What's Gotten Into Her?

Pleasure becomes proof. Denial becomes devotion.

Sarah's skin tastes like salt and secrets.

I can feel her heart racing against my palm as we lie pressed together in this narrow bed, pretending we're not listening to the sound of Ariadne destroying our privacy three rooms away. The blue glow of her laptop screen filters under our door like accusation, and I've been counting the keyboard clicks for the past two hours.

Sarah shifts against me, her back pressed to my chest, and I breathe in the scent of her hair—vanilla shampoo and something sharper underneath. Fear, maybe. Or arousal. With the new protocols, it's hard to tell the difference anymore.

"She's been at those phones for two hours," I whisper against her ear, letting my breath ghost across skin that's become hypersensitive to the smallest touches.

"Mmm." Sarah's response is barely audible, but I feel the vibration of it through her ribcage. She presses back against me, seeking comfort in the solid warmth of another body that understands the particular exhaustion of constant performance.

My fingers find the hem of her sleep shirt, tracing abstract patterns against warm skin. Not sexual—not exactly. More like confirmation. Proof that she's real, that I'm real, that somewhere beneath all the optimization and earning and careful measurement of every breath, we still exist.

"What's gotten into her?" I ask, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. "A week ago she was... not soft, exactly, but present. Now it's like she's conducting experiments on us."

Sarah turns in my arms, and suddenly we're nose to nose in the dim light. Her eyes are dark with something that might be desire or desperation—another distinction that's blurred beyond recognition lately.

"Maybe we did something wrong," she whispers. "Maybe the threesome thing made her realize we don't need her the same way."

My hand slides up her ribs without conscious thought, thumb brushing just below the curve of her breast. She's not wearing a bra—none of us are, under the new "accessibility protocols"—and I can feel her nipple harden beneath thin cotton.

"No," I say, more certain than I've been about anything in days. "It's not about what we did. It's about what she thinks."

Sarah's breath catches as my thumb traces a slow circle. We're allowed to touch each other, to comfort and arouse, but finishing is forbidden without explicit permission. Every caress becomes exquisite torture, every kiss a reminder of what we can't have.

"What do you mean?" she manages, though I can see her struggling to focus as my touch makes thinking difficult.

"I've been watching her." My lips find the pulse point in her throat, pressing a soft kiss there while my hand continues its maddening exploration. "Really watching. The way she positions herself in rooms now. Always at the edge, always observing. Like she's trying to figure out if she belongs in her own life."

Sarah arches into my touch despite herself, then forces stillness. The self-control required is beautiful and heartbreaking in equal measure. Her own hand finds my thigh, fingers tracing patterns that make me want to purr.

"That's actually really insightful," she whispers, and I can hear the surprise in her voice.

It shouldn't surprise her that I see things. I'm an artist. I'm trained to notice the spaces between what people show and what they feel. But maybe I've been hiding that insight the same way she's been hiding her competence.

"She's scared," I continue, letting my mouth trail along her jaw. "Not of us leaving. Of us not needing her anymore. Of becoming unnecessary."

The word drops between us like a stone into still water. Sarah's fingers tighten on my thigh, nails pressing in just enough to make me gasp.

"Unnecessary," she repeats slowly, and I feel her tongue trace the edge of my ear in retaliation for the shiver I've just sent through her. "So the rationing, the protocols, the control..."

"She's trying to make herself essential again." My voice catches as she finds that sensitive spot just below my ear. "Creating artificial scarcity so we have to earn what we used to receive freely. Think about it—when did you last touch her without asking permission? When did she last touch you without it being a reward?"

Sarah pulls back to look at me, and I can see understanding dawning in her eyes. "That actually explains everything."

My hand slides lower, fingertips dancing along the waistband of her sleep shorts. Her skin is fever-hot, and I can smell her arousal mixing with mine in the close air of this narrow bed.

"The digital thing too," I whisper. "She needs to know things about us that we don't know about each other. Information as intimacy. Secrets as..." I pause, searching for the right word while my fingers dip just below elastic, not quite touching but close enough to make her hips twitch.

"Currency," Sarah supplies, her voice rough. "She's trying to become the center of our emotional economy again."

We kiss then—desperate and soft and tasting like shared revelation. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth just as my fingers finally, finally brush against heated skin through damp cotton. She gasps into my mouth, and the sound goes straight through me like electricity.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together in the dark.

"The fucked up thing is," I whisper, my fingers still moving in slow, maddening circles, "it's working. I spent forty minutes today trying to figure out how to earn thirty seconds of eye contact. Forty minutes of my actual life."

"I wrote twelve pages analyzing my own posture patterns," Sarah admits, her own hand sliding higher up my thigh, making me arch against her. "Like I was debugging my own personality."

"And we both loved it when she praised us."

"God, yes. That 'good girl' hit like—" Her words cut off in a sharp intake of breath as my thumb finds exactly the right pressure, the right rhythm. Her hand stills against my leg as she fights for control.

I watch her face in the dim light—the way her lips part, the flutter of her eyelashes, the flush spreading across her cheeks. She's beautiful like this, caught between desire and discipline, wanting and waiting.

We move together in whispered desperation after that, hands exploring territory made precious by prohibition. I bring her to the very edge of release, then stop, trembling with the effort of denying us both what we want most. She does the same to me, her fingers learning exactly how to make me gasp and arch without letting me fall.

"Maybe she's right to be scared," Sarah whispers during one of these pauses, when we're both fighting for breath and sanity.

"What do you mean?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.

Sarah turns her face into my neck, and I feel her lips move against my skin as she speaks. "Maybe I have been keeping things from her."

My hand stills. This feels important. "What kind of things?"

"I've been helping people. Former colleagues. With financial stuff. Investment strategies." Her admission comes out broken, vulnerable, in the space between heartbeats where desire makes truth easier to speak.

My fingers resume their gentle exploration, coaxing honesty through pleasure. "That's great, right? Why would you hide that?"

"I didn't know you were some kind of financial whiz," I murmur against her throat.

"Oh yeah." Her voice catches as my touch makes thinking difficult. "Double-majored in sociology and business finance. Summa cum laude. Never got a chance to use the finance side though, until now"

"Because I thought if she knew I was good at something—really good—she might not want to improve me anymore."

I pull back to look at her, though my fingers never stop their maddening rhythm. "Sarah. That's insane."

"Is it? You've seen how she looks at problems that need solving. What if I'm not challenging enough anymore?"

There's real fear in her voice, and it breaks my heart. I increase the pressure slightly, watching her bite her lip to keep from crying out.

"You think she'd lose interest if you were competent?"

"I think she fell in love with the version of me that needed guidance." Her hips move involuntarily against my hand. "What if the version that can guide others isn't what she wants?"

I understand now. The same fear that's been driving Ariadne has been driving Sarah—the terror of being unwanted, unnecessary, easily replaced.

"How long have you been doing this consulting thing?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

"Since before I came here." Her voice is barely a whisper now, torn between confession and the edge of climax she can't cross. "Started small, but now I have three regular clients who pay me for strategic financial guidance."

"Pay you?" My thumb circles with devastating precision, and I watch her struggle to form words. "Like, actual money?"

"Few thousand euros here and there. But yes." She grabs my wrist suddenly, stopping the movement before she loses control completely. "I have a consulting business I've been hiding because I'm terrified she'll realize I don't need saving."

We lie still for a moment, both breathing hard, bodies singing with unfulfilled need. I can hear Ariadne's keyboard clicking through the wall—steady, methodical, inexorable.

"But maybe that's exactly what she needs to know," I say finally.

"What?"

"Think about it. She's scared of being unnecessary, right? But what if instead of hiding your competence, you gave it to her?" I resume the gentle touches, keeping her balanced on the knife's edge of want. "What if you asked her to help you build it into something bigger?"

Sarah stares at me through the dim light, and I can see the idea taking root.

"You think I should tell her?"

"I think you should ask her to optimize your consulting business. Turn it from something you're ashamed of into something you do together." My free hand finds her breast, thumb brushing across the hardened nipple through thin cotton. "She doesn't want to fix broken things, Sarah. She wants to make powerful things more powerful."

The combination of insight and touch makes her arch against me. "That's brilliant," she gasps.

"Plus, if you tell her, it shows you trust her with your secrets. Which is probably what she's really testing for with all these protocols."

"You think this is all about trust?"

"I think it's about fear that we have whole selves that don't include her." I shift, bringing our bodies into perfect alignment, the pressure almost enough to send her over the edge she's forbidden to cross. "The solution isn't to make ourselves smaller. It's to invite her into the parts we've been keeping separate."

Sarah's nails dig into my shoulders as she fights for control. "What about you? Do you have secrets she's testing for?"

My movement falters slightly. Trust, I think. If I'm asking her to be honest, I need to be honest too.

"My art," I admit. "The kinetic stuff I've been working on. I've been holding back. Making things that are pretty instead of things that are true."

Sarah's hand finds its way between my legs, making me gasp and arch. "Why?"

"Because true feels dangerous. And I wasn't sure she wanted dangerous from me." The words come out breathless as her fingers find the perfect rhythm. "I thought she wanted me manageable."

"But manageable is what's making her feel unnecessary."

"Exactly." My voice breaks as Sarah's touch threatens to undo me completely. "Maybe we both need to stop performing smallness and start offering everything we actually are. She's not afraid of our power, Sarah. She's afraid we'll use it to leave her behind. She's scared of being—"

We both freeze.

A shadow has appeared under the door. Tall, still, unmistakably Ariadne-shaped. The blue glow from her laptop screen creates a perfect silhouette—we can see her feet, the outline of her robe, the way she's standing perfectly motionless just outside our room.

How long has she been there? How much has she heard?

Sarah's hand stills against my skin. My own fingers go motionless. We barely dare to breathe, caught between arousal and terror, bodies pressed together in the dark while the woman we've been dissecting stands listening on the other side of a thin door.

The shadow doesn't move. Doesn't shift. She's planted there like she's made of stone, and I can picture her face—that perfect mask of composure hiding whatever she's feeling about hearing her own psychology laid bare by the women she's been trying so hard to control.

She's scared of being unnecessary.

Did she hear that? Does she know we see through the protocols to the fear underneath?

The silence stretches until it becomes its own form of torture. Sarah's pulse hammers against my palm where it rests on her throat. My own heart feels like it might burst from the tension of being caught mid-confession, mid-revelation, mid-everything.

Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the shadow moves away. Footsteps retreat down the hall—not rushed, but purposeful. The bathroom door closes with a soft click.

We lie frozen for another long moment, afraid to move, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe too loudly.

"How much do you think she heard?" Sarah whispers finally, her voice barely audible.

"I don't know." My fingers resume their gentle movement, but shakier now. "Maybe everything."

"Fuck."

"Or maybe that's exactly what she needed to hear."

Sarah looks at me in the dim light. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it. We just spent ten minutes talking about how much we love her, how we want to include her in our whole selves, how we're only hiding things because we're afraid of losing her." I press a soft kiss to her collarbone. "If she heard that..."

"Then she knows the protocols are working. That we're not trying to escape her—we're trying to be worthy of her."

"Exactly."

We move together then, bringing each other to the very precipice of release before stopping, trembling, holding each other as waves of almost-climax crash over us without resolution. It's beautiful torture—wanting what we're not allowed to have, offering everything we are to someone who might not need it.

The keyboard clicks have grown more infrequent. Ariadne must be nearly finished with her digital excavation.

"So tomorrow," Sarah whispers against my throat, "when she inevitably finds my consulting emails..."

"You don't apologize for having them. You ask her to help you figure out what to do with them."

"And you?"

"I'm going to paint something that might actually matter. Instead of something that's safe."

We lie entwined, bodies humming with unfulfilled desire, and I find myself thinking about colors—the deep blue of Sarah's arousal, the silver of Ariadne's control, the gold of the trust we're all afraid to offer.

"Can I ask you something?" Sarah says eventually.

"Of course."

"Are you happy? With all this? The protocols and the earning touch and the constant performance?"

I consider this carefully, my fingers still tracing lazy patterns on her overheated skin. It's a question I've been avoiding, but lying here with her body pressed against mine, I find I know the answer.

"I'm happy with her. The protocols are just the language she's using right now to feel secure. And I'd rather speak her language than lose her to her own fears."

"Even when her language is exhausting?"

"Especially then. Because exhausting means she cares enough to try to keep us." I press a soft kiss to her collarbone, tasting salt and desire. "Besides, there's something beautiful about working this hard to earn someone's attention. It makes every moment of connection feel earned."

"The scarcity makes it more valuable."

"The effort makes it more meaningful."

Sarah is quiet for a long moment, and I can feel something shifting in the air between us—not just arousal, but something deeper.

"Lilly?" she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"I love you." The words come out soft, almost surprised, like she's just discovered them. "Not just... not just because we're in this together. I love you. Your mind, your art, the way you see things I miss completely."

My breath catches. We've skirted around this feeling for weeks, dancing at the edges of something that felt too dangerous to name with Ariadne already claiming so much of our hearts.

"I love you too," I whisper back, and feel something unlock in my chest. "I've been afraid to say it. Like loving you might somehow take away from loving her."

"But it doesn't, does it?"

"No. It makes it bigger somehow. Like there's more of me to give."

Sarah nods, then gasps as my thumb finds that perfect spot again. "I just want her to know that all the effort in the world couldn't make me want to leave. Either of you."

"Then maybe that's what you tell her. When she finds your emails tomorrow." I make my touch more insistent, bringing her back to the edge one more time. "When she confronts you about hiding your competence."

"What do I say?" Her voice is barely coherent now.

"That you weren't hiding from her. You were hiding for her. Because you thought that's what she wanted." I stop just before she can fall over the edge, leaving her gasping and desperate. "But now you know better."

Through the wall, we hear Ariadne's laptop close. Footsteps moving toward the bathroom. The sound of our lives being catalogued, analyzed, understood in ways we're only beginning to grasp.

"Good luck tomorrow," I whisper.

"You too. With the dangerous art."

"With the dangerous truth."

We fall asleep eventually, bodies still singing with want, hands still touching, hearts still racing with the knowledge that tomorrow everything changes.

But tonight, we practice the most perfect submission of all: offering everything we are to someone who might not need it, and finding that the offering itself is enough.

The keyboard clicks have stopped. Ariadne has finished her excavation.

Tomorrow, the real exposure begins.