"Oh my God! He said yes?!"
Sansa shouted so loud into her iPhone that the only other girl in the cosmetic aisle shot her a look. She nestled herself against a glossy rack of nail polish bottles, shielded the receiver, and hastily whispered, "Did he say yes to the—um—you know?"
"He did," Elinor answered. "We're going to Stranger's Eve at Belgrave! And that's not the best part— he's getting us molly!"
Ordinarily Sansa would have screeched, but she settled for rapidfire stamping her Uggs against the white Target linoleum, her heart soaring the same as when she got accepted to Oxcross College. College was the best thing that had ever happened to her, in part because it led her to Elinor, a random roommate turned bestie within a half moon.
They would use her brother's connections to spend a weekend in the Lannisport. They would be the envy of everyone. Everyone. Sansa would be the coolest girl on campus when they saw her insta story inside the hottest club in the city. Yeah, we did molly, it was no big deal.
"I love your brother so much," Sansa said.
Elinor laughed. "I love him too. Isn't he the best?"
—
Hah, so, um, Sansa didn't expect the literal seven foot goliath who met them outside the train station. He leaned against a dinged up truck, his huge tattooed muscles busting out of a band-t-shirt and worn out black jeans. Lanky black hair sank to his shoulders and shrouded most of his face.
His lips twitched when he saw Elinor.
"Sandor!" she cried. She dropped her bag at his ginormous boots and flung herself into his arms, her two crisp Nikes popping off the ground. Sandor kissed Elinor's hair and grumbled, "Hi, sweetheart." When he let Elinor down, he eyed Sansa. Like, furrowed brow, carve-out-your-insides-like-a-pumpkin eyed. Except he only had one eye visible. The other was hidden—oh! Because—because—
"See something you like?" Sandor rasped. He had a smoker's voice and breath. Elinor swatted his pec.
"Be nice, brother! This is Sansa. My new bestie." Elinor curled herself around Sansa's arm, resting her head on Sansa's shoulder. "You have to get along, or else. Understood?"
Sandor grunted and grabbed Sansa's bag, effortlessly tossing into the bed of his truck. She stood stock still until Elinor helped her up into the backseat, like up an entire step. A man as big as Sandor needed the space. The truck's frame groaned when he dropped into the front seat. He lit a cigarette as he pulled away from the station.
"So tell me, girlies. How's college?"
—
Sansa nearly died from all the cigarette smoke but she reminded herself she had to be cool, that cigarettes weren't scary like Uncle said. If she was really cool she'd ask Sandor for one, instead of mentally drafting an email to Dr. Meribald: Lung cancer screening asap. But Sandor was busy catching up with his sister in the front seat. The only warning Elinor had given was, he looks tough, but he's a total softie. Don't worry.
If Elinor had been raised by this guy, no wonder she was so cool!!! Sansa decided she wouldn't worry. After all, he was putting them up for the night, and getting them into Belgrave, for free. Uncle cutting Sansa off came with serious financial repercussions—but it turned out she didn't need him!
Oh gosh, the apartment 😩
Sansa maybe should have thought harder about the fact that this guy was in his thirties and single. He lived in a shabby building with a huge black dog that nearly trampled Sansa on its way to Elinor. The dog put its front paws on Elinor's shoulders and licked her chin to her nose.
"Down, boy," Sandor called. " Now. "
The scrape of Sandor's voice put shivers down Sansa's spine. He was very commanding. Very manly.
"Well, here it is," Elinor said, swiping away dog drool with her forearm. "This is where I grew up."
Sansa knew Elinor had a hard life, they had totally bonded over being orphans. But Sandor's apartment was nothing like Uncle's townhome. It had low ceilings, flaky plaster, and dingy carpet. The plaid couch in the living room clashed with the floral armchair. The coffee table matched the kitchen table which matched the cabinets: offensively orange oak. So two decades ago. But the Smith teaches that it's improper to judge a person's moral worth based on their worldly possessions.
So Sansa said, "It's very cozy. I'm glad you and Sandor had each other."
Sandor made a rude-sounding noise, a grunt mixed with a coarse laugh, as he cracked open a can of cheap beer. They were all crowded into the kitchen/foyer, so close that his pecs claimed Sansa's entire field of vision. His body heat radiated against her bare chest and she suddenly regretted her choice of deep v-neck wrap top. You'd almost think she had cleavage the way Sandor stared!
"I got you that girly shit you like," he said. He plunked a fresh fifth of strawberry vodka on the table, alongside a two-liter of Sprite. "Try to not puke before you leave, otherwise it'll be a long night."
"Omg, you're the best!" Elinor swiped the bottles and perched on tip-toes to kiss Sandor's cheek. "No puking, I promise. Pinky promise!"
Happily, Sansa followed Elinor down the hall.
—
Her room was waaay cuter, pink walls covered in Four Princes posters and glow-in-the-dark stars. She had a white metal framed bed with rainbow sheets and a rickety-looking vanity basted in stickers. She scrounged two plastic tea cups out of the chest at the foot of bed. "This'll work. I used them for booze since middle school, not that Sandor cares if I drink."
Sansa held the cups as Elinor sloppily dosed out three parts vodka, one part soda. "Bottoms up," Elinor said, downing her cup unflinchingly. But it was so boozy! Sansa wrinkled her nose and squealed.
"It's happening!" she cried.
"It's so happening," Elinor echoed. "Let's get dressed. It's already super late."
True. It was ten pm and Sansa had an empty tummy because she was nervous. She didn't want to get motion sick on the train and she definitely wanted the alcohol to hit harder. Drinking was a habit she had picked up two moons ago, the very day she arrived in Oxcross. It made socializing so easy!! One sip of strawberry Sprite and she was already less afraid of Sandor. She was with Elinor! Like, the prettiest girl Sansa had ever met, who insisted that Sansa was the prettiest girl she had ever met.
Naturally, they decided to be twin angels: one auburn, one brunette. Their wings were made of lace feathers that rested on their shoulders and dropped down over the chests and backs. They paired them with feathery lace mini skirts scarcely more than five inches long. The scrap of cotton that was Sansa's thong was the only thing protecting her lady's parts from universal exposure. Mother, she silently prayed, if you're up there, I'm very sorry for dressing so slutty. Please keep me from embarrassing myself. Amen.
She stuffed her Cinnamoroll briefs in her bag before Elinor could see the obvious white slug of discharge on the crotch. Gross gross gross. It wasn't like Sansa at all!
Hair and makeup was the most fun part. They did a white sparkly look, with siren eyeliner and a frosty pink lip. Then they took turns curling each other's hair, and sweeping the curls up into two symmetrical high ponies. Only a few selfies in and a stabbing pain hit Sansa's bladder. She clutched her belly.
"Oh, um, where's your bathroom?"
"Down the hall on the right," Elinor answered, fidgeting with her falsies in the mirror. "Don't get lost, Sans."
"I won't," she hummed.
—
One step into the hall and Sansa realized the walls weren't set at right angles. They fell down, then up, then down again, depending on how she turned her head. She caught herself with a palm propped on what felt like stable drywall, and slid down until she reached a door frame. Right, right? Or left? Sansa peeled her hand off the wall and made an L. Or was it backwards? Her tummy gurgled again and she opened the door to find another bedroom. It stank like Sandor, BO and smoke and general manliness. He had boxers crumpled on the floor and a bottle that read personal lubricant on his nightstand. Another pang hit.
"Oh gosh," Sansa gasped. She toppled against the door opposite and wrestled it open.
Sandor stood in front of the sink.
Holding his penis.
It was hard. His phone was open on the counter. Open to Sansa's latest Insta story: a fresh selfie in her barely-there angel costume, smiling with her tongue pressed between her teeth.
Stories don't just stay up though—
He had screenshotted it.
Sansa opened wide to scream but a massive hand clasped her mouth. "Shh," Sandor shushed. He removed his hand to hold a finger to his lips, then subtly pointed down the hall. Elinor! Oh my Gods, she definitely can't see her brother like this! Tears generously welled in Sansa's eyes. She was so rude! She had barged in without knocking! Worse, she had to pee so bad! Oh no, oh no, oh—
A warm trickle started and Sansa clamped a hand between her legs. "I need—I have to—"
Sandor grabbed her arm and tossed her inside the bathroom. By the grace of the Mother, she managed to get her thong down just as she landed on the toilet. She almost forgot where she was as she peed because omg did it feel good, but she remembered as soon as she heard meaty slapping sounds at her side.
Sandor jerked off furiously, bracing his bulky forearm against the mirror. Sansa squeezed out her last few drops to the tune of thunderous breath. It was so loud she was forced to look, and by accident she watched, horrified, as loads of white goop emptied into the sink. She found the strength to look away, but looked up—another mistake. Her eyes locked with Sandor's.
"I'm so sorry, Ser. I'm sorry. I drank too much. I'm really sorry."
She tottered as she shimmied her thong back up, muttering a continuous stream of apologies. She tried to scoot around Sandor as he zipped himself, but he blocked the door with a muscular arm. "You're a good girl, aren't you?"
His breath was so sticky it was like drinking beer.
"I am. I—I try to be," Sansa answered, eyes on her bare toes. Sandor could squash them with his boots. He could squash every single part of her. She was glad she had already peed or else she was sure she'd pee herself again. She might be—she hadn't had time to wipe. She was simply wet.
"Then how about you keep quiet? Can you keep quiet, little birdie?"
"Yes, Ser. I won't say anything. I'm really very sorry. I always knock, really. I promise. It's just you got us the strawberry vodka and I think I've had like three or four cups. Elinor is used to drinking but I actually only started like two weeks and ago and she keeps—"
"Shh."
Sandor cupped Sansa's cheek and thrust his thumb into her mouth. He tasted like salty skin, smoke, and yeast. "Then be quiet, girl. Understood?"
Sansa nodded, her damp thighs squished together. Sandor opened the door and gently shoved her into the hallway. Safe.
That didn't change the fact that she saw Sandor's penis. It was huge, like the rest of him. But why did he touch himself with her Insta pulled up?
Did he have a crush on her?
—
Back in Sandor's truck, the cigarette smoke air was thick as honey if honey tasted nasty and vibrated. The problem was the smoke got sweeter with each sniff, like Sansa's brief sample of Sandor's thumb. There was a warmth in the truck that reduced her to thick liquid. She was the honey. She buzzed with it.
And Sandor kept stealing samples in the rearview mirror. He had the eyes of a hungry wolf, even though bears are the ones who come for hives. Sansa pulled at her sorry excuse for a skirt, whose hem rested level with the crotch of her thong. It was too dark to see if it was yellow or not. She really hoped Sandor couldn't tell how damp it was.
Sansa gasped for city air when she clambered down from the truck. She wanted something crisp but all she got was the hot mist of countless cars and the dizzy reflections of headlights in wet pavement.
"Come on," Elinor said, slipping a hand around Sansa's elbow. "It's just around the block."
Sandor led the way, pushing past a tangled crowd of scantily clad club-goers, most of whom smoked, or else blew fruity smelling vape in their faces. "The line's that way," a girl with a mullet said, nodding to the thick snake of people that ran down the rest of the block and around the corner.
"Oh, um—" Sansa started, but Sandor didn't care. He charged forward, unafraid of bumping shoulders. He had connections. Sansa had to believe him.
And sure enough, at the velvet roped entry, the burly security guard nodded. "Clegane," he said, gruff. He was almost as tall as Sandor and equally wide, with his arms crossed, tattooed biceps offensively swollen.
"Oakheart," Sandor greeted. "I've got two little birds with me, want to have some fun tonight." He moved to show off Sansa and Elinor, resting a warm palm on Sansa's exposed lower back.
"You owe me," Oakheart said. He unclipped the rope, but after Sansa and Elinor went through, Sandor followed. Sansa gave Elinor a look that she accidentally threw up and over her shoulder.
"What?" Sandor barked. "You think you're gonna score molly by yourselves? Fat fucking chance. You'll end up with crank that way. In you go."
Sandor thrust her forward with a large hand on her back. The dark entrance of Belgrave swallowed her.
—
Okay, the club was so cool! So cool! It was a box with a ceiling as big as the sky and all black walls. All black everything except for the strobe of rainbow lights. They didn't play Top 40 or anything, they played music for very sophisticated and cool dancers, like just a really steady throbbing bass that sunk into your blood and replaced your heartbeat. The bass took Sansa and Elinor to the bar, at the heels of Sandor. He shouted something to the bartender and put a hundred dragon bill down. Gosh! Drinks were expensive!
The bartender slid two fizzy pink drinks across the black bartop, alongside a small baggy that Sandor quickly claimed. When he passed off a drink to Sansa, he pressed a candy-like pill into her hand. He leaned so close his greasy hair licked her cheek and rasped, "Don't take off your clothes, or you'll get kicked out, understood?"
Sansa nodded and took the pill like medicine at the same time as Elinor, who smiled so wide Sansa knew she wasn't doing anything wrong. Yeah her tummy rioted with butterflies but butterflies were pretty! They got to fly that much closer to heaven! The angels of the bug world! Why wouldn't Sansa want to be one?
She floated into the dance floor, fingers intertwined with Elinor's. Sansa literally couldn't feel a single bad feeling when she looked at her new best friend. Elinor led their dancing—at first they held both their hands together and left room for the Father as they shimmied and tossed their curly pigtails. But somehow the crowd grew closer and so did they. There wasn't enough room. They had to press their bodies together, chests first, and curl each other tighter. Sansa rested her arms atop Elinor's shoulders and Elinor held Sansa's waist. They danced like they were boy-girl. It was very sexy. So sexy that Sansa's bass-commanded pulse pounded past her belly, to her flower. When Elinor's thigh grazed Sansa's bud she gasped a gasp that the music swallowed, but Elinor noticed and smiled.
"I love you," Sansa said. She didn't know if she meant in the girl-girl way or boy-girl way.
Elinor said something back that Sansa couldn't make out. "What?" she asked, but a boy appeared behind Elinor and started grinding on her and suddenly he got Elinor's attention. Elinor sexily clasped his neck and worked her backside up and down his front. Oh gosh! Sansa's pulse screamed faster than the music. She was very happy for Elinor to make a new friend, truly. All the very beautiful club goers could be Sansa's friends. She decided to dance by herself, eyes open, drinking the dazzle of makeup on both the girls and the boys, the dazzle of their costumes, the gracefulness of their limbs as their bodies became music. Sansa's body was music. She played that game for a while: be music. A twirl of her arm took the music higher, a tilt of her head pushed it faster. She controlled the music with each gesture, rising up toward the ceiling like a true angel.
The black box burned bright white. She was in the clouds for a while.
She dropped down eventually, with a sore jaw and devastating thirst. Elinor—where was Elinor? Sansa stood on the tip toes of her platform boots to scan the shiny heads across the floor.
But she recognized only one shine: against the far wall, Sandor stood, eyes sharp on her. He carved what remained of her insides completely out. Sansa's head went hollow and her belly complained, another threat of an accident, right here, in the center of Belgrave. She doubled over, clutching herself. Oh Mother, she thought, over and over. Oh Mother, not here. I don't even know where I am. She was hot and sticky. Her feathers clung to her by some sort of magic. But she wasn't a bird. She didn't have feathers. It would be better to have them gone! Yes! She lifted her feathery bra and—
"Are you alright?" The strange, very pierced face of a stranger blinked at Sansa.
"She's with me." Sandor's shadow and warmth enveloped her. "Come, little bird. Let's get you some water."
—
Sansa felt exactly like honey with Sandor's arm coiled around her waist, his fingertips snuck slightly in the waistband of her skirt. "I'm not a bird," she told him. "That's the only reason I—"
"Drink." Sandor shoved her into a barstool and put a cup of water into her hands. Sansa drank the whole thing feeling like a pet dog and not hating it. She decided she could stare at Sandor if he got to stare at her. The club was so steamy that his hair stuck to the creepy side of his face. It was a melted expanse of red flesh that looked almost inhuman. Sansa had seen it in exactly one picture that Elinor had of Sandor hanging on the dorm room wall, from when they were kids. What happened? Sansa had asked. I can't talk about it, my brother's very private.
"Nice mask," said a tall human in head-to-toe latex, passing them by. Sandor's face warped to nasty scowl.
"Go fuck yourself," he spat. Sansa jumped in her seat. Scary! Why did he have to be mean? "Oh, don't give me that look, little bird. You haven't been able to take your eyes off me either."
"I'm not giving you a look," Sansa said. "It's just—why are you so rude?"
Sandor gave a hearty grunt. He signaled to the bartender, who quickly cracked a beer and slid it over the counter. Sandor stood in front of Sansa, her knees centered between his legs. She knew what hid between them, and hid wasn't the right word, because there it was, either huge or hard or both, pressing eagerly against dark denim. The dang heart pills made Sansa's flower flutter.
"Why did you masturbate to my picture?" she asked.
"Because you're hot," Sandor answered. He shifted forward, so the heat of his boner met Sansa's bare knee. His fingertips dropped to her thigh and ran a slow path towards her sweetest spot.
"But you're so old," Sansa said.
"And you're so young."
"Are you mean because of what happened to your face? Did Gregor hurt you too?"
Sandor's hand froze. He took a step back, casting a weary look at the dance floor. "Fly away, little bird,” he rasped. “I don't have time for your shit."
—
Weirdo! Sandor went off to Gods knew where and Sansa made a fast friend named Willas. He bought her a drink but didn't want to dance so goodbye!!! Sansa wanted to be an angel again. She submerged herself in the mesh of bodies, a swarm of butterflies in the collective belly of the Gods, dancing to music! music! music! thump! thump! thump! There is only heart, smiles, heat, heart, smiles, heat. She was a girl again, rainbow stickers in her diary and a gemstone tiara on her head. Daddy was there, smiling down on her. I miss you, she told him. Gooseprickles spread across her skin: a hug. I love you Daddy.
You’re a good girl, aren’t you?
Sansa smiled. Her smile summoned Elinor. Then it was time for more smiles and dancing, front to front. "I lost you!" Sansa said. "But I found you!"
"I danced with some guy—it was fun for a while. Did you find my brother?"
"Oh yeah!” Cue head-to-toe blush. No boners. No boners. “He got me water! So I could dance more!”
"See, I told you he was harmless!"
They danced. And danced and danced and danced, danced into the angel zone, where no darkness was allowed. Not even Sandor was dark when he parted the clouds and landed at Elinor's back. Sansa almost thought it was time to leave. But he stayed. He put his hands on Elinor's waist, thumbing her exposed tummy. She nuzzled his broad chest, baring her neck for a kiss. "Brother," her mouth said.
They really must love each other. In a really special way. Elinor ground into him the same way she had ground against the boy from before. Only her eyes were closed and Sandor watched her until he caught Sansa staring.
She looked away. She danced away.
It seemed private. He's a very private person.
—
Sansa snuggled with Elinor in the back seat on the ride back. Her jaw hurt and when Sandor stopped for cigarettes at a gas station he brought back two blow pops. Sansa happily lapped hers, and pet Elinor's head in her lap. The clock on the dash read 4:44 in fuzzy green letters. Waaay past bedtime but she didn't feel sleepy at all. Her tummy gurgled and her muscles ached to the bone.
When they made it back to the apartment, they said good night to Sandor. Elinor stripped off her costume and crashed straight into bed. She was fast asleep by the time Sansa had changed into her nightgown. Dang. Sansa wanted company. She could have talked forever. She took her makeup bag down the hall and stopped what she thought was the bathroom door. Lights flickered in the living room.
"It's open."
Sandor sat on the floral couch, watching TV and drinking a beer. He wore only boxer shorts. His hairy belly puffed over the waistband, smattered in black ink. Hounds, maybe? Or wolves? Three beasts slobbered and snarled across his meaty pecs and buried abs.
"You're staring, girl."
Sansa took a few timid steps forward. "I think—I think my tummy hurts," she told him.
"Have you eaten anything?"
"No."
"Start with a ginger ale. There's some in the fridge."
Sansa set her bag on the counter and rummaged in the crowded fridge, parting take out containers and half-eaten, plastic-wrapped plates until she spotted a familiar green can. For some reason, she carried it to the couch, though she stood awkwardly at its side.
"Cute dress," Sandor said. "You look like a little girl with your tiny little tits."
"That's not very nice," Sansa said, pouting.
"I like tiny tits."
"Oh. Okay. Um—"
"Here."
Sandor scooted over and patted the cushion beside him. It would be impolite to not join him, since he was her host, after all. Sansa's nightgown was from when she was a little girl but she decided not tell Sandor. She sipped her soda and pretended to watch a show about warfare, with tanks rolling through mud and men in uniforms shooting old-fashioned guns. Blood and guts and more blood, so Sansa spent time peeking at Sandor. Mostly at his boxers. His muscular thighs spread wide and forced his boxers way up near his you know, which happened to be growing. Sandor watched the TV but grabbed himself and slowly worked his length in a downward motion. Sansa's belly swirled and her flower thumped and she became too aware of her wet undies.
"Why is this turning you on?" she asked.
"I can smell you," Sandor answered. "And I know you're watching."
"Are you going to masturbate again?"
"Might be. Are you going to be a good little bird and help me?"
"How?"
But Sandor stared at what he wanted. "Take off your dress."
"It's a nightgown."
"Do what I say."
"But Elinor—"
Sandor cut Sansa off with a terrible look. TV bullets fired in a staticky haze.
"Why did you kiss your sister like that?"
"Because I love her."
"Does she—does she help with—with this?" Sansa eyed Sandor's hard on, so hard that it tented his boxers and his hairy nuts fell out of one leg.
"Sometimes. When I ask. Or when I tell her to. Nell's a good girl. Are you a good girl, Sansa? You look like a good girl. I saw it in your pretty pictures. You went to St. Baelor's. And you go to sept service every Sunday. But now you're a thirsty little bird who likes to take pretty little party drugs. Why is that? What would your Gods think?"
"My Gods—the Gods—" Sansa's throat turned gluey. Her eyes swam. "They took Daddy."
"Nell told me. She didn't have a daddy neither. I raised her. I'm her daddy. I'm her everything."
"A daddy who touches her?"
"Just like my dad touched me. Now are you going to show me your tits or do I have to do the heavy lifting? I'll rip that pretty dress right off of you. Send you home naked. Or you can do a little show for me. Take off your panties and prove that you're an innocent little bird."
Sansa trembled as she picked up the hem of her nightgown and lifted it above her head. Sandor yanked it out of her hands and tossed it to the floor. When she tried to cover her boobs, Sandor grabbed her wrists and pinned them up against the top of the couch. Her flower pounded.
"I think I might have to pee," she said.
"Are you not potty trained, little bird?"
"Ser—Sandor—please—"
She mashed her thighs together, uncertain how to name the feeling of frightful warmth that claimed her. Her heart ran at a million miles per hour, faster and faster, because of Sandor's grip, because of the cold air on her agonizingly sensitive nipples, because Sandor now openly stroked his penis. This was sex. Sansa had it with Joffrey once but it was fast and all she did was lay down and close her eyes and Joff finished and it was done. This was going on for centuries and was so different Sansa fretted that yes, she would wet herself. She would spontaneously combust. Her heart would leap from her ribs or her flower or both at once.
Sandor stopped touching himself, but only so he could tear Sansa's thong past her zipped up thighs to her ankles. "Just as I thought," he rasped. He stuffed two fingers inside Sansa's center. "You're soaked, girl. Do you fuck?"
"Once," Sansa peeped.
"Did you get off?"
Sansa shook her head. Sandor jerked her by the wrists so she fell belly first over the armrest. He picked up her thighs and spread them so her petals parted to the open air. His hands were so large that his forefinger and thumb met, and no matter how much she tensed she couldn't fight his grip. His cock landed like a hot rod of iron against her dewy center.
"You're going to keep quiet when I fuck you, understood? If you wake Nell up, you'll be in deep shit. Do you want her to see you like this?"
"N-n-no Ser. I'll be good."
"Good. That's a good girl. This is between us and your fake Gods. You can pray to the Maiden while I savage your pretty little cunt. Maybe you can ask her for your virginity back. I was hoping you were intact. But I like slutty little girls too. I like it when they're wet."
Sansa bit the stuffed armrest when Sandor shoved his penis inside her. It stretched her center past her limit until it burned, and until the fire turned wet. He humped her and grunted with each hump. His furry belly rested heavily against her bottom. Sweat dripped from him down her spine. She was too open. It was true. She was being slutty because Sandor forced her to be that way. Because he masturbated in front of her and made her forget to wipe and because his muscles were too big and deadly. He crushed the purity right of her. But Sansa's Gods hadn't abandoned her—the Stranger was at her back. He delivered sanctity in its cruelest form: pleasure.
The armrest tasted like ash and beer and salt and the maybe thousands of times Sandor had wiped his hand on it after jerking off. It filled with the drool that seeped from Sansa's lips each time she buried another groan. Sandor snatched up her pigtails and used them to slam her backside against his cock. He pressed her bud with his other hand, her poor bud, that had begged for attention all night.
"D-daddy," Sansa whined.
"What?" Sandor barked. "Do you want to come? I can feel it. I can feel your greedy little cunt. She's getting so tight. She's begging for my cock. I knew you needed him."
It was true—Sansa couldn't seem to let him go. Each clench of her center only dragged him deeper inside her, and held him there for longer. But his thrusts turned her wetter. They battered her thoroughly so she couldn't tell what part of her he hit. She only knew that she was honey, a hive, cracking, about to burst.
"Something—something is wrong. I feel funny."
"Funny how?" Sandor rasped.
"Wet," Sansa peeped. "I'm broken. Or breaking. You can't—ah!"
Sandor thrust his cock against her weakest, achiest spot. "Poor little bird," he teased. "She's gonna come whether she likes it or not. Might be she'll piss on my cock."
Tears soaked into the sticky, mascara-streaked fabric that had become Sansa's world. She trenched her nails into the couch's stuffing as Sandor tormented that same spot, as he rubbed her bud, so steadily, so strongly— "I'm sorry Daddy."
Sansa let herself go in waves, actual waves of water that gushed over Sandor's staff and puddled at her knees. Her flower seized up and Sandor's base slammed against her butt as his own waves hit. He buried his liquid inside her, groaning, "That's it. Take it all, sweetheart. That’s Daddy’s good girl."
When Sandor finally slipped out of her, Sansa curled into a ball in her own sopping mess. She had ruined Elinor’s ugly couch by having sex with her brother. Worse, she had an orgasm! A pee orgasm! Her body weight was floating lead. “Come on, little bird,” came a soft rasp that killed her more dead. “You have to get going.”
But Sansa refused to move until Sandor pried her up, limb by limb, and wrestled her nightgown back down over her head. “I’ll clean the piss. You go to bed.”
He pushed her in the direction of Elinor’s room, but her legs didn’t work, and she collided with a wall of framed pictures. Hunched, arms curled protectively around her chest, Sandor’s shadow ate her. He was supposed to be a softie but he was actually just ginormous and stinky and too powerful to fight. Like a furry black dog who hunts bunnies for a laugh.
He stole Sansa’s cheek. Forced her to look. “Go to bed, little bird. And you keep your mouth shut. Or else I tell Nell what you did. You hear me?"
Sansa sniffled out a, "Yes," that Sandor caught on her drooping lower lip.
“Good girl,” he said. For a second his eyes didn’t sting. “Drink some water. Get some sleep.”
Sansa sniffled her way to Elinor’s room. Hop, hop, hop.
—
Elinor woke Sansa up by holding her cheeks and saying, “Omg, girl! You look like a trainwreck! What a night, right?”
Sansa blinked out crusty mascara, and flinched when Elinor gingerly ripped the falsies from her lashes. Somehow she had made it into Elinor’s bed. Elinor's boobs were out. Sansa still had on her nightgown. The nightgown. I like tiny tits. And Sansa preferred Elinor’s. They were bigger.
“Yeah,” Sansa peeped, blushing. “Pretty crazy. I got really messed up.”
"We'll have to come back soon. City parties are way better than boring college ones."
"Oh, yeah. For sure. Um, as long as your brother doesn't mind."
"Sandor does whatever I tell him, really. He can't say no to me."
But—ugh. Sansa’s head was cold honey on the Long Night. Who was in charge? Sandor was so bossy. When I ask. Or when I tell her to. Were Elinor and Sandor dating? Was Sansa dating him? She thought of his thumb in her mouth and warmth blossomed in her belly.
Her thong was missing.
"Maybe we could come next weekend,” Sansa said. “Is that too soon?"
Elinor kissed her nose. "Not at all. Seriously, it'll be the highlight of his week."
Sansa smiled with her nose pressed to Elinor’s. Even after a night of hardcore dancing, her bestie’s breath smelled sweet as strawberries. Sweet as her rainbow blankets, sweet as her good morning and goodnight kisses.
Elinor didn’t have to know a thing, because Sansa didn’t know anything. She was a good little bird who kept her secrets.
That was the meaning of friendship.
