Three days later, Mummy arrived unannounced, her usual perfume replaced by the sharp tang of bleach and something faintly sweet, like overcooked fruit. "We're going," she stated, tossing a crumpled studio pass onto my keyboard. It landed atop the grease stain. "Now." Her eyes were fever-bright, pupils dilated despite the harsh overhead light. "Director’s… *generous*." She flashed a keycard—black, unmarked. "Private viewing suite. Soundproofed." Her smile was a blade. "For valued… spectators." She didn't wait for protest, turning on her heel. The command hung in the air, thick as ozone before a storm. My feet moved before my mind could catch up, trailing her through the sterile studio corridors, the scent of bleach growing stronger, mingling with the ghost of disinfectant and something else—a cloying sweetness that coated the back of my throat.
The suite was smaller than I expected: clinical white walls, a single plush armchair facing a vast, dark mirror that wasn't glass, and a low hum of ventilation. Mummy shoved me into the chair. "Quiet," she hissed, pressing a finger to her lips. Her breath smelled faintly of mint and iron. Beyond the mirror, soft light bloomed, revealing a bedroom set—rumpled silk sheets, velvet chaise, warm lamplight. Petra lounged against the chaise, thick fingers idly tracing the scars on her knuckles. Opposite her, perched nervously on the edge of the bed, was the girl—the bird. She looked different now: softer, healthier, cheeks faintly flushed. She wore a simple silk chemise, sheer enough to hint at the fading yellow bruises on her ribs. Her eyes darted around the room, wide but… hopeful? Excited? She smoothed the silk over her thigh, a nervous smile playing on her lips. Petra winked at her, a rough, reassuring gesture. The girl giggled, high and musical. She had no idea.
Mummy leaned close behind me, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. Her voice was a low purr, vibrating through my bones. "Watch." On the other side of the mirror, Petra stood, extending a hand to the girl. She took it, letting Petra pull her up. Their bodies pressed together—Petra solid and imposing, the girl yielding and delicate. Petra’s large hand slid up the girl’s spine, fingers tangling in her hair. The girl sighed, arching into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed. She murmured something—too faint to hear through the glass—and Petra chuckled, a low rumble. Then Mummy moved. She slipped silently through a concealed door into the set. The girl gasped, startled, then beamed. "Mummy!" she breathed, genuine delight in her voice. Mummy smiled back, predatory grace softened into something almost maternal. She kissed the girl’s forehead, then Petra’s cheek. "My girls," she murmured, loud enough for the suite’s hidden mic to catch. Her hand slid possessively around the girl’s waist, pulling her close. The girl melted into the embrace, nuzzling Mummy’s neck. Her eyes drifted past Mummy’s shoulder, locking onto the dark mirror—onto *me*. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, sharp and unexpectedly cruel beneath the innocence. "Oh," she breathed, her voice amplified, dripping with honeyed mockery. "Look who crawled out of his little cage." She tilted her head, her gaze pinning me through the one-way glass. "Lucky fucking *boy*, aren't you? Getting to watch real women fuck." She giggled again, pressing herself harder against Mummy, grinding her hip. "Bet you wish you were down here, huh? Being touched?" Her lips curled. "Too bad, pet. You just get to… watch." She reached out, fingers tracing Mummy’s jawline possessively, her eyes never leaving mine. "Enjoy the show, fuck."
Mummy’s laugh was a low chime of pure delight. Her hand tightened on the girl’s hip, fingers digging in hard enough to blanch the skin beneath the silk. "He’s *always* enjoyed watching," she murmured, her voice thick with promise, amplified and filling the suite. Her other hand slid up Petra’s arm, nails scraping lightly over scar tissue. "But today… today he gets a *special* treat." Petra grinned, sharp and feral, stepping forward. Together, they guided the girl backwards towards the rumpled bed. The girl went willingly, her earlier mockery dissolving into breathless anticipation, eyes wide and dark. She sank onto the mattress, silk pooling around her hips. Mummy knelt before her, fingers hooking into the straps of the chemise. Petra stood behind her, hands settling heavily on her shoulders. The girl shivered—not fear, but pure, electric tension. Mummy leaned in, her mouth hovering inches from the girl’s throat. "Remember what we talked about?" Mummy whispered, loud enough for the mic. "About trust?" The girl nodded frantically, swallowing hard. "Yes, Mummy," she breathed, her voice trembling with excitement. "I trust you." Mummy’s smile widened. "Good girl," she purred. Her gaze flicked up to the mirror again, meeting my horrified stare. Her lips formed silent words: *For you.* Then she dipped her head, biting down—not gently—on the delicate tendon where neck met shoulder. The girl gasped, a sharp, startled sound that morphed instantly into a low moan. Her head fell back against Petra’s stomach, eyes squeezing shut. Petra’s hands slid down, fingers finding the girl’s ribs, tracing the fading bruises with deliberate pressure. The girl arched, a strangled cry escaping her lips.