Talia Steals the Show

In the pool of light, Talia was a damned goddess of fashion, pristine white angular panels of her dress drawing the eye along her slender frame to the (unloaded) nickel-plated handgun in her right hand. A playful wink, a pull of the trigger at the audience, and as quickly as she arrived in her couture, she strutted away on long legs tantalizingly displayed by the shimmering gold sea-silk trail of her outfit, her bare feet a challenge to the recent craze for Riverbreeze heels. But off stage, seething, was her doppelganger. Fingers gripping painfully tight at the top of her chair, teeth gritted, and the unmistakeable white residue of cocaine around her nostrils, Saniya's raw fury was so palpable that even the densest fashion writer and dresser knew to keep at least six feet between themselves and this less-favoured mad diva.

Together, Talia and Saniya were the darlings of the Republican and Tirtassian fashion worlds, setting trends with outfits that echoed into the noble courts of Tehra and the cartel balls of the Prasineonessian islands. Beauty alone - or even with talent - couldn't possibly have catapulted them to so lofty a height. It was precisely their reputation that brought them to their prestige and success. The rage, the cocaine, the perfectly maintained balance between unpredictability in conduct and reliability in booking. The darling bad girls, mobbed up and just dangerous enough to get gossip flowing without scaring away the names that really mattered. Magnetic performances full of nerve and the invincible surety of youth, fuelled by frightening quantities of champagne and cocaine (but never heroin - all a part of that careful balancing act) and the kind of rivalry that outsiders were convinced might turn violent at any second.

Sometimes it did. Saniya's palpable rage at being passed over for the final walk had already left one of the other, lesser models in tears after a slap for getting too close to try and rescue her eye liner. It was the kind of outrage that might end another model's career, but only fuelled the reputation, the 'edge' of the Starshadow twins. The tension in the dressing room rose and rose as Talia finished her walk, her ermine coat left behind to better display the lean angularity of her shoulders, by pulling the trigger one more time. The gesture was synchronized to the release from the ceiling of great fountains of falling sparks of arcane, shimmering blue diamonds that danced in and out of existence for wonderful brief seconds and made every Elven observer in the room a little high, that sent tingles up the spine and made hair stand on end. By the time Varaness, the line's designer, stepped out for his speech Saniya was incandescent with rage, staring in the mirror, and when Talia entered with her ermine coat neatly cocked over a shoulder the buzz of the room quieted to a frightful, awed hush.

Breathless, models and stylists and gossip rag muckrackers peered through split fingers and cracks in the dressing booths, too enthralled to look away from the bloodshed. But the gasps that followed were not those of shock and terror - or at least, not the shock and terror they'd anticipated. Far from violence, from a murder, the other source of gossip surrounding the half-elven twins rose to the surface for those brave souls who dared to peek. Saniya, still naked from her last change of the show, had pulled Talia in close, wrapped her hands around her throat, but she wasn't choking her sister. The two identical blondes were instead locked in a fierce, intense kiss, indistinguishable save for the clothing so artfully draping Talia's frame and the slighter pallor of Saniya's skin. No one in their audience could have taken the kiss between them for chaste appreciation between siblings, or even a mockery of the act - not with the parting of pouting lips to each other, the way the two pressed at each other's bodies, the little push back towards the dressing table.

Together, the two were a queer work of art on the dressing table, Talia backed up onto it, her dress pulled heedlessly apart despite the strangled cry of a stylist and pushed down her body to pool around her waist. Inviolate taboo so casually broken, unmistakeably desired by both twins. Even the flash of a camera seemed not to interrupt the erotic reverie of the two, Saniya leaning close to whisper in her sister's ear, half snarled words spat cocaine-fast.

"You think just because you got to go on last you're better, huh? That you're not still my little fucking slut? You wish!"

Saniya thrust her arm down, delicate hand shoving up underneath Talia's skirts to find her bare cunt as she spoke. Her sister writhed against the mirror, pinned there as much by raw submissive pleasure as by the tight grip of Saniya's other hand still at her throat. Her velvety folds were already damp and slick against the probing fingers, and when Saniya roughly - almost violently - penetrated her with three fingers at once, she sighed into the sudden intrusion, opening to the familiar violation with an oh-so-sweet parting of her lips in answer. It hurt, even wet as she was, to be so suddenly used, but the sweet ache blurred into masochistic pleasure that left her craving more.

Another camera flash. This time, Talia noticed it, registered a vague recognition of just what it meant in some dim corner of her brain not currently in her sister's domineering thrall. It only made her wetter to be seen being used, to go from the prestige high of the closing catwalk to the depraved low of being fucked in front of strangers, of being used - a lifetime of outrage and scandal transmuted by the flash into a surge of desire, a burning fire spreading through her belly. Almost against her will, her hips rose in answer to it, grinding against her sister's crudely pumping fingers, mercifully hidden by the increasingly crumpled white velvet of her dress from photographic evidence. Somehow, a hand found its way to Saniya's small pert breast, the other to her sister's hip, pulling her tighter in without conscious awareness, and a low, wavering moan slipped from her throat, rising in pitch and volume into an actual shriek of ecstatic pleasure.

Just like that, from little more than the flash of the camera, Talia had been lain low, her toes curling, skin on fire and heart pounding in her chest hard and fast as the overwhelming surge of exquisite pleasure rippled through her body, her pussy seizing vice tight and relaxing in slow rolling rhythm around Saniya's soft fingers. The flush burning in her cheeks was as much humiliation as pleasure. An overdose of fame had robbed her of sense, and the orgasm blurred with it into an exquisite haze. But clarity returned fast and certain with a reflexive snort of white powder from her sister's offered finger, cocaine flooding her sinuses and into her blood, jolting her back into the real world - and straight into another hungry and fierce kiss, Saniya pushing her back against the mirror tighter, biting her lip possessively as her head reeled from the sudden flood of the powerful stimulant.

Only the click of the solitary cameraman - either a daring soul or ignorant of the twins' criminal ties - echoed out from behind the dividing screens as they cavorted together. Other observers made an excuse to leave, to look away, to return to their own business, but some remained, leering through the cracks, tittering with each other at the lascivious display. Somewhere, muffled to silence by the baize cloth padding, the terrible moan of the stylist responsible for the now thoroughly ruined dress sounded at the sight of it being torn away completely, stitches popping, a pale shadow of Talia's own excited grunt with her sudden nudity, her lingering vestige of modesty robbed from her. She met Saniya's rough hands turning her over with a desperate trembling arousal and a gasp as her face was forced down against the cool marble of the vanity's top.

The elf in her felt the familiar surge of arcane magic rippling through her sister's body. One of their favourite tricks and possessions, secreted away in a drawer and suddenly produced for the event - a small silver-and-lapis amulet, the precious stone briefly glowing in a way that made the sensitive nerves of both their ears twitch and tingle. A wiggle let her look in the mirror, back at her domineering, deliciously jealous sister. The angle was awkward, but clear enough. Where before there had been only a pink, lovely pussy crowned with a neatly maintained strip of silky soft hair, there was now a throbbingly erect cock. It wasn't especially large - neither achingly thick nor awesomely long - but it was familiar and taboo at the same time, the way the glans peeked from beneath a half-retracted foreskin pulled taut against the shining crown inexplicably erotic.

Talia's eyes widened at the last glimpse before Saniya's hand curled again in her hair, forced her back down and robbed her of the sight. Skin bristled again, rising in nervous goosebumps and a flush of humiliated delight. Saniya's other hand was working some styling cream or other from the show onto her cock, and as wet as Talia was, that meant only one thing. And before she could do anything but take a deep breath of preparation, Saniya thrust into her hard and fast. Talia, despite her effort, shrieked into the top of the table, her entire body suddenly on fire, the pain of the penetration rippling through her in hard, crashing waves that came with each jagged breath. The makeshift lubricant helped, but she was still trembling, legs twitching and fingers gripping white-knuckle tight at the edge of the counter. It was awful and painful and degrading, a public humiliation and show of superiority in the oldest way, and it made her desperately aroused even through the pain. The fire spreading was as much desire as pain, though pleasure yet remained distant memory, driven away by the raw ache of this iniquitous violation of her body.

Anyone else she'd have murdered for such an affront. But Saniya... Each thrust from her sister made her ache deeper, fiercer, but sent a thrill through her. Taboo sex. Exhibitionism. Incest. All exquisitely erotic in their own right, but not the crowning glory of this painful experience. No - that was the knowledge that resurfaced with each pounding thrust, each hard slam of her sister's hips against her firm buttocks. The certain knowledge that she'd really gotten under Saniya's skin by closing out the show. It did nothing to bring physical pleasure back from the dead, and all of it that remained was a faint lingering ache of need in her throbbing pussy and the stiff nipples pressed at the marble, but as always the two fed on each other. Greater excess spurred by competition, by a love of each other's volatility and depravities. Showing off for each other - just like Saniya was trying to one-up her now with the show that kept pounding into her until finally - or suddenly, because in her ecstatic glee and pain Talia had truthfully lost all track of time - her sister stiffened and groaned and unceremoniously filled her bowels with sticky strings of ejaculate, pulling out, panting.

Talia couldn't resist. It took her a long minute to find the breath and the strength after the draining experience - and by then Saniya had already spirited away the amulet and her penis with it - but she managed to turn over again and give her sister an impertinent little grin, and in a hoarse voice, get her attention.

"I might be your slut... But I still closed the show."

*********

A day and a half later, a certain photographer sat down in front of a certain woman in a certain cafe, flanked by a pair of unassuming men drinking espresso at the next table. It was a very pleasant establishment, very fashionable among the more off-beat segment of the arts world and gourmands, serving a lush hybrid Human-Elven cuisine and adorning itself in the trappings of some distant orientalist fantasy, replete with copious bronze filigree, hookahs and dancing girls and dishes named for the exotic lands of the Southern deserts and the Isle of Alexandria. They made polite conversation, and only subtly referred to the events of the show and the only undeniable evidence of the cocaine-fuelled madness that took place behind the curtains. All just a youthful indiscretion, not to be repeated to anyone - discretion always appreciated.

The photographer left without eating. His nervous disposition prevented him having a taste for the rich food on offer that day. His pockets were substantially heavier, but he left without his films, and some of what went with them was priceless - shots not merely of the lurid, but the tantalizingly sublime, the elevation of mere physicality into some transcendant artistic moment captured in frantic eyes and bared bodies. The woman had paid well, and leafed through them briefly. She'd agreed with a sigh that it was a shame that such things had to be kept secret - the moment captured of pure animal instinct, of beauty made grotesque and nature defied, had especially spoken to her out of all of them. But in a family of reputation, even shadowy reputation, photographic proof of this particular vice would not do. Tucked away into her briefcase, they would later join an ever-growing collection of evidence documenting the twin's outrages and absurdities, with those crowning shots displayed in a small, exceedingly private gallery in a very large country manor outside the city.