introverticus, a green-coded catalyst for developing esoteric knowledge, in a position somewhat fitting of her insular and nerdy nature. It was, for a while, a good, godly gig, but an unpleasant aspect soon had become dominant: in her tenure as divinée of hermetical secrets, Calliope's worshippers stacked patriarchal notions on her character until she could no longer bear the weight. "They made me into a green, magical Santa Claus," Callie had said, downplaying it, and Esther knew that to be a more mortal wound than mortals knew. For a being of pure thought—or more aptly for Callie, pure, unbridled daydream—mischaracterization was a serious and lasting trauma. When Esther had inadvertently made contact, It had only been too happy to adopt a form compatible with her sapphic preferences as a result. It identified much more with femininity, and that dark history manifested only in some sensitivity over that form having a phallus.

Esther saw no problem with it, of course. Callie's cock was soft and cute like all the rest of her, no more out of place than her eyes or lips or hands, and it enhanced rather than detracted from the geeked-up femininity It seemed so keen on. She was not sensitive about its presence, but on whether her enjoyment of its presence said something negative about her. Calliope always assured her otherwise: It sought only and foremostly to please her, and this was a convenient way for their parts to "fit together" and achieve that. And so, begrudgingly, Esther conceded Its correctness there. Esther Kadigan did not shiver in anticipation for any thing, bar one. Sex with Calliope was always and absolutely the best she'd ever had.

"I sure hope that she's reasonable," she whispered at last, relinquishing her grip. Callie's tip rebounded against her, its impact softened by her pubic hair. "Is she going to behave today?"

"I always behave," Callie said, her chest labored in its rising and falling. Such close proximity to what Esther sometimes called 'the core of her being' was having a serious effect on her.

"And yet you're somehow, also, always, a brat." Ettie ran a finger up her shaft, flicking it upon reaching the end. A bead of clear precum was already forming there. "Like your little aubergine here, already drooling. So here's what we're going to do."

She reached for Callie's hands, puppeting them towards her. "Put your hands here, and here," she placed them on her hips. "Be quiet. And be the perfect toy I know you are."

The smile was entirely contained in Callie's eyes, now: they sparkled like dazzling, emerald gemstones, nearly capturing Ettie in their radiance. If not for Callie pressing against her, inches from being inside her, she would've been lost for several minutes. Actually, even that last thought was threatening to take her mind away…

She raised herself up on her knees, positioning Callie's tip close—so close—to her entrance. She prayed she wasn't yet so wet that a drop of something would fall onto her; that would be very embarrassing. They hovered in suspense a moment, watching each other's chest rise and fall, Ettie's pink and Callie's beige, before being interrupted.

"Are we skipping further foreplay, then?" Callie said. Her fingers twitched on Ettie's skin.

Ettie exhaled hard through her nose. "You got me going. I need you in me," she squeezed her dick a little tighter. "Come on, Callie. Please?"

Please was and had always been the magic word. "I'm kidding! Of course. Go ahead," she said with a smile.

"Thank you. Finally," Ettie groaned, and dropped.

She was aware she had an audience—of only one, sure, but that someone was pretty important—and tried to keep her face composed, accordingly. The thrill of it made that somewhat difficult, though. As Esther's hips lowered, her labia parted to accept Callie without ceremony, all but inviting her in, one inch at a time. She relished the stretch and the horrible, wonderful softness of the thing, even as it was also firm enough to grind against for hours. She did, or started to; she dug her nails into Callie's sternum to keep from crying out, it was that good. Again with little fanfare, she touched down against the base of Callie's cock and completed the position. Esther shivered—it ran through her from cunt to crown-of-head and back again. Esther Kadigan did not shiver for any thing, bar one—yeah, yeah, she knew this one.

"Fuck," she released, in a groan that rattled out slowly, as if by drawing it out for so long her feelings would be less betrayed. Already she'd left nail marks in the blank space between Calliope's breasts; below her, the victim of them hadn't stirred.

"Yeah, you're doing that. Does that mean you like it, then?" Callie said, in between shallow breaths.

"Shut up-p," Esther corrected, rolling her hips. She kept focus through the pleasure. "Toys don't talk."

"Sorry!" Callie started, before her mouth slammed shut. Sorry, she beamed out instead.

Toys don't—ah. Fu… do telepathy either.

Calliope went silent; Esther got to work.

Sex with a mind-reader was always going to be unfair, she figured. Every rolling motion of Esther's hips sent another full-body shiver through her; if she switched instead to a bouncing motion, she did too many involuntary kegels to keep up any sort of rhythm. Something about the shape of Callie's dick, or the soft texture, something, she didn't know what… it drove her absolutely mad. It didn't help that every motion, no matter how small, elicited another soft squeal or moan from Callie's mouth. It reacted the exact same way a person would, so Ettie couldn't resist showing off a little, too: holding her hair up with her hands and letting her hips do all the work, or thumbing at her chest to put some color in her paleness and in Callie's cheeks, too. It was too, too real, like having passionate sex with a lover while unspeakably high… wasn't that exactly what it was?

I love your cock, she thought, on an especially good thrust, then corrected: I love you. I love you! Esther dipped her head and scrunched her brows so hard they nearly touched; her fingers grabbed at Callie anywhere she could reach or anyway to steady herself. Vaguely, she was aware that she was panting. Whether from exertion or pleasure, she couldn't be sure. She didn't care: above all else, she must not cum. Not before Callie, anyway.

"Fuck," she gasped, slowing to make smaller motions. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can't—"

"You're close," Calliope observed.

"F-fuck you," Ettie snapped. She hiccoughed, squeezing tight around Callie as she did, and almost went over the edge; the hiccup lapsed into a little sob.

"I am, see?" Callie's hands gripped down; she thrust upwards. Esther's eye twitched—better her eye than her cunt, right now.

"Why haven't you cum yet?" she panted.

Calliope continued fucking into her. On every up-thrust, the head pressed against her g-spot, and stars—six-sided—filled Esther's vision. She whimpered and let herself be lifted—higher, higher—until Callie's response cut through the pleasure.

"I'm waiting for you," she said. At once, Ettie splayed her hand on Callie's sternum to steady the motions; she was so, so close.

"Wait, why?" she gasped, trying to collect herself. Calliope's smile was as serene as ever.

"I want to see you when it happens. Plus this is a dream, remember? I don't actually have a dick."

Ettie's hand strayed to Callie's sides. "But that's—" she shifted back, and clenched hard around her, pausing to avoid groaning, "Do you feel anything, then? Do you get anything out of this?"

"We've been over this." Callie's hand clasped over hers, against the sheets. "I feel everything you feel. You're not thinking straight, because you're so, so close, Ettie." Her free hand ran a thumb on Ettie's hipbone. "You don't have to hold back."

"I don't feel right, using you like that. You should cum, or pretend to, once I've had enough, or something."

"And have you had enough?"

Esther leaned forwards, moving Callie's wrists to symmetrical spots beside her shoulders; her thighs clasped around the godlet's like a vice. "No," she whispered, inches from her lips.

"Then—oh!" Callie tried, before Ettie thrust her hips down, hard, taking Callie to the hilt. The motion punched a sob out of Ettie's throat, but she recovered, lapsing straight into barked, whispered orders:

"Hold me," "Help me," "Kiss me" so I don't scream, she stuttered, knowing Calliope would catch her meaning, said or unsaid, and so it was with her lips pressed to Callie's own that Esther unraveled for the second time that evening. Her cunt fluttered around Callie, gripping and ungripping, but somehow inside of her Calliope had gotten just a bit larger, so she felt so incredibly full as it tried to milk her for even just one drop of fluid—why was it that Calliope was dripping, ere they started, but now wouldn't glaze her insides with even a hint of moisture? That made Esther angry. Feral, like an animal, she broke the kiss and pressed her forehead onto Callie's, shaking with each wave of pleasure and rage.

"Fucking—" she thrust her hips down and saw green. "Brat—" green, again. "You—" green. "Bitch—" green, and she was on the edge again, so soon. "Cum in me already."

"Well, have you had enough?" Calliope asked sweetly; her breath was warm on Esther's lips. No, she hadn't, and without moving she felt Callie flick her over the edge for a third time, this one with scrunched eyes and wild shaking and feverish panting against Callie's lips as the green glow of Its eyes diffused through her eyelids. It was good, too good, and Ettie knew the only thing stopping her from becoming addicted to that pleasure was the limits of her body—or mind, rather. Did she believe she was good enough for four, or more, forever? How long could Callie make this last?

Good girl. Want another?

Yes, Esther wanted so badly to reply, but thought better of it. Slowly and shaking, she raised herself to sit upright, with her palms parallel below Callie's chest.

"I'll melt my own brain, thanks," she said, regaining a hint of authority. "You're my toy, remember?"

"Should I be doing something different?" Callie pouted. Inside, Esther felt her cock twitch, and her own eye in time with it.

"Don't move a fucking muscle," she ordered, and resumed riding. Calliope obeyed—a bit too well, because the figure under her became almost as plastic as a mannequin, everywhere except the one place where warmth was important: inside of her. Callie's dick was hard and soft and warm and threatened to send her into hysterics every time she buried all five inches of it as deep as it would go. She knew she wouldn't last long, doing that, and it was only a dozen or so bounces of that before—

"I'm coming," she announced, a hair early. "Hold my hips," and Calliope obeyed. The fourth was different: she didn't squeal because it knocked the wind out of her, and her stomach buckled in accordingly. The fire of it flared over her whole body, hottest where Callie was embedded in her, but still it stayed embedded, hot, and unyielding. In the come-down from it, Ettie knew better than to continue bouncing; she rolled her hips forward and back instead, letting the pleasure ramp up again slowly.

Through it all, Callie beamed at her, wincing cutely at every particularly hard motion. Its reactions were adorable, sure, but also served to piss her off. Continuing to grind upon Its cock, she sought a release valve for her frustration:

"Stubborn little thing," she muttered. "It's like I'm fucking an eggplant I warmed up in the microwave."

"Do you think of me as fruity?" Calliope grinned back.

"Yeah," she said, then flinched and forcibly un-kegeled. "You're a fucking fruit alright."

"You feel so good… gripping me like that."

"Yeah? Says the girl who won't even blow her load in my cunt right now."

Callie's hips spiked upwards; a spike of panic went through Ettie's heart, realizing how close to the edge she was. "Is that what you want now?" It asked. "Or do you just want more?"

Ettie stopped. Only without movement did she realize how much of a sexed-up mess she'd become: from her face down to her chest she was tinged a heavy pink, and half her breathing was done through her mouth. Her hair was in disarray; her heart raced away from her. She remembered something It had said.

"You made me more sensitive," she accused. Callie nodded. "Play with my clit this time?"

"Anything for you." Anything, It said, and as she set off grinding again, one thought pattern was her mind's refrain: Fill me up already. Put your pathetic little droplets in me. Give it to me, Callie. Now, and so on, broadcast as loudly as she could at Its stupid, spectacularly pretty face, with its sweet smile and sharp nose and soulful eyes. If she just kept thinking the thought, It would have to listen to her eventually, right? And so she thought, and thought, rocking her hips, until—

Calliope obeyed, and pressed two fingers down below, in the airy interface between their bodies. It found the little, swollen nub that shyly peaked out from her labia out of arousal, and teased it in circles, or some crueler shape. The shock of pleasure took her completely by surprise. Esther saw white, like the sun—but the sun was, by technicality, actually green, at least if one considered just the peak of its light in the visible spectrum.

She could see other, dimmer colors again thirty seconds later, when the spasms had completely passed. The primary shade she saw was red, from anger, finding Callie as unmoved and innocent as always.

"That, you—" she stuttered, letting her stomach be convex again.

"That, me," Callie mimicked. "That I made you cum? Good girl, was it good?"

Ettie flashed her daggers. "You know," she spat. "And one of these days, I'll find a way to break you."

"We could roleplay that, if you want."

"No," she shook her head. Bearing down with the force of pelvic floor muscles, she gripped its stupid cock so tightly any mortal would have winced in pain—Callie merely raised her eyebrows. "I want it to be real."

"I'll need to have a body of my own, then. We could work on that!"

Ettie sized it up, from sex-tousled mauveine hair to the gently curving hips that disappeared beneath her, and the pretty prick enveloped inside of her which she couldn't see. "Would you still look like this, I wonder." She thumbed at Callie's nipple.

"Of course."

"You would?" her voice was strained; maintaining the muscle tension was difficult.

"I would. I like this, in part because you like this."

"Dork," Ettie said, pinching a perky areola in her fingers, earning a high squeal out of Callie. "Okay, then. We'll work on it."

She slapped both hands onto her thighs. "But for now, play pretend with me."

"Anything for you, Ettie. You want a—" Callie pretended to perform a rally. "—sixth one, then?"

"Only under one condition: you better do it with me."

"Only under one condition: you have to say the magic word."

Esther huffed and glared towards the back of her head for a while. "Fine," she said at last, like she always knew she would. "Now fuck me like you mean it—"

The dream-world reconfigured itself too past to process. Walls, floors and ceilings melted away, leaving them alone together on a bed of soft, meadows grass, under a night sky sparkling with stars. Callie was over her, hunched, and nude, and looking down Ettie realized she was dressed in identical attire.

She took a moment to take in the scene, while Callie watched with a nervous smile. "You're hopelessly romantic," she said after a while.

Callie shrugged. "Hopefully not hopelessly!"

"Come here," she ordered, and they kissed: it was light and innocent, only a prelude. After it ended, Calliope pulled back and placed her hands gently around Ettie's wrists, then paused. Why, pause?

"Can I?" It inquired. Oh.

"I already said 'fuck me like you mean it', idiot. That means yes you can put it in."

"Okay, just making sure."

Ettie scoffed and smiled, but only the smile and not the scoff persisted as It entered her. There was no force or arrogance in it whatsoever. As Calliope sank in, she let out a single drawn-out sigh, and Esther did her best not to do the same. They fit together, perfectly, like puzzle pieces. To seal the deal, she crossed her ankles behind Callie's back.

"No pulling out," she teased. "Give me everything."

At first it was slow, and gentle, then: faster, just as gentle, and then again: frantic, needy, but with no pain. Calliope fucked her like her life depended on it, like every motion extended her existence on the planet Earth a little longer, and Esther grew a wicked grin with every effort, seeing Callie's expression become one with a panting mouth and glazed-over green eyes. When Calliope slowed down, Esther pulled her back in with her legs, behind, and the only downside of Its incessant squealing was that it made it hard to catch the actual words said in-between:

"So, so warm," "perfect, you're so perfect" "I love you, I love you" and some magic ones: "I'm close."

"Yeah?" Ettie breathed back, nearing the edge herself. "Took you long enough."

"I won't, though. Not before you—"

"—God you're fucking impossible. Please cum in me, oh Verdant One?"

"Y-yeah. Yes. Yes."

Callie buried her head next to Ettie's neck and whined; buried her cock inside and twitched like a galvanized frog; finally released and spat out tiny droplets of clear fluid into Ettie's core. They were impotent, sure, but the pleasure was far from it: Ettie was right there alongside her, flung far over the edge and clawing at her back as the orgasm whited-out her senses. Callie felt so good inside her, filling her, obeying her at last. There was nowhere she would rather be than here, at this moment, imagining hot lesbian sex with a being older than time and somehow still born yesterday.

She achieved one final act of cruelty upon coming down, in whispering "good girl" into the ear of a quivering Calliope. Uncrossing her legs, Ettie let her feet touch upon the grass, with her knees raised, but it was no longer grass: they were back upon the narrow bedspread of her bedroom, with no stars upon its ceiling. They collapsed, collectively: Ettie on her back, staring up, and Callie lying on her chest, her head to the side.

"Thank you," Callie murmured to the afterglow.

"For what?" Ettie twirled the disheveled endings of Its hair around her fingers.

"For finding me. For giving me the chance to be with you—to be, besides."

"Ha. I didn't do shit."

Callie raised herself up to look her in the eyes. "Don't say that!" It insisted. "You're my everything, you know."

"All I did was forget to take my medication for a night, and now I have a hallucination that won't leave."

Callie pouted—adorable. Ettie barely suppressed the smile. "A hallucination that could get you off a seventh time, at any time," It threatened.

"Six, seven," Ettie teased; Callie's pout deepened. "Nah. I know you. You're not into having me be brainless mush. You like being dominated. It's just too bad I can't actually make it real. I want to."

At the admission of want, Callie smiled again. "We'll work on it." She returned her head to Ettie's chest.

Silence for a moment, while she continued playing with Its hair. "I'm going to tie you up," she suggested. "Or put your dick in a cage. Once we figure out the body problem."

"Yes. And/or you could let me fill you up again, this time for real."

A rush of pleasure ran through her at the thought of it. "Y–no," she said sharply. "You'd get me pregnant with your dorky demon spawn."

"Never! I'd be careful. I'd build my body with a vasectomy."

Ettie couldn't help but laugh. "You're going to incarnate on Earth with a body that has dyed hair, terrible vision, and is pre-vasectomized so you can fuck me with no worry? God—you're like the god of masochism—"

"—I find myself drawn to a certain someone's preferences—"

"—which is probably okay, because I can be pretty sadistic. It works out."

"It does work out," Callie insisted. "It'll all work out. I love you."

"I love you too. As mushy as you are, ugh," she feigned a groan; she smiled, but pretended Callie couldn't see it.

The evening silence stretched between them. Soon, she would have to wake up, and return to the real world, with dinner and bills and her annoying roommate, but for now: the dream was perfect. She could stay a while like this, skin-to-skin with Callie in her mind.

"Did you have enough?" It asked.

Ettie's fingers gripped Its hair playfully. "For now," she answered.