Only the sound of breathing remained in the room.
One wearing flesh-colored stockings, asking me to call her sister; the other in deep black, asking me to call her mother. Two pairs of feet alternating under the light—one pair gentle and almost transparent, the other cold as night. They didn't rush to speak, just using toes, arches, and insteps to take turns touching, probing, and controlling.
I was forced to lie on my back, my vision filled with the crisscrossing patterns of stockings. Sister's feet were gentle yet irresistible, while Mother's were more direct, each press carrying clear intent. They occasionally switched positions, sometimes approaching together, leaving me unsure whom to call at that moment.
A sense of shame slowly rose. Not because of pain, but because I found myself softly uttering those two words under such gazes and touches. They seemed well aware of this, their movements unhurried, as if admiring a painting being deconstructed.
I didn't beg for mercy or try to escape. I just turned my face to the side, letting those two pairs of differently colored stockings hold the rhythm of the entire night beneath their feet.
The entire process has been recorded.
Those willing to see will understand.