The mansion smelled of old money, mildew, and decades of buried sins. Its corridors swallowed sound like a throat swallowing cum. Elena had learned early that silence here was never empty—it was heavy, expectant, wet with things that should never be spoken.

She was twenty-five now, but the hunger had lived inside her since she first understood what her fingers could do between her legs while staring at the photograph of Victoria—Mommy—taken the summer before Elena was born. In that picture Victoria was nineteen, pregnant, naked except for a thin gold chain around her throat, one hand cupping the swell of her belly, the other lazily parting the lips of her already swollen cunt as though offering it to the camera. Elena had stolen that photo years ago. She still kept it folded inside her pillowcase, the edges worn soft from being pressed against her clit night after night.