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Alisaie woke up cold, goosebumps on the backs of her bare arms despite the quickly warming mid-spring. The sunrise cast pink and orange on the wall of the dormitory bedroom, high enough up the paint was not beige with years’ worth of built-up oils and dirt but still stark white. The window between the two narrow beds was only propped open a crack, lest Alphinaud complain of chill; always tending to run colder, it was no wonder he had the covers pulled up almost to his ears, wrapped up in bedsheets like a burial shroud whereas Alisaie had only her bare feet tangled in the linen.
Thief.
She should have been irritated, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be, even with Alphinaud’s bony knees digging into her side. The weight and warmth of his head on her shoulder was comfortable, familiar; his soft breath banished the nipping chill of spring breeze from her breast, bared by the neckline of the matching nightgowns the twins had been gifted years ago and never managed to grow into as promised.
Very suddenly, she wanted nothing more than his mouth on her. He wouldn’t bite down as hard as Alisaie wished he would, but he would still catch her nipples with his teeth, and when Alphinaud pulled away from one to pay his attentions to the other, the cool breeze would play over her spit-wet skin and leave her all the more sensitive. Alisaie hummed low in the back of her throat, her hips rolling up into the thought, heat in the pit of her stomach and growing sharper for each passing moment.
With Alphinaud asleep on her shoulder, Alisaie’s right arm was trapped at a horrible angle to slip her hand beneath her nightgown. Her left must needs do the deed, or perhaps she would die trying—and after full minutes rubbing tight circles over her clit with naught to show for it but a sore wrist and a desperate need, she felt as though she really might. Just her fingers were nearly always enough for her, not even dipping between the wet lips of her cunt to press them inside, but whether it was because she was using the wrong hand and didn’t quite have her rhythm or because she just needed more…
Alisaie slipped her hand further between her legs, curling two fingers inside while grinding the heel of her palm into her clit, trapping it between her pelvis and her hand. She caught her moan in her throat to release it in a silent, hard exhale. Alphinaud sighed in his sleep, shifting minutely before he once again settled.
She glared down at him, curled up sound asleep on her shoulder. She could wake him up, ask him to finger her until she came—he’d have so much better an angle for it, where Alisaie could curl her own fingers not even an ilm inside without eschewing her clit. But Alphinaud reviled the mornings, and should she wake him even half a bell early, she might never hear the end of it. Worse, he might decline to be of aid come the evening.
She cast her eyes around the room, sweeping over the second mattress with its books strewn open about tousled covers, to the small table situated between the beds, with its lamp and—the knife she had left there the previous night, having collapsed into bed amid Alphinaud’s loving mockery. Imagine your grades, he’d said with a laugh, looking up from his textbook, should you study the assigned readings with even half the dedication you’ve given Hingan blade techniques. She’d offered him a rude gesture, knife still in hand, before letting it clatter to the tabletop.
Which meant that now it was within arm’s reach without sitting up. Careful not to allow any of the urgency she felt into her movements, Alisaie drew her hand out from her nightgown, and by twisting her bent elbow managed to grasp the hilt of the knife in arousal-slick fingers on only her second attempt. Only slightly too wide to fit her hand as a weapon, this would surely give her what she needed, something deep in her cunt to fill her, and hold her open when the pressure on her clit made her clench.
She bent her left knee, her foot flat on the mattress, and her nightgown slipped down her thigh to bunch around her hip. The exposure brought heat to her cheeks even now; should Alphinaud wake his gaze would follow the line of her arm between her spread legs, see her cunt wet and split open in the light of morning. Would he watch her fuck herself on the hilt of her knife? Would he reach down to touch her? Would he reach down to touch himself?
Her stomach seemed to flip, anticipatory thrill and shyness both making her hand unsteady. Alphinaud had seen her dressing or bathing, and curiosity must have gotten the better of him to at least once lift the sheets to see his hand between his own legs, but he had never seen her so debauched. It was new that they touched each other, and when she came undone with him it was with questing fingers snuck beneath the sheets, Alphinaud’s lower lip between Alisaie’s teeth.
Biting down on her own lip and letting her eyes flutter closed, Alisaie aligned the sheathed knife between her legs, the rounded butt of the hilt pressing up between the lips of her cunt. It felt bigger, nearly inside her. She’d never taken more than two fingers, and this was… much larger than that, even if she was fairly sure it was smaller than most cocks. But she had come this far—or rather hadn’t, and therein lay the problem—and she was hardly wont to back down from something for something silly as fear. Alisaie readied herself for a moment more, then rammed the hilt inside.
It knocked the breath out of her, the butt of the pommel making a bruising collision with—it had to be the end of her cunt, even before the guard and the hard line of the side of her hand were stopped by the arc of her pelvis. She failed to silence her whine, escaping reedy and high through her nose even as she bit into her lip hard enough to leave indents from her teeth. Her eyes darted down to Alphinaud even as she dared not move elsewhere: the effect was close enough to distress that were he awake she would certainly be in for a scolding but he was undisturbed, his breath slow and even. Alisaie tried to match her own to it, watching the rise and fall of her own ribcage.
She relaxed her hips, then her thighs, as conscious of her tension as she had been learning to wield the blade the intended way. She had never been so full, the hilt hard and unforgiving in its press against all of her, all at once. The metal felt cold inside of her, though it hadn’t in her hand: a chill against her heated flesh that only increased her sensitivity, the formed grip’s ridges impossible to ignore as they pressed unforgiving into the wall of her cunt, nearly too much to bear.
She needed more.
She didn’t dare rock her hips, the bed tending to creak—she and Alphinaud had discovered as much the first night Alisaie had slipped her knee between his legs as they kissed. Instead she brought her thighs together to pin the blade in place between them; even sheathed it dug into her flesh, an edge to the pleasure like the ache inside her. When she released it from her fingers, even as tightly as her thighs could close—as tightly as her cunt held it—she could not keep it from slipping. In one shift the weight of the grip bore down on her entrance, and it changed the angle inside suddenly. The pommel lurched against the neck of her womb, making her wince; one of the ridges caught on the pubic bone, a nagging tug that made her whimper near-silent; another ground up into something that made her for a few scant moments feel like she had to relieve herself, but then the feeling passed and all she felt was a growing warmth.
She bit back her cry as her fingertips found her clit. At the first stroke the muscles tensed, in her legs and arms and in her cunt, pulling unforgiving metal into her harder, far too much, unable, unwilling to stop—and at last she had her release, hand rubbing frantic circles into her clit as her cunt strained against unrelenting pressure.
She panted, the thin fabric of her nightgown clinging to her skin—and her eyes snapped open as Alphinaud stirred at her side. She sucked in breath, without a clue if she had cried out when she came, or tensed her shoulder hard enough to jar his head.
But he was nothing if not stubborn about waking, and again he settled.
Unlike Alphinaud, release rarely left her lethargic for more than a moment. She had not yet been so grateful of that fact than with the hilt of a knife driven up between her legs in an obscene display, and even unwatched her cheeks warmed as she could only imagine how she must look pulling it out. The polished metal was smooth enough to come easily, covered with her slick, but she went slow, fighting the urge to arch her back as each of the grip’s ridges dragged against that same place inside her that made her feel so hot and full, not just in her cunt but like a flush spreading throughout her body.
If she had but the time and the privacy, she would lie here until she found her pleasure once more, pressure focused on that spot, if only to learn how quickly she could take herself apart—or perhaps even learn something to try for Alphinaud later that night. But time and privacy were not luxuries she could claim, and so with a determined tug she pulled the knife from herself fully.
Despite herself, she gasped. The near-familiar ache became a bright sting as the last flare spread her entrance wide, somehow wider than it had felt pressing in, but in a second it was out, and she—she felt open. Without a thought she reached down to explore herself, lips still parted as if stretched around the hilt even now there was nothing inside her and her thighs were not nearly wide enough apart to spread them. She slipped her fingers between them experimentally, the pads of her fingers dipping only just inside the fucked-open gape of her cunt. It felt exposed in a way that twisted something low in her belly, feeling the air’s chill on wet flesh that nonetheless felt hot, swollen, raw. That feeling, Alisaie knew, would fade alongside her arousal now she was sated, but what of the gaping lips of her cunt, of that oddly compelling vulnerability of feeling so broken open?
Alphinaud would at times complain he felt empty, and finally Alisaie felt she understood.
She didn’t replace the blade on the table, where it would only clatter; rather she kicked it without ceremony down between her legs where it could go unnoticed until classes had finished, when she could wash both it and the bedsheets—and her nightgown as well, she added to the tally as she tossed the hem down over her thighs and wiped the mess from her hand.
She rested her chin atop her brother’s head, and in turn he tucked his face into the join of her neck and shoulder. With any luck, they had several minutes until Alphinaud’s alarm would wake him, and in her hard-earned contentment, she intended to enjoy them.