"Have you ever—"
"No, it's my first time."
When she's wearing William, their coming together is frantic and primal, a frenzy of lips and teeth and tongue, of fingers and cock and cunt. In their own bodies, they are tender and sweet, their every touch drawing out the sweet agony of their mutual longing. Peeling off their clothes, they slide into bed, and Christina quenches her thirst with the wetness that squirts from between Ruby's thighs.
"Come here, Christina," her father demands, crisp and clipped as a freshly pressed suit. Christina obeys and comes when she is called.
They kiss deeply, hot, sticky, and delightful, as Ruby's palm slides down her chest, past the Mark of Cain on her belly. Soft caresses on the insides of her thighs awaken her arousal. But when Ruby's hand gently cups her sex, Christina roughly yanks it away. It happens so fast she's not even aware she's moving until she looks down and sees white fingers clenching Ruby's wrist.
"Christina? Are you OK?"
"'Adam named. Eve fucked. God brought forth monsters. Monsters devoured. God smites Eve.' Remember this and know your place."
She craves Ruby's soft brown curves, wants nothing more than to sink into the smell and taste and feel of her, but all she can do is lie there, eyes glued to the ceiling. Inside she cries out, "Hold me touch me kiss me love me," but she swallows her yearning and says nothing.
"Baby, what's wrong?"
"Are you Eve, Christina?"
She knows better than to ask what he means, knows all too well his sneer of disapproval when she fails to read his mind.
"Do you fuck?" he asks.
She should say something. She should tell her that it's not her fault. Yet she can't tell her, for she'd rather die than look into those lovely cow eyes and see pity there.
Christina shuts her eyes and turns away.
"Be still," her father commands. Christina obeys.
He draws chalk sigils at her feet, the white lines bold against the brown wood. He coughs up a wad of spit, and she recoils as cold, thick saliva slides down her forehead. Her head swims as the Language of Adam spills into her ears.
Christina glances down lets out a deep sigh when she sees that the hand tenderly stroking the skin below her navel is a deep, rich shade of brown, unmistakably feminine. The eyes staring at her are warm, brown, and gentle, not cold, blue and harsh.
Even though Ruby—beautiful, beloved, blessed Ruby—is nothing like her father, she can't shake the feeling that she's still that helpless twelve-year-old girl who hadn't had her growth spurt yet.
Her father's mouth is moving, but his words sound faint and far away, as though she's underwater and sinking, sinking, sinking into the cold, black depths.
A girl's voice speaks, soft, feeble. Her voice, spilling all its secrets.
Then there is a white-hot flash of pain of something probing Down There. It hurts, it hurts, mother it hurts!
"If you need the potion—"
"No!" Christina says, cringing at how desperate she sounds.
She swallows, forces herself to be calm, "I want it—you—like this."
"Then why won't you let me touch you?"
It would be so simple to tell her everything, so simple to say the things she'd locked away inside since she was a child, but each time the words are on the tip of her tongue, her voice shrinks and shrinks, until no words come out.
And just like that, this special moment between them has turned to ashes because she's so pathetic and weak.
Her father slaps her. Hard. Christina tastes blood in her mouth.
"Filthy whore," he says. Summoning all his disgust and disdain, he glares at her, pinning her to the spot with his gaze that makes her feel like the most loathsome, worthless creature in the world.
"You will never touch yourself that way again, am I clear?" he says. Christina nods.
(She'll try. She'll try so, so hard. But when some members of the Order come to the lodge with their pretty wives on their arms, she gets breathless and restless, and it doesn't go away until she takes matters into her own hands.)
"Get out of my sight," her father says, and she leaves. Tears of anger and shame leak from her eyes.
She deserves her father's anger and disappointment, but she will prove herself. Someday. She will learn magic. Someday. She will make him proud. Someday.
"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
"Thank you," exhales Christina, so relieved she could cry.
"Do you still wanna—"
Christina nods vigorously. Ruby has no idea how much she's wanted this, or for how long. It was the first thing she wanted when she first saw Ruby on stage that night at the block party, shining like a star. And she's only wanted it more and more since then.
Ruby slides on top of her and kisses her, tasting herself on Christina's lips with a soft, musical hum. Christina's cunt clenches as she remembers the lovely notes filling the room as Ruby's juices flooded her hands and mouth.
"Watch me, OK?" Ruby whispers, and Christina obeys.
Ruby covers her in slow, sensuous kisses, nuzzling her neck as she makes her way down, down, down. Christina shudders as Ruby sucks each ruddy nipple into her mouth, leaving them hard and glistening, aching to be touched. She throbs between her legs as Ruby's soft, wet tongue swipes the lines of her Mark of Cain, leaving a trail of moisture upon the ram's horns curving across her belly.
It's almost too much. But she can't look away, can barely even blink. How can she, when those fleshy brown hands gently stroke her inner thighs, when those agile fingers part the folds of her sex and stroke and strum her vulva like a guitar, when a tongue soft as velvet laps at her clit and make her mewl like a kitten? How can she look away from something so sinful, so divine?
As Christina's soft cries transform into guttural moans, the last vestiges of Samuel Braithwhite blows away like so much ash.