Chapter Text
Bianka checks three times to make sure her volume is down before she clicks on Rosemary’s latest stream, despite the fact she lives alone.
Her face is out of the frame— the only hint of what she looks like above the neck is the long brown hair falling askew in rivulets down her body. Half of the appeal, some viewers might say, is the mystery, but Bianka’s always been left wanting. (She had clicked on her that first time, months ago, because something about her had spoken to Bianka’s heart— to the one thing she can’t risk, the one thing she can’t have. She should love the mystery, but it just feels dishonest.) Still, even just from her body language, Bianka can tell that she’s smiling.
Today she’s wearing only a silken, see-through robe, and stark black lingerie underneath it, all ribbons and lace. It’s got to be uncomfortable, but it’s pretty enough that it seems a worthy sacrifice to make. “Good evening, darlings,” Rosemary says sweetly. It’s put-on, clearly an act, but what isn’t? She starts every stream like this. A thrill curls under Bianka’s stomach already: Pavlovian conditioning. Oh, she’s pathetic.
It’s mild at the start. The full girlfriend experience, Bianka would say, only she’s never really had a girlfriend, so she isn’t sure. “I tried something new today,” Rosemary says into the camera. Her long, lovely fingers spread open over the robe, gesturing to the lacy black things underneath. “Do you like it?”
About seventeen hundred yes!!! and yes my goddess and your the most beautiful woman ive EVER seen messages scroll across the side of the screen blink-quick. Bianka never messages, herself; her sentiments don’t often come out of the congealed hot mass of lust articulate enough to write. Regardless, she finds herself agreeing with the other viewers.
Rosemary laughs. “Thank you! I’m glad you think so. How are all of you doing?”
Does she do this just to tease, or does she actually care about the viewers? This, too, is why Bianka doesn’t message— because hearing this woman talk to her would probably break something in her mind or her body or, more likely, both. She takes the time to read out some of the status updates, commenting, sympathizing, her hands roving over her body the whole while. Eventually her finger slips under her bra, the outline of it tantalizing through the lace, and she brushes it upward, letting out a soft sigh. “Oh— I’m sorry, I got distracted,” she says, like this isn’t what everyone is here for. “I’m just a little pent up. I had a long day at work.”
Bianka feels like she’s going to pass out.
More messages. YOU’RE SO BEAUTIFUL and queen queen queen queen and step on me PLEASE accompanied by every heart emoji ever programmed scroll by. Rosemary laughs, easing the robe off of her shoulders. “You’re being so sweet today,” she murmurs. “I think you deserve a little show.”
Her shoulders are bare. Her skin is flawless, glowing in the rich sepia light. “Mm… maybe just a bit more.” There’s a breathy rasp in her voice, now. She’s getting into it. When she starts toying with the strap of her black bra, sliding it off one shoulder, the chat halts to a stop, and then one message breaks through.
Your only flaw is that youre br*tish
Rosemary coughs. “Mods?”
And then it’s gone.
“Where were we…?” She pulls the other strap down, then turns, brushing her long hair over one shoulder. The clasp of her bra is delicate, two slim hooks, and she pulls it loose, picking up one end between two fingers and dangling it like a prize. The chat goes wild. She looks over one shoulder as donation after donation rings out. “Is there something you want to see?” She laughs at her own little joke, readjusts her hair so it covers her breasts, and turns around again.
This woman knows how to titillate. Bianka’s hand sneaks under the belt of her jeans, stroking at the skin beneath.
“Ask nicely,” she says, sweet as anything. Bianka feels wet. Two thousand permutations of please , and she shakes her head back. The long brown hair feathers down her sides and down her back and her breasts, two beautiful round tits that Bianka desperately wants to taste, come out from behind that curtain.
She reaches up and brushes her fingers against one pink nipple. “Mm,” she murmurs. She gently pinches it, and lets out a soft breathy sigh. “That’s nice…” Her breath is a little shallower. She’s into it. Bianka brushes her fingers over the bottom of her panties, and finds them— predictably— wet. Rosemary bounces up and down slightly, her breasts bobbing with the motion, irresistible.
“I want you,” she murmurs. Her hands travel upward, and she lets the bottom half of her face come into view, sucking one finger into her mouth. Bianka refocuses on the stream. This is new. She never directs it to a you. “God, I want you so badly.”
She’s a good actress, but… this sounds real. She bends over and tugs her panties down, revealing herself to the camera. Bianka has never seen her this needy, and the other viewers are going crazy for it as she spreads her legs to reveal the glistening folds between them. “I wish you were doing this,” she says, a low desire scraping out of her throat.
Bianka stops seeing the chat. She just sees Rosemary. She just sees the woman she wishes Rosemary was— those legs and her head between them. That’s what she wants. That’s all she wants. Spread out and flushed and moaning—
Rosemary’s beautiful hand comes down to her clit, circling it lazily before she pushes her fingers into herself and brings them back out dripping. “Oh,” she says, like a revelation. And then she does it again and moans.
Bianka’s lightheaded. She copies the motions on herself, shoving off her shorts in one desperate motion, laying back on her bed. Her fingers go in with no resistance. The pressure on her clit, when she adds it, is nice, but not enough by a long shot. “I wish it were your fingers fucking me,” Rosemary murmurs. Her body is one fluid gorgeous animal, sure in its pleasure, hungry in its chase. “I want your fingers, your tongue… everything you’ll give me, I want it.”
Bianka bites down a squeak.
Rosemary pushes in two fingers at once, then takes her other hand to circle her clit. Bianka follows suit. The veins in her neck are throbbing. She wants she wants she wants. “Yes,” she gasps into the air, spreading her legs wider to take more and more and deeper. “Oh, God, yes. You’re so good.”
She keeps going, all desperate little sounds and lewd noises. Bianka’s stomach is tight. She can feel herself clutching around her fingers. Does Rosemary feel it too— this velvet vice grip, urging and pulling her deeper?
(Don’t think of Rita. Just think of Rosemary. Don’t think of your best friend, Bianka, you’ll ruin everything—)
Rosemary cries out. She’s reached her peak, sliding down into her rolling orgasm, and her legs part and quiver as she gushes over her fingers. “Oh, oh—”
Bianka’s coming with her. Her thighs press together, deathgrip-tense, as the orgasm rocks her body, a whirlwind tempest in her stomach spreading out of control. Her clit pulses hard against the palm of her hand.
“ Bianka, ” Rosemary moans as she cums on her own fingers. Her head throws back and Bianka can see all of her face and oh, oh, God, that’s not Rosemary, that’s Rita, and she’s— calling Bianka’s name as she’s—
Bianka’s walls squeeze and another wave of pleasure washes over her. The stream abruptly ends.
She pulls her soaked fingers out from herself slowly, feeling both guilty and absurdly elated. That’s Rita on the other side of the screen. Rosemary is Rita, and Rita moaned Bianka’s name as she came, and Bianka wants nothing more than to see that sight in person.
“Shit,” she whispers to herself. “Oh, shit.”