Anja whispered, her voice almost hoarse: "Tanja and I used to play a lot of games full of pleasure back when we were young. And this was our little sister’s favorite game."

Lila’s vision blurred as the relentless rhythm of the spit drove her closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. The thought of Tanja—the sister they had both lost, and how her body had arched in exactly the same way back then—ought to have horrified her. Instead, it triggered a fresh wave of wetness between her thighs. She didn't care if she died this way; the sensation of pleasure in her belly tightened so fiercely that death seemed like just another, imminent climax. Anja’s breath hitched as she watched Lila’s hips jerking rapidly up and down; her sister’s desperation mirrored her own memories. "You look just like her," Anja murmured in a husky voice—filled with a mixture of awe and desire.

The tip of the spit grazed a spot deep inside Lila, a point so sore and sensitive that her back arched off the grass and her fingernails dug crescent-moon marks into her palms. Warm blood trickled down the insides of her thighs, mingling with the moisture of her arousal. The pain was sharp and burning, yet it only heightened the pleasure; every thrust was a brutal reminder of how alive she was. Anja’s fingers dug into Lila’s hip bones—her grip possessive—as she drove the metal spit forward at a steeper angle and with greater force. "Come for me," she demanded, her lips brushing against Lila’s earlobe. "Come just the way she did." That command acted like a lit match tossed into gasoline. Lila’s orgasm tore through her with such intensity that she gasped for air; her body shuddered and writhed against the cold steel, as if trying to merge with it.

“Hey, little sister, wake up!” Anja’s voice pierced the haze of Lila’s exhaustion as her fingers brushed a damp lock of hair from Lila’s forehead. The grass beneath her was cool, and the afternoon sun hung lower in the sky—how long had she been unconscious? Lila blinked dazedly; her body was still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure as she lifted her head. Her thighs were sticky, her skin glistening with sweat, yet when she gingerly touched her belly, she found neither wounds nor burning pain—only a bloodstain near her inner thigh, the proof of her lost virginity.
Bloody, yes—but slaughtered, no. Was that why Anja had been so pleased about Lila’s virginity?
That touch of authenticity?