Canapé

"That fucking Murgo..." It's under your breath in a room purposefully isolated, but the words are intended all the same. "What a load of shit."

Your head shakes at the memory of the old merchant, those crooked teeth in that disarming grin. The chocolate... It's the only thing on your mind. The only thing that's ever present in your life.

"My mystical wares only work if they are truly wanted," you mockingly echo. You pull up the heavy trunk, dragging it into position beside your bed.

"The magic is a reflection of your heart's desire," you mimic again, handling the camera you purchased months ago from him and setting it in place atop the trunk. "You peddle mostly useless junk, and yet this is my best shot. Damn you, Murgo."

It's been too long. Without her... It's like a fog has settled over your mind, and nothing makes sense anymore. The days have blurred together into one long passing of light and dark.

You no longer work, not in the traditional sense. You used your meagre savings to rent this cheap room in the middle of nowhere. It's run down, but it offers what you need.

Isolation.

You spend each day researching, reading myths, lore, tales of fantasy and magic, and you have searched high and low for some way to bring back Moka. Some way to understand that mystical power that created her. All of it led you here.

A long shot - to understate it - but it's your only remaining choice.

The room is sparsely furnished. Just a bed, a desk, and a single grimy window. Outside is nothing but desolate wasteland, the perfect environment for... whatever this may be. On the desk, an ancient-looking journal sits open. Its pages are filled with scrawled notes, sketches of arcane symbols, and desperate attempts to replicate the recipe. Failed attempts. Testimony to your shortcomings.

One more experiment, you think. A final try. If this fails, it's over. You're done. You will walk into the wasteland and never look back.

You glance at the small, carefully wrapped object on the trunk next to the camera. It's a piece of chocolate, shaped like a star. You followed the trail: from Murgo to a remote chocolatier rumoured to dabble in the arcane. You paid him a small fortune for it, ignoring his warnings.

"The one that girl came from... Murgo said… he bought it from me," the old man had whispered, his eyes wide with fear. "It was not bought, it was stolen. Those five pieces should never have left their vault. Each is an echo, a sliver of a soul trapped in confection. To eat one is to dream them, but to capture them? You are playing with fire, boy."

You don't care about the danger. You only care about the possibility, the hope, however faint, that you can see her again. You take a deep breath, unwrapping the chocolate with trembling hands. It smells rich, decadent, of dark chocolate and something else... something faint and floral.

"It's now or never," you mutter, your throat hoarse from disuse.

You sit in the camera's gaze, and your research tells you it should work. A moment stretched long enough to bargain. You place the chocolate on your tongue.

This is it.

The world dissolves around you, just as before, but this is different. A harsh, biting cold replaces the comforting darkness. You're no longer in your room. You're standing on a vast, frozen lake, a mirror of black ice under a sky devoid of stars. The air is still and heavy, pressing down on you.

"Hello?" Your call echoes in the oppressive silence, swallowed by the void.

The ice cracks. A jagged fissure races toward you, stopping just short of your feet. From the darkness within the fissure, a figure rises. Not Moka. This one stirs those same feelings, hits those same notes, but she is different. Face cute and rounded, with button cheeks, framed by dark hair that falls in neat layers.

Her eyes meet yours, and they are filled with the same soul-deep sorrow you see in the mirror every morning. You shake your head, put on the facade of confidence.

"Who are you?" you ask, feigning strength.

"Wonhee," she says. Her voice is softer, more delicate than Moka's. "You tasted me. You brought me here." She gestures vaguely at the endless desolation. It collapses around you, and you find yourself falling, through ice and darkness, back into your room. But you are not alone.

Wonhee is standing by your bed, looking around with a curious, detached sadness. She traces a finger over the dusty covers.

"So this is your world," she says, her tone laced with a melancholy you find too familiar. "It's... grey." She climbs onto the bed, a simple linen gown replacing the rags she wore in the ice realm. She sits on her knees, a delicate feline grace to her.

"I need your help," Wonhee says, "I need your desire." She slips the gown from one shoulder, revealing the flawless, creamy skin beneath. Your gaze is fixed on her shoulder, the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat. You have not seen anything like it since her... Since her dust had scattered.

"My desire?"

"Your desire," Wonhee whispers as the other shoulder is bared, "is all that tethers me here." She lets the dress pool at her waist, and you draw in a sharp breath at the sight of her small, pert breasts.

She crawls across the bed toward you, her eyes locked on yours. She sees the hesitation, the conflict in your soul.

"It is okay," she says, her hand coming to rest on your thigh. "It is not a betrayal to find comfort. It is not a sin to seek warmth in the cold." Her fingers inch higher. Her large, dark eyes are wide and imploring. She looks so much like Moka, yet she is not Moka. She is something else: another flavour, another pain.

You want her. You know it would be easy to lose yourself in her, to forget, if only for a moment. You lean in, your lips finding the delicate curve of her shoulder. You can smell chocolate. The taste is sweet, but with an unfamiliar undercurrent. It makes your head spin, a sweet vertigo.

You pull back. This isn't right.

Wonhee's hands are on your chest now, pushing you gently but firmly onto the mattress. She straddles you, her weight a familiar comfort. Her dark hair falls around her face, a curtain shielding you from the world.

"You're not real, either," you mumble, more to yourself than to her.

"Is that what matters?" she purrs, her hips rocking slowly against yours. The friction, the heat, it all comes rushing back. "I am here. I am warm. I am willing. Isn't that enough?"

"I..."

You can't finish the thought. Her lips are on yours, and the world falls away again. The kiss is different. More timid, more questioning. It's like the memory of a memory. You kiss her back, a desperate, frantic thing, a drowning man clutching at a piece of wreckage.

She breaks the kiss, her chest heaving. "Just let go," she begs. "For a little while. Just let go."

She guides your hands to her breasts, and your fingers close around the soft flesh. Her back arches at your touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips. You are losing yourself in the feel of her, the scent of her.... the taste of her. "Wonhee," you whisper as you rise to meet her breast with your lips. Your tongue laps at a hardening bud, pulling it gently between your teeth. She shivers in your arms.

"Yes..." she moans, her fingers tangled in your hair. "That's it..."

These cute little swells on her chest fit so perfectly in your hands. You squeeze them, enjoying her soft little whimpers - they're different from Moka's, higher-pitched, more fragile. She arches her back, pushing her breasts more fully into your grasp.

"You're so beautiful," you hear yourself say. A betrayal. Yet as you say it, you know it to be true.

"And you are so sad," she replies. "Let me help you forget."

She slides down your body, her hair tickling your skin. Her lips leave a trail of fire in their wake. She settles between your legs, her hands tracing patterns on your thighs. Your cock is hard, straining, a silent testament to your need.

"All those years I have been trapped," she whispers. "To have waited so long for a man like you."

Her hands are at your waist now, tugging at your pants. You lift your hips, and she pulls them down, your erection springing free. Her eyes widen.

"It's... it's even more beautiful than I imagined," she says. Her breath is hot on your shaft. She looks up at you, her big brown eyes wide with a mixture of awe and desire. "I need to taste you," she says, her plump lips sitting slightly apart. 

She lowers her head, and her tongue darts out, flicking against the tip. A jolt of pleasure shoots through you. She smiles, a shy, little thing that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She takes you into her mouth, slowly, just until you're nestled into her mouth. The wet warmth is overwhelming. She looks up at you as she begins to move, her head bobbing in a slow, steady rhythm.

Her movements are hesitant, almost innocent. She sucks and licks with an increasing urgency, her soft, little moans vibrating around you. You can see the desperate desire on her face, the need to please, to be wanted. And in that moment, you see Moka. You see the same longing, the same hunger. But then Wonhee does something different. She hums, a low, melodic thrumming that resonates through your entire being. The sensation is new, unexpected.

You place a hand on her head, not to guide her, but simply to feel her. She responds by taking you deeper, her throat opening to welcome you. The tip hits the back of her throat, and she gags slightly, but doesn't pull away.

"Easy," you say, strained.

She slips you out of her mouth, resting your tip against her lips as she strokes your cock, "I'm just so hungry for you." Her words send a shudder through your body. You don't trust her. You don't trust this. But your body does. Your body craves the comfort she offers, the temporary release from the crushing weight of your grief.

She kisses the tip, and then her tongue swirls, lapping at your length. Then she's rubbing you on her soft cheek, pressing your hard cock against her skin as she closes her eyes. She's worshipping it. She's enjoying the smell, the feel. She wants all of you, and your resistance is wearing thin. And when she begins to slowly suck your tip again, taking a little more each pass until your shaft is buried once more in her mouth, you lose yourself completely.

Wonhee's tongue welcomes you back, licking your shaft with long strokes. The wet sounds she's making as she bobs are filling the room with her lewdness, a lewdness that is so easy to lose yourself to.

A deep moan escapes you. Your hips begin to move, thrusting gently into her mouth. Wonhee takes you easily, her eyes fixed on your face. She watches your every reaction, her own pleasure seemingly derived from yours. She sucks harder, her tongue swirling faster. The pressure builds, a tight coil of heat in your groin.

"You're going to make me..." you gasp.

She only moans in response, taking you deeper than before. Her nails dig into your thighs, a tiny pinprick of pain that only heightens the pleasure. Right to the edge, and then she stops. The sudden emptiness is a shock.

"Not yet," she whispers, crawling back up your body. "I want you inside me. I need to feel you cum."

She positions herself over you, her entrance slick and ready. She lowers herself, and the feel of her as she envelops you is everything. Warmth, wetness, a perfect, tight fit. She is different from Moka, but she is the same in all the ways that matter.

She starts to move, a slow, deliberate rocking of her hips. Her hands are on your chest for balance, her head thrown back, exposing the long, delicate line of her throat. You watch her, mesmerised by the play of emotions on her face. Pleasure, pain, longing, all swirling together.

"You feel so good," she breathes. "So much better than my dreams."

This is not a dream. This is another form of torment. Yet, you push the thought aside and thrust up to meet her. This is how it must be. This is the price. Your hands find her hips, guiding her, urging her on. The rhythm quickens, the slapping of skin on skin filling the room. Her breasts bounce with each movement, and you reach up to cup them, your thumbs brushing over her hard nipples.

She cries out, her body tensing. Her movements become erratic, her pace faltering as her orgasm takes hold. Her pussy clenches around you, a wave of heat washing over you. She shudders, a long, drawn-out moan escaping her lips.

The first of many, and you need many.

"Sorry, that was so... quick," Wonhee apologises, her face flushed. "I have waited a long time."

"Stay there," you instruct.

"What are you…?" Wonhee's lips form a delicate circle.

You answer by lifting your hips and pushing further into her depths. She whimpers, her body already sensitive from the recent release. You can see it in her eyes, a mix of discomfort and wanting, but her need to be desired outweighs any discomfort. You start moving again, a slow, steady pace this time, building the intensity gradually. She gasps, her body arching, her nails digging deeper into your chest. She is a creature of pure sensation, and you are the one who has woken her from a long slumber. Her hips rise and fall to meet your thrusts, her body moving with a newfound confidence. The sight of her, this dark-haired, chocolate-skinned goddess, riding you with such abandon, is a sight that is burned into your mind forever.

Her second orgasm builds, a slow, inexorable tide. You can feel it in the way her body tenses, in the way her breathing changes. She is close, so close. You reach down, your fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in small, tight circles.

That's all it takes. She cries out, her body convulsing around you. This orgasm is more intense than the last, a violent, shuddering thing that seems to go on forever. You hold her, letting her ride the waves of pleasure until she collapses, spent, on top of you.

It's a start, but to wear her down, you'll need more. Much more.

You shift, rolling her over onto her back without breaking your connection. She looks up at you, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and admiration. "You're... you're still..."

You don't answer with words. You answer with your body. You begin to move, a slow, deep thrusting that seems to touch her very soul. Her legs wrap around your waist, pulling you deeper, her body arching to meet you. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking, a symphony of flesh, sweat, and desperate need.

The bed rocks again, its rhythmic creaking a steady counterpoint to your movements. Her hair is a wild tangle across the pillow, her lips swollen from your kisses. She is beautiful, a masterpiece of carnal art. And she is yours, at least for this brief, stolen moment.

You lean down, your lips finding hers. The kiss is a jumbled mess of teeth and tongues, a desperate attempt to communicate everything that can't be said. She is a phantom, a dream made flesh, but in this moment, she is real.

She breaks the kiss, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "I can't... I can't take much more," she whimpers.

"You can," you say in a low growl. "You will."

You increase your pace, your thrusts becoming faster, harder. Her body responds, her hips rising to meet you, her cries growing louder, more desperate. She is a storm of sensation, a whirlwind of pleasure and pain, and you are the eye of the storm, the calm centre that holds her together.

Her thighs jiggle with each thrust between them, and the slapping of your hips against her only intensifies. You grip the underside of her knees, pulling her legs up and then pushing, spreading her wide for you.

The new angle lets you push deeper, her tight pussy clamping down on your cock like a vice. Her moans are now constant, a high-pitched wail of pure pleasure. You can feel her inner walls fluttering, a sure sign of another impending orgasm.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she screams, her hands fisting in the sheets. "Don't stop! Please, don't stop!"

You have no intention of stopping. You are a man possessed, driven by a single, all-consuming purpose. You will break her. You will remake her. You will fill her so completely that there is no room for anything else.

Her third orgasm hits her like a physical blow. Her back arches off the bed, her body shaking uncontrollably. Her pussy clamps down on you, a series of rhythmic contractions that milk your cock, demanding your own release.

You deny her. You hold back, riding out her orgasm, your own need burning hot and bright. You want to wait, to prolong this sweet agony. When she is spent, you slow your movements, giving her a moment to recover, a brief respite before the next wave.

She looks up at you, her eyes glazed with a mixture of pain and pleasure. "You're a monster," she whispers, a small smile playing on her lips.

"You have no idea," you say.

You lower your head, your lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck. You bite down, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark. A brand. A claim of ownership. She moans, her body shuddering in response. She is putty in your hands, a willing victim to your desires.

"I need your desire," she pleads, starved of that which gives her purpose. "Need to feel you let it go."

Her words are a spark to the tinder of your control. You pull out of her, the emptiness a shock to both of you. Before she can protest, you flip her over onto her stomach.

"On your knees," you command, rough with emotion.

She complies without hesitation, raising her hips, presenting herself to you. Her ass is perfect, round and firm, a pale moon in the dim light of the room. You run your hands over the smooth skin, admiring the delicate curve of her spine, the graceful line of her back.

You position yourself behind her, your cock poised at her entrance. You tease her, running the tip along her slick folds, enjoying the way she squirms, the way she pushes back, trying to draw you in.

"Please," she begs.

You take great satisfaction from admiring the way her hole stretches as you push into her, how she moans and whimpers as your entire length finds its way back into her, deep and snug. You grab her hips and begin to move, a slow, deep thrusting that fills the room with the sound of your bodies coming together. She is so tight, so wet, so perfect. She is almost her, but the differences, the slight hesitations, the unfamiliar tremors—they are a constant reminder of your loss.

"More," she gasps, pushing back against you, meeting your thrusts with a desperate need.

"You'll take what I give you," you growl, your fingers digging into her soft flesh.

You increase your pace, your movements becoming more forceful, more demanding. The bed creaks in protest, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust. You are no longer a man, but an animal, driven by a primal need to possess, to consume.

Her fourth orgasm is a violent, shuddering thing that leaves her limp and breathless. You don't stop. You continue to pound into her, your own release a rising tide that threatens to drown you both.

"Look at me," you command, pulling her head back by her hair.

She turns, her face a mess of sweat and tears, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and adoration. She is beautiful in her submission, a perfect offering on the altar of your grief.

"I need it," she whimpers, her body convulsing with another aftershock. "I need your desire. Give it to me."

Not part of the plan. One more should do it. Just one more, and her body, the magical vessel that anchors her to this world, will be too weak to hold her.

"Please," she begs, a raw plea. "Fill me. Make me whole."

Her words are a dagger to your heart. You see Moka's face, hear Moka's voice, feel Moka's touch. You are lost in a vortex of memory and desire, a maelstrom of love and loss.

You're fucking her again, harder this time, your movements almost frantic. Wonhee's head is pressed against the pillows. She is gasping and whimpering, her whole body convulsing around your cock. You disconnect from it, your body wearing her down, dicking her into the bed until she cannot fight what's to come. Your mind is somewhere else.

Moka.

It's her, in the end, as it has always been.

Wonhee cums again, you do not. She whimpers as your thrusting continues, the pain mixing with pleasure and bringing about another. She's lost in the storm, just a vessel, nothing more. You're emptying your rage, your grief. Her body is slick and shining, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She's no longer a person, but a thing, an object for your release. A means to an end.

You're almost there. The final orgasm that'll drain her and let you use the camera.

Wonhee whimpers, her eyes rolling back in her head. She is on the verge of another release, a final, shattering climax that will break her. You can feel it in the way her body tenses, in the way her breathing hitches. It's so close.

But you can't.

You pull out, leaving her empty and wanting.

You look at Wonhee, a tangled, trembling mess on your bed, a puppet with all its strings cut.

You scramble to your book, the trinkets around it. You are chanting now, words of power from the journal. They feel awkward, wrong on your tongue. A final phrase, a command to the void. For a single, stolen frame.

When Wonhee rolls over on the bed, another girl has appeared beneath her.

Moka.

It's Moka. She's here. Real. Not the memory you've been conjuring in your mind's eye, but the actual woman you lost. The same moles, the same quirky, off-centre smile. She looks at you, her eyes wide with confusion that quickly turns to fear as she takes in the scene. The room, the arcane symbols drawn in chalk on the floor, the exhausted, shattered form of Wonhee lying beside her.

"What... what is this?" Moka's words are a fragile thread, but it's her voice. It's the sound you've been yearning for, a melody against the cacophony of your grief. "Wonhee?! Are you okay?" She scrambles to the other girl's side, touching her shoulder.

"Moka...?" Wonhee's eyes flutter open. She looks at Moka, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "Sister... you're here." Her smile is weak, full of a weary resignation.

"Don't talk," Moka says, her gaze shifting back to you. She sees the book, the chalk, the ancient camera on its tripod, its lens pointed directly at the bed. She understands. Her face crumples, not with anger, but with a profound, soul-crushing sorrow. "Oh, no... what have you done?"

"I had to," you plead. "I couldn't... I couldn't live without you."

"You tore me away," Moka whispers, her eyes filling with tears. "And you used her. You used her to get to me."

Wonhee pushes herself up, a newfound strength in her. She looks at you, her expression unreadable. "My precious time, you use my time in this world to bring her here? Our magic was never meant to break the walls between worlds. It was for dreams."

"To bring dreams," Moka corrects, her hand now holding Wonhee's. "Not to capture them."

"I can find a way to bring you both to this world. I have a plan. If you..."

"No," they say it in perfect, chilling unison. Their voices meld, their eyes lock on yours, and you see a depth of power you hadn't imagined. 

"Our sisters..." Wonhee whispers.

Moka sits up.  You are drawn to her. You step closer, and then she speaks to you, "I love you, you know that. But I love my sisters. We cannot be separated."

"I can do it, I can save you all. The journal said..." you beg, but it's too late. The camera, the camera is what you needed. You lunge for it.

"Don't!" they shriek as one.

You get your hands on it, press the button. A single flash.

Everything in the viewfinder is frozen. Moka's reaching for you. Wonhee has her head in her hands. Time has come to a halt in this little pocket of reality.

You walk towards Moka. She's as still as a statue. But not a cold, lifeless statue. She's still warm, the rise and fall of her chest, the beat of her heart, they are all there. Just... frozen. You lean in close and look at her. Every single detail is there, exactly as you remember.

A tear trickles from her eye. And then another. You feel something wet on your cheek and realise you're crying too.

"Moka," you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. "I will save you all. I will find a way."

You move her slowly, carefully, onto the bed. She rests there, as if sleeping. You ensure Wonhee is comfortable, too. You lay them both down, side-by-side, stealing a beautiful moment.

The room is now silent, save for the low hum of the ancient camera. You look at it, at your one shot.

This is the time you needed.

You walk back to your desk and open the small wooden box, the place you had left it. Three more pieces of chocolate, each shaped differently. It's all or nothing.

You pick one, a small, delicate flower. It's a deep, rich brown, almost black. It has a scent of dark, exotic berries and something you can't quite place.

You place the chocolate on your tongue. The flavour is intense, a complex mix of sweet and sour, a taste of things you've never known.

The world dissolves again.