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Amma is attached to Camille like a second skin.
She couldn’t let go, wouldn’t.
Not since she had slipped her tongue into her own sister’s mouth and shared the bit of blissful sunshine between the both of them.
You’d be like heaven to touch.
I wanna hold you so much.
Because that’s what it felt like being with Camille. Heaven. Happiness. Being touched, being embraced. A drug in itself, seeing how Camille looked at her, watched her. Sometimes it felt like she was the only person on earth Camille saw, loved. Other times Camille looked at her with a longing gaze, hunger. Almost predatorily, like Amma was meat, prey her sister wanted to hunt, to consume.
And Amma would let her devour her, hurt her.
Camille was the other half of her, the missing jagged, sharp object that completed her, made her whole. Her sister is her soulmate, her blood, hers.
And Amma wants to carve that she’s hers, her sister’s, along Camille’s flesh, trying to find an unmarked, unmarred smooth expanse of skin. One that isn’t claimed by past hurt, now healed, scarred over.
Amma wants to see Camille’s blood, and she wants to be the one to inflict the pain, the pleasure that her sister harming herself feels.
Amma hums the tune of the song, before singing it to her sister, who is almost fast asleep; the combinations of drugs and drinks in her system, too much for her to cope.
But Amma can handle it, even though she’s dizzy and drugged. The world fades to just the two of them on Camille’s bed, and only having eyes for Camille.
“I love you, baby, and it’s quite alright,” she sings softly, like a mama singing a lullaby to her baby.
“I need you baby,” Amma traces over the array of words messily carved into sister’s skin, her fingers crawling like spiders, sliding up her spine, towards her bra strap.
“To warm the lonely nights.” Amma sings a bit lower, her small hand slowly slithering to the front of Camille’s chest. “I love you, baby.” She speaks huskily, rather than sings it now, lust pooling low in her belly as she squeezes her breast, one that’s not as big as her own, even though this is her big sister’s.
A tiny gasp escapes Camille’s throat, and she lets out a ragged breath. And Amma knows she’s enjoying this, the attentiveness, her little sister’s touch, even though she’s sleeping, she’s invading her dreams.
She invades her privacy further, slipping her hand underneath Camille’s damp bra, to cup her soft flesh, feeling smoothness, no blemishes, marks, or scarring. A place near her sister’s heart, right against the flesh of her breast, where she can carve out her name.
A M M A
“Trust in me, when I say.” Amma sings once again, groaning when Camille’s nipple pebbles underneath her touch. “Oh pretty baby.” She pinches her nipple, twists it, feeling her heartbeat quicken.
Am-ma, it seems to beat her name over and over again, a tattoo against her rib cage, repeating her name.
And Amma knows her sister’s heart belongs to her, for it’s carved into her very marrow, her bones.
“Let me love you, baby, let me love you.” Amma’s mouth suctions to Camille’s throat, right along her jugular, her teeth scraping against the artery.
She wants to tear into her neck, rip her open, and bare her insides to her, almost crawl inside her. Because touching Camille, being this near is not near enough.
“Oh pretty baby, Camille.” Amma breathes, her pussy aching beneath the short skirt she wore just for her sister. She wanted to impress her, to burrow herself into flesh like insects and fester beneath the ruined skin like worms and rot. “I could eat you up.” Amma leaves a love bite on her throat, sucking and sucking on the skin, until there is a fresh mottled bruise, little broken blood vessels. Her claim over Camille.
Seeing the mark she’s created on her own flesh and blood, unlocks something feral and untapped in Amma. Something she hasn’t felt in weeks.
But instead of destroying, she wants to fix the broken. She wants to reawaken her sister’s flesh, her blood, and reinvigorate her. Touch every inch of her. Taste every inch of her. The need overwhelms Amma, and she shakes, her brain and body on overload from the desire, the lust, the complete obsession overtaking her.
But first she must see all of her sister.
Amma’s hands work as quickly as she can to shed her sister of her clothing, to see her canvas beneath. When she removes her jeans, she sees expletive sexual words carved into her thighs, above her stomach. It’s filthy and it turns on Amma more than anything in her life, especially when she sees wetness coating the crotch of Camille’s plain underwear. It’s the sexiest sight, along with her strawberry colored pubic hair sticking out the edges. Amma’s hair down there has just started to sprout and it just reminds her of how her sister is a woman—old enough to be her own mother. Her mama.
Amma pulls off Camille’s bra, admiring the supple flesh, the freckles she lacks near the uneven needle carved words.
“Pretty, pretty baby,” Amma salivates, strokes over her puffy nipples, nearly the shade of her own. The nurtured part of her wants to take one into her mouth, to suckle like a baby; drink her sister’s breastmilk, drowning herself in it like poison like Camille drowns herself in.
The other part of her—the soft violent part—longs to carve every single letter of her name. Articulately, precisely, without harsh lines or ugliness. Give her a beautiful brand, a heartfelt one. Amma would lick away the blood, lap it up and drink it like an offering. A communion between older sister and younger sister.
But Amma is too desperate to taste her sister’s mouthwatering tits, wrapping her chapped lips around her Camille’s nipple, never wanting to stop.
She sucks and sucks, using her sharp teeth to graze over one while she tweaks the other with her fingers. She warms it up with her tongue, leaving behind a trail of spit and saliva, nipples swollen and sensitive, as eventually one hand travels down to Camille’s crotch, her fingers trailing through her sister’s bush, finding her sticky—wet—as the boys in her class would tease.
Amma’s own crotch is just as wet, panties soaked, the sisters mirroring each other in how much they both want this. Only Camille didn’t know how much she wanted this, because she isn't awake, but knocked out.
That appealed to Amma’s inner self, thrilled her, excited her—even more than murdering those two fucking whiny bitch babies.
She killed those girls with rage, jealousy, resentment. They were nothing compared to Amma, could never be a replacement for her with her own mama. Only mama’s attention could be on her, just like Camille’s had to be.
For mama is hers and so is Camille.
“Mine, Camille, you’re mine.” Amma’s fingers trace the C U N T above her sister’s own cunt, before slipping her hand inside her underwear, tugging at her coarse wet curls, pulling harshly, biting into her nipple as Camille moans in her sleep, the drugs keeping her unconscious. Like Sleeping Beauty waiting for her true love’s kiss. Except Amma was the prickly spindle, especially when her fingers touched between her sister’s labia, finding her sticky honey, slick and warm.
Amma touched that place that made lightning thunder through her body, touching Camille’s the same way, but harder and quicker. She wanted Camille to cum for her like she came every night since her sister entered her life.
“Come on, Camille, cum for me, sister.” Amna gritted her teeth, rubbing her sister roughly, Camille’s legs parting wider. “You do like it rough, huh? Just like me, you need to feel pain to experience pleasure.” Amma panted, pulling her own panties to the side and placing her slick pussy against her sister’s scarred thigh. She grinds and humps against it, the friction against her clit feeling better than her own touch ever could. “Fuck, Camille.” Amma’s close, sucking her nipple into her mouth again, biting so hard she draws blood as her fingernail digs into Camille’s clit. And they both cum, Camille’s coppery blood hits her taste buds like the most sweetest drug and Amma rides out her orgasm, while Camille’s buck off her bed, both moaning.
“Camille, my Camille.” Amma kisses her nipple, her blood fresh and ripe on her tongue, She places kisses upwards, along the column of her throat where her mark is very prevalent, and Amma wishes it would stay permanently, knowing she’ll have to give her sister another one once that one disappears.
Her cum-soaked fingers slip from her sister’s pussy, and Amma shoves them in her mouth, tasting the intoxicating flavor, the familiar salt of her musk, loving the taste and relishing it.
Before she kisses her sister, she pries open her mouth roughly to spit a mixture of them inside her. Amma’s saliva mixed with Camille’s cum and blood. A ritual, a pact, a holy secret between sisters that she seals with a kiss to Camille’s, feeling more alive than ever, wanting and needing her undying devotion, her undivided attention, her lust, her love—if even Amma was capable of being loved.
Because this was the closest thing to love, to heaven, that Amma would ever experience.
She lays against Camille’s left breast, her fingernail tracing the letters of her name into her right one, etching each one with care, with tenderness, with attentiveness, with the only kind of affection she can give. Painfully, hurting Camille, wounding her the way she knows she would want, need.
Amma’s aroused all over again, seeing her name scraped into her sister’s skin, a light barely visible mark, for her eyes, that only she can see.
She almost wishes Camille was awake so she could feel her fingers inside her own young pussy, wanting Camille to be the first to fuck her, needing her more so than ever. But eventually exhaustion overtakes her and Amma crawls into the crook of her sister’s arms, covering them both with a blanket. And her arms snake around her once more, never ever willing to let go now.
For Amma is Camille’s second skin, young and nubile, pale, fresh, unblemished, and they are one along with their flesh and blood. Soulmates, but most importantly—sisters.