It’s what he wants of you and she. What he has asked you for and what you give him. Night after night. Day after day.
A slow march of feminine arousal and action until in a climax of bodies and clits you and she cum. Not apart, in the contest you both want, but apart, as in the comfortable chair next to the bed he watches. Flaccid and yet stroking.
The instructions he had been giving finally falling quiet, as he milks himself to orgasm earned by your combined compliance.
Then, after wiping and zipping, without fail, he leaves. Without thanks or comment. The man who bought and then brought you two to this country showing that to him, you and the woman with whom you crossed thighs are naught but a means to find his ends.
A search, once finished, that marks the moment you are free. Not to leave his home and start your own lives, for what income could you earn in this foreign land, without friends or family?
No, instead the freedom he leaves you is to do as you wish to each other. To be what you want with this girl with whom you now live.
And what you want is for her to is not a lover, but a rival.
Just as she doesn’t want a partner, but an enemy.
A dream you can steal from him, snarling and hissing — cursing and daring in your native tongue. Quietly, of course. As when he hears you, your benefactor returns to reprimand and remind.
And so you whisper and hush — hiding beneath blankets and pressing palms to each others mouths to keep yourselves quiet.
Until one of you, in your freedom, cums. Giving into your sister-slave. Not because he forced you and she to battle, but because it is the only thing you and she have that is truly yours.
A competition of women. The shame of defeat. And the excitement of victory.
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