f/f, ff/f, femdom, humiliation, body worship, assplay, light implied scat,

Sadistic, hate-filled sisters hatch a plot to break Emma Watson’s mind and body

This story will bomb: it’s long and f/f and part 1 is mostly setup. But it contains my favorite-ever story idea. David Bowie said “oh, thank you God!” after the “Rebel Rebel” guitar riff fell into his head, and The Riddle Game felt like a similar discovery. Sometimes it’s hard to come up with ideas. Suddenly, I had too many.

* * *

They deserve to suffer. They deserve to be dragged through hell by their hair. Instead, they rule the world.

Kings, nobles, politicians, TikTok influencers—who gives a shit what they’re called in this particular swing around the sun. Nothing ever changes. Society’s a sewer, and the scum always floats.

I sound like a hateful and bitter slag because I am. I’m 30, I live in a leaky Bloxham flat with my sister Imogen, my temping hours are about to be cut, my old age fund was privatized and sold in pieces to a Saudi investment trust, and that doesn’t matter in the slightest because environmental collapse means I won’t get an old age. The rich took everything from me. They won’t take my hate. Molon labe, you parasites, you diseased ratfuckers. You ruined everything. I’ll hate you all day, every day, and twice on Tuesdays. I’ll hate you with as much hate a heart can hold. I’ll hate without shame, without restraint, and without pity, you arrogant, louche, spoiled, million pound haircuts on halfpenny heads toffs. Fuck you. FUCK YOU.

Why don’t YOU hate them? We could rise up if we wanted; rise up and take everything. They couldn’t stop us. Imagine how easy it would be. And how fun.

* * *

I spilled my coffee on Emma Watson at the train station. That’s how this started.

It was an accident. I tripped. But even if I’d meant to do it, she would have deserved it.

I turned the corner onto the platform, and there the Harry Potter actress was, waiting for the train. My train. She sat with one leg folded on top of the other. Bored, bitchy, too cool for the room. Pouting lips. Designer sunglasses. Couture worn like armor. Thumbing her phone, disdain pouring off her like stink. Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t presume to exist.

The sight of her plunged me into a void of numb confusion. Then the sound of the train horn crashed into me like a wall, and I lost contact with my feet.

I tripped. The ground veered beneath me. I stumbled forward, the cap burst off my coffee, and a piss-warm double-latte bombed over her.

Splash!

Emma Watson squealed and fell over sideways, kicking out with both feet. The eight time Teen Choice Award winner landed arse-first on dirty concrete, legs spread whorishly. The contents of a white shopping bag went flying in Rich Bitch shrapnel over the cracked asphalt. One of her shoes came off.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry!” I cried, hands clasped over my mouth.

Ignoring me, Emma set her lips in a blood-red pout and got to her knees. Snarling, dripping with coffee, she scooped up her belongings in savage, ruthless claws of her hands.

I tried to help her. She stopped me with a raised palm.

“Don’t touch my things.” Eyes down, siezing boxes with words in frilly fonts—Tiffany & Co and Harry Winston and Cleef & Arpels—mouthing soundless words. She found her shoe, and grimly fitted it back onto her foot. At no point did she look up at me.

“If you’ll just let me help…” I whimpered, and pushed into her space. I just wanted to help.

And then found myself reeling back, because she’d shoved me.

Her furious face filled my vision. Rage incinerated behind her perfect cheekbones and their peachtone blush. Her eyebrows slit her face in vengeful blades of kohl.

“DON’T. TOUCH. MY. THINGS. JUST FUCK OFF!”

I ran, scared mouse before a cat, mouth open and slack. No words. Emma Watson snorted derisively, and returned to her work with a casual wave of her hand. Dismissed.

“Waste of air…” I heard her whisper.

My train pulled down GWR’s gray throat in a howl of steel. Doors slid open, exposing yellow-lit rectangles of interiority. Wordlessly, I slunk onto the train, and padded to the quiet coach at the rear.

I sat down, numb and shocked. I felt like the sky had fallen on my head.

Waste of air. Things churned and burned and bubbled in my breast; my throat was tight and constricted, my face itched, my skin was an ill-fitting horror that I wanted to tear off with my nails. The train seemed to be collapsing around me, like a submarine in the deepest part of the ocean. I felt like my stumble on the platform had never ended, and I was still pitching forward blindly, forever.

She called me a waste of air.

Alone in the rearmost coach, I started to cry into my hands.

So cruel…

So cruel…

* * *

With my face burning hot inside my fingers, I heard the coach divider slide open. Imogen took her usual seat beside me. I recognized my sister by the weight of her body.

We’ve sat on this train coach together for decades.

In primary school. In secondary school. In life afterward.

Imogen did her A-levels at Charterhouse Square. I did a BTEC and waited tables. Still the same train, following the same route. No matter what divides us, this train unites us. I recognize everything in it.

I know the graffiti by feel, and can feel my way around the floor’s swerves and dips and bends, even with the lights off. I know what seats on which carriages to avoid—the window shutter on 63B won’t pull down and the sun shines in your eyes as you shuttle past Lane End, the upholstery on 88J has a dried stain that’s exactly what it looks like. I feel like I own this train. I don’t, of course. But then, do I own anything?

A sob wracked my shoulders. A soft leaf of a hand steadied them.

My sister’s voice entered my ear. “Jade…you’re crying! What’s wrong?”

I looked sideways, into the near-mirror of my sister’s face. We are identical twins, although when we measured our body, we found that her left leg is longer than mine by a centimeter. Lumbar scoliosis tilts my shoulders by a few degrees, while hers are straight. In adulthood, we compared bra sizes. She’s a 32D and I’m a 32F.

“I’m fine,” said.

“Did those boys in the other coach do something?”

I’d hardly noticed the boys. Two snickering and pimply-malevolent presences who’d tried to trip me as I ran crying for my coach.

“It was Emma Watson…” I whispered. “I spilled a coffee on her.”

Imogen nodded. “I passed her on the platform. She looked furious about something. I asked what had happened, and she told me to leave her alone.”

I should explain something. I was surprised to see Emma, but not as surprised as you might be.

My sister Imogen has known Emma Watson for over twenty years—before she became famous. They are not friends, but they go to the same chess club, at Streatham & Brixton.

Normally, after the chess club breaks, Imogen rides the GWR home with me, while Emma gets driven like a queen to wherever famous people go. This was the first time I’d ever seen her.

I never learned why Emma was taking the public train that day. Maybe her chauffer was sick. Celebrities were not a common occurrence on our end of Paddington Station. Rats? Sure. Homeless people? Loads. Dead bodies? Not unheard of. Famous people? Not Emma Watson famous.

“She was…rude to me…” I whispered, the words growing quieter in my mouth.

I felt fragile, like an eggshell about to crack. I didn’t want to cry again in front of Imogen. If one more tear came out, I knew I’d be fucking bawling for hours.

Shrug. “Yeah, she can be a bit that way. Did I tell you that she calls pawns ‘peasants’? I don’t think she even knows she’s doing it…”

I glanced up into my sister’s eyes, and saw wickedness. Deep pools of mischief and spite. This is how she used to look when we played the Riddle Game…

“Why are you smiling?” I asked her. “What do you know that I don’t?”

Imogen’s smug little grin grew teeth. “More like, what do I know that Emma Watson doesn’t?”

Her hand slid bladelike into her handbag, and withdrew a jewelery box, patterned and folded with the craftsmanship of origami. It looked expensive.

“This fell out of her bag!” My sister whispered, giggling and shushing herself. “It landed in shadow, and she didn’t see it! I snatched it while her back was turned!”

Theft. From Emma Watson.

I was horrified. Then delighted. A yin-yang of contradictory feeling met and warred in the middle of me. “But Gen, that’s stealing!” And it’s fucking ace! “You took her property!” Good job! “Return it right now!” Bloody keep it!

“Don’t you want to get even with her?” Imogen snorted, blowing one of her black bangs out of her eyes. She unfolded the box, turning out the four corners. The paper was thickly waxed and glowed under the train carriage lights.

Inside was a beautiful riviére necklace, on a raised cardboard mounting. The golden chain had a heavy, painful glitter, as though each folded link was made of condensed blood. The icy blue stone erupted like thunder, like a blossoming flower where every petal was a steel blade. It seemed to suck all the light in the train carriage into itself. I was lost in the facets of the brilliant, marquise-cut diamond. I shut my eyes, unable to stand how beautiful it was. Inside the stone, I saw universes waking to life and collapsing back into the dryness of sleep or death.

I wondered again how much it had cost. Six links of the chain looked like they’d buy the deed to my Bloxham pad, with change in return.

“I was about to give it back to her,” Imogen did not make this claim sound convincing. “But then I noticed something. There was no receipt in the bag.”

I flicked a stray bang out of my eye. “What does that prove?”

“I don’t think she bought the necklace, Jade!” Imogen squirmed with excitement. “I think she shoplifted it!”

Emma Watson, a thief? My disbelief must have shown.

“You’d understand if you knew her,” Imogen hissed. “She’s always bragging at chess about how she nicks things from stores, just to see if she can get away with it.”

“Who the hell checks your bags at department stores when you’re Emma fucking Watson, yeah?”

“Exactly. She’s secretly a dirty little klepto. Been nicking shit for years, just for the thrill of it. And she would have gotten away with it again just now…except now karma’s bitten her on the arse, hasn’t it?”

Imogen hefted the riviére necklace. Her smile sliced out wide behind the stone: her teeth so much darker than it was. So much crueler.

And the sense of being partners in crime—in crime that wasn’t crime, directed at someone who deserved the worst—took hold of me. Fire in my veins. Mind a cruel surging livewire. A dreary Poundland day suddenly seemed brighter, more exciting.

Theft is a very proletariat crime. Only a rich person can wield an army, or eminent domain. But shoplifting is a sin none are too poor to buy.

“Well, well,” I murmured. “Emma Watson…just a nasty common thief…”

“I don’t care about her stealing. I care about her being a bitch to you.” Imogen handed over the twice-stolen necklace . “So let this dry your tears.”

It felt heavier than it looked when it landed in my hand. A thrill like an electric charge surged up into me, charging me, changing me. I closed fingers around it, breathing heavily, feeling like Gollum. My precious.

“So,” Imogen smiled. “Given that you’re not a big jewellery girl…what will you do with it?”

Possibilities bloomed across my mind like peonies.

“We can either sell it—a piece like this must be worth a bit of dosh, yeah?—or we can return it to the store and try and get her in trouble, or…’

Not give it back to Emma Watson. That’s for sure. I would bleed from my body’s deepest river before I gave it back.

“Or we can use it as stakes for the game.” My sister said.

“What game?” I said, realizing the answer as I asked. That game. The only game. The game my sister and I had invented.

The Riddle Game.

* * *

For twenty years, five days a week, we rode this train for an hour to London, and then another hour back to Bloxham.

13,200 hours is a lot of time to fill. My sister and I invented games to pass the time.

Most are now forgotten. One took on a life of its own. And then nearly got us arrested, and placed on the Youth Offenders list.

The Riddle Game.

We became notorious for it among our group of friends. Jade and Imogen’s specialty. The rear coach of GWR 488 became known as The Riddle Coach—the one you didn’t step inside, unless you were ready to play against us…

…play, and suffer the consequences if you lost.

In Year 11, we were forced to stop. The Riddle Game was going too far. Kids were playing it too much. Becoming addicted. The punishments were getting out of hand, and wrecking people. One kid quit school over the game. A week later, a different kid attempted suicide by swallowing two boxes of Xanaxes. (Imogen and I had nothing to do with that, by the way—he was fucking cooked in the head, and the fact that he was playing the Riddle Game every day, and losing again and again, was the least of his problems—but he did mention us by name in his suicide note. Cheers, Duncan. Like I don’t have enough problems.)

The cops knocked on my mom’s flat. Bullying this, extortion that, blah blah. I had to clam up, and pretend I knew nothing. This also meant we had to stop playing it. When people crowded into The Riddle Coach on Monday morning, we had to make our faces dumb. Huh? What game. Never heard of it.

But you never leave a thing like the Riddle Game.

I was dying to play it again. I saw the same death in my sister’s eyes. She wanted to play it to the bone. Play it as hard as possible.

Play it with Emma Watson.

* * *

The train was filling up. The flooring of the coaches rattled and echoed with scores of pounding shoes—Nikes and Adidas and Hush Puppies and loafers, flowing down the metal snake beneath us like a river of percussive sound. The low buzz of voices swelled into a bleary, atonal chorus.

But we still had the rear carriage of the GWR 488 train to ourselves. People seemed to avoid it, as though The Riddle Game had left a curse hanging over it.

I heard the stentorian yelling of a station marshall—orders smothered in a cheddar-thick Scouse accent—and then we started moving.

Then I heard the ominous clomp-clomp of shoes outside our carriage.

One quick glance at my sister. The bitch approacheth. My knuckles tightened on the pendant box

The divider-door to the rear coach—The Riddle Coach—slid open, revealing fury-dark eyes seething in a beautiful face. A sculpture slashed from antimony by a mad artist.

“Hey.” Emma leaned through the doorway, and clicked her fingers for our attention. “Has anyone seen a white box?”

Not even an ‘excuse me’, I thought, gripping the liberated necklace. We really are just peasants.

My sister yawned. “You left it at F6, along with that rook you fumbled.”

“Stop being smart, Gen,” Emma glanced, seeing the resemblance in our faces. “Wait, is this bint the sister you told me about? She threw her coffee in my face!”

The blatant lie made my last charitable impulse blacken and wither inside me. Hey, Emma? You know those teensy, tiny odds that I’ll give you the necklace back out of the goodness of my heart? That number just became nothing, bitch. Zero point zero zero repeating.

I lifted jewelry box, and smiled. “I found a necklace lying on the ground out there. I don’t see your name on it, though.”

Her eyes flashed onto me with the fury of whips and chains. “YOU! You stole it! GIVE IT TO ME!”

“This necklace…” My grin widened, full of hurt and hate. “…was just lying on the ground. It could belong to anyone. Why would I give it to you?”

She reached out for it. I yanked it away. She looked like she wanted to throttle me. “Give me that necklace now.”

I held it out of reach. “You were rude. So no, I’m not going to hand you free pieces of jewelry.”

Emma Watson got out her phone. Brandished it, like it was a switchblade she was gonna Chelsea Smile my throat with.

“Give it back, or I call the Met.”

“Call whoever,” I crossed my legs, mirroring her pose of bored disdain.

“Fine. You’re going to jail tonight, thief.” The phone in her hands shook with rage as she dialed.

My pulse hammered. The world foreshortened, twisting down to a focal point. Emma Watson and me.

I was suddenly aware—far too late—that Imogen might have misjudged the situation. Maybe Emma had put the receipt in another bag. Or in her pocket. It could have been a gift from a friend, or the receipt could have been emailed to her. There were a thousand possibilities aside from shoplifting, and if any of them were true, I was about to spend the night in a cell at HMP Bronzefield.

Glaring venomously at me, Emma dialed police. I sweated, hearing the call connect.

“You have reached the London Metropolitan Police…” the dispatcher’s voice crackled as the train slid into a tunnel. “Please state your name.

Emma smirked in victory, lifted the phone to her ear.

…and said nary a word.

Twenty seconds passed, with the dispatcher repeatedly saying “Hello? Is anyone there?”

click Emma disconnected the call.

“Nice try.” I smiled at her ashen face.

“I…I can’t find the receipt!” she squealed. “I lost it when you threw a coffee into my face!”

“You can’t find it because you don’t have one and because there isn’t one,” I laughed, my heart riding on adrenaline. I’d thrown it all down on one spin and won massively. “The police are the last people you wanna talk to right now, aren’t they? You stole the necklace yourself.”

After several deliciously futile minutes of rage and bluster, Emma sighed.

She extended a conciliatory hand toward me. “Look, Jasmine…”

“Jade.”

“Jade…I’m sorry. I truly am. Can I please have my necklace?”

“Hmm…” I pretended to think about it. Left her hanging. “I’m sorry, but…”

Emma clasped her hands together—as if in prayer. “It was a lot of money. Please give it back!”

“…I just don’t buy that it’s yours. Thanks for the apology, though. I’m a huge fan, by the way. I loved you in those Twilight movies.”

Anger hit her in a wave. Her hands shook, and then her chest did. The actress turned to the window. I saw her face smeared out across the perspex, shimmers glinting in both eyes.

She was crying now.

What a perfect, perfect day.

* * *

The train sped down the tracks, accelerating. Like a blade finding escape velocity as it traced a silver line through ice. The roar and grind of metal dissolving to a hiss, an aspiration. A bullet fired from London into Oxford’s black heart.

A bitter rain pelted and tore. The wind drove it sideways against the windows.

The tenements and council houses of westerly London slid across rain-streaked windows and then blurred to oblivion. Miserable old rainy city. Gets dark too early. Looks like shit even when it’s not dark.

But sometimes, there is a little bit of beauty and justice in the world. And on my humble working-class train ride, I’d put my hands on it.

Emma Watson sobbed in rage and defeat.

As she fumed, my sister and I exchanged texts. Notifications off, so the telltale blips wouldn’t alert her to the complete orbital annihilation we were planning.

Emma Watson thought she was having a rough day, but oh, she had no idea how much worse it was about to get.

/> How do we get her into the Game?

At least ten minutes passed.

/> “Emma,” I baited the hook, and cast it.

“I have made a decision. I will give you.”

Her face filled with hope. It was adorable.

I raised a finger. “…But only if you earn it. You have to beat me in The Riddle Game.”

A kohl eyebrow knifed up, and considered me. “The what?”

“It’s a game my sister and I invented for boring train rides,” I said. “I haven’t played it for years.” This isn’t the first time I almost went to jail. “Basically, I ask you a riddle. You have to answer it. If you get it right, you win the necklace. If you answer wrong, you get punished. But if you lose, you have to do something embarrassing.”

Emma scoffed. “I’m not falling for that. You’re going to ask me impossible riddles.”

“No,” I said. “The Riddle Game is fair. You will be asked simple logic and reasoning puzzles, of the sort a smart child might solve.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t have to. Each riddle, before it’s asked, must be approved by a mutual friend who knows both parties. That—” I gestured grandly beside me “—would be my sister.”

Imogen yawned dully. “So nice of you to involve me in your blood feud. I was feeling left out.”

“Come on, sis. Help me.”

“Why should I? You know I don’t like you.”

“Please…!”

“Alright, fine. But I hope she beats you.”

These were lines we’d scripted in our text conversation. Emma had to believe that Imogen was just a neutral third party. Not someone conspiring against her. She still had no idea that Imogen had stolen the necklace, not me.

I leaned forward.

“And here’s the important part: I tell you the punishment before you guess. You’ll know what’s coming, and you can back out, if you think it’s too harsh. But if you do, you get punished with a special quitter’s penalty. And I don’t tell you what it is.”

Emma looked reluctant. I could sense that she needed less stick, more carrot.

“The punishments can’t be too harsh,” I said. “I’m not gonna make you give me a billion pounds or be my slave. It’s more along the lines of, like, doing something mildly embarrassing. As a general rule, the punishments have to be things you can walk away from, consequence-free, when the train leaves.”

As a general rule. Not a universal one.

“So I only get once chance to solve the riddle?” Emma asked.

“No. You can try as many times you want. But every time you get it wrong, you get punished again. You can’t lose the Riddle Game. You either win or forfeit.”

“Which is the same as losing.”

“It’s a Devil-you-know type of thing.” Imogen said. “Would you rather take the punishment you know is coming, or a mystery punishment that sets you free from playing?”

Emma Watson gulped. I saw gears turning in that pretty little face.

“Alright,’ she gulped.”I’ll play.’

“I’ve thought of your first riddle.” I steepled my fingers, and smiled. “If you get it wrong, you have to kiss the train seat I’m sitting on.”

I lifted up my ass sideways, exposing the train seat to her view. It was shiny from probably hundreds of peoples’ arses, and hot from mine.

A trace of color left Emma’s face as she stared at that shine, that heat.

Slowly, I let my arse drop back down onto the seat.

“So, girlfriend…are you sure you want to play?”

“I want to play but I’m not your girlfriend,” her lips traced words in porcelain flesh. “Tell me the riddle.”

The gates of hell had just opened for Miss Emma Watson.

* * *

I leaned over to my sister, and made a pretense of whispering in her ear.

Imogen nodded to Emma. “Yup. Riddle’s fine. Pretty easy, actually. You’ll solve it first guess.”

Then I turned to Emma, who was staring intently at me.

“John’s mother has 5 children. their names are March, April, May, June, and what?”

“July,” Emma fired back, arrogant and cool.

“Um, is that’s your final answer?” I said, twisting a smile around my tongue. “You don’t want to, I don’t know, think for two seconds first?”

“What else could it be? July. Lock it in.”

“Wrong,” I said.

“Wrong?” Emma’s face fell. “Come on. What the fuck else could it be?”

“Right now, that’s the least of your worries.” I stood up, swishing my goth-black skirt, and sat two seats over. “You lost. Kiss the train seat.”

Emma set her face in what she imagined was an emotionless WSOP stare. One that revealed her inner storms worse than an actual display of emotion would have. She hated every minute of this. Every second.

“Well?” I asked, crossing my arms. “I’m waiting. And so’s the necklace that you supposedly want.”

Emma looked to my sister Imogen for help, saw her listlessly scrolling her phone—she missed the way my sister kept shooting ecstatic looks sideways at me—and gulped.

Then she stood up. Her legs straightened, lifting her to her five feet four inches height. Her pale pleated skirts swished. The smell of her perfume filled my nostrils.

“Kneel,” I told her.

And then I got to watch Emma Watson, Hollywood A-lister, probably the most famous person to ever ride the GWR 488 quiet coach, kneel on the filthy train carriage floor, and placed her perfect lips on the leather where my puckered asshole had been planted, not a few seconds earlier.

Her lips smushed out against the hot, sour leather.

Her gorge visibly rose. Muscles in her neck flexed with revulsion. She looked like she was going to throw up.

Then she yanked her mouth off the seat, shuddering in horror.

“Want to play again?” I said.

She glared at me in rage.

“I mean, the riddle’s still unsolved,” I said. “Your choices now are to either guess again, or quit the game. If you guess, you’ll know what punishment’s coming up. If you quit, it’ll be a mystery.”

Emma blushed, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked humbled.

“If you choose to play again,” I said, “I suggest you think more carefully. Punishments typically get worse, the more failed guesses you try.”

Emma retreated into herself. Calculated. Her eyes settled on a pattern in her skirt, riding their obvolutions. She muttered to herself.

“Five children. They’re all named after months. The first four are March, April, May, and June. But not July. What’s the pattern?”

“Do you always talk out loud?” I asked. “There’s medication for that now.”

She hissed and made a cat-scratch gesture.

“Hmm…it’s months with a single syllable…except April has two syllables. Is it months with the letter A in them?” Her face twisted in concentration. “But June doesn’t have an A…ugh!”

She murmured again. Sounded like fucking hell. Her shoulders tensed and relaxed with stress. She balled her fists, and tightened them hard.

Then she let the fists unwrap and flop to her knees. We’d broken her.

“I give up. I can’t solve it.”

“You quit?”

“I quit.”

“The fifth child’s name is ‘John’.” I said.

Emma gave a sharp whine. She sounded like a kicked dog.

“Of course! Oh, bloody hell. It’s so simple and I STARED. RIGHT. PAST. it.”

She missed the knowing look I shot at Imogen.

That’s the secret of The Riddle Game. The hard part is asking the questions, not answering them.

Anyone can invent impossible bullshit-hard riddles. Then the other person gives up, pays the penalty, and then never plays with you again. You haven’t made it fun for them.

A good question has to look solvable. It has to be just outside the edge of the person’s ability to answer, while appearing inside that edge. The victim…I mean, player, has to fail, and think if only I’d thought just a few seconds longer….

That’s how you get them addicted, guessing again and again.

That’s how you get to punish them ten times in a row.

That’s how you ruin their lives. And send them to mental asylums. And have them dry-swallow two boxes of Xanax. Not that we meant to do that to that kid, you understand. Like I said, he was cooked in the head.

But still….we punished him twenty-three times.

I doubt that uncooked him to the slightest degree.

“Sorry, Emma,” Imogen said. “You lost. Fair and square. It happens to the best of us.”

And the worst, I thought, pulling up my jacket.

“I hate myself,” Emma seemed on the verge of tears again. “I’m just upset because of the necklace. On another day, I would have caught that! I would have solved it! I would have fucking solved it! I don’t know how I missed such a bullshit-obvious trick…”

“Time to pay the quitter’s punishment,” I said. “Show me your bare ass.”

She recoiled in affront. “What if I refuse?”

“Then the game is off and you have lost your chance to win your necklace back and you’re a fucking cheat.”

Oops. I realized I’d just admitted that I knew the necklace was Emma’s. Oh well. What the fuck was she gonna do?

Then she stood up, walked until her crotch was six inches in front of me, and turned around.

Her bum swung in front of my face. It filled my gaze like an alien moon.

“Don’t touch me,” Emma hands were balled into angry little fists beside her huge ass. “And don’t smell me.”

I smiled, and took a covert sniff anyway.

She had such a big, thick bottom. A rude and lewd and raunchy bottom. It was out of place on such a refined-looking woman. The flesh of her ass stretched the stitches in her designer skirt, blowing it out into two obscene hemispheres of flesh.

She could wear couture fashion. But not well. Not gracefully.

Hopefully she’d shoplifted these pants. They’d be thoroughly broken in if she wore them too much longer.

Emma stood in front of me, facing the side of the train, he fists balled up. I felt the heat from her butt as it swelled in front of my face.

I began to get turned on. My clunge moistened enterprisingly.

I’m bi. Seventy-thirty, and the seventy’s girls. A hundred-nil when the girl is Emma Watson. I saw Imogen glance across. Silently, hot mauve lips mouthed words past Emma’s arse.

I want her.

I smiled at my sister. Same same.

“Get that skirt down,” I told her. “You’re making this last longer than it has to.”

Emma closed her fingers around her belt, she unlaced it, and then she pulled the pale eggshell blue skirt down.

Unsurprisingly, it got caught on her thick and gropable derrier. She had to twist. And wriggle. And grunt.

I wished I’d set up my phone to covertly film her struggles with her ass cheeks, but then decided I’d probably committed enough crimes that day.

Then the skirt popped down over her arse.

The sight of her bare pale skin hit me like a flashbang grenade. Blinding. The heat of her flesh intensified, radiating out into my space. I smelled the scent of bodywash—an attempt to cover up something rougher, rawer, earthier.

The smell of her genitals and asshole.

Her famous ass was rippled with marble-streaks of cellulite. Worse than mine. Nice ego lift. It was two bulging masses of skin, heavy and thick as basketballs above the surprising thinness of her legs.

Between her obscenely huge buttocks was a deep crack. A salty, sweaty-looking crevasse of skin.

There was a pimple on the inner curve of her butt, where she’d wiped bacteria from her asshole onto her skin with lavatory paper.

How nice. How refined.

A whiff of her arse my lungs. My twat clenched with heady desire. You smell so nice. Best part of you by far, Emma.

“Is…that enough?” A crack of anguish ripped across Emma’s voice. Disgust at herself. Loathing toward us. Fear that she might not ever get her necklace back. All of it combined and converged in her breast. She sensed that everything she had—money, power, fame—simply might not matter.

She was caught in the Riddle Game.

“That’s enough.” I said, cunt throbbing in lust for her.

Shivering, Emma bent down to pull up her skirts. Her arsecheeks momentarily splayed apart, swinging apart, granting a momentary glimpse of hidden depths and dark glistening holes that slammed into me like a guillotine. Oh, fuck yes. Engrave that memory into the back of my eyelids, please.

Then she pulled her pencil skirt and panties back up.

Her panties get swallowed up by her buttocks, as they racked up into her sweaty crack. Followed by her skirt.

It’s startling to think how close you are to a person’s most private of orifices. Imagine how thin the average piece of fabric is. You can shine a light through it.

That’s how close you are to their cunt or arsehole.

Emma Watson returned to her seat. Her face was flushed, and she was sweating like she’d just carried the GWR 488 train from Paddington Station to Bloxham on her back.

“That wasnt so bad, was it?” I sneered.

Emma squeezed shut her eyes, and tilted her head down. Her fringe obscured her beautiful features, like Princess Di’s veil.

“I think you got a little turned on…” I teased.

Speaking of the train, at that moment, a message squawked through the intercom.

“ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS! ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS! LINE. DUE TO ELECTRICAL FAILURE AT THE OXFORD INTERCHANGE OF THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY LONDON-OXFORD LINE, AN UNSCHEDULED DELAY OF AT LEAST ONE HOUR WILL OCCUR. GREAT WESTERN APOLOGIZES FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.”

A chorus of moans and yells and complaints echoed up and down the carriages ripples. “Blimey! C’mon! Oh fook off!”

I smiled, and shrugged at Emma Watson’s ashen sweat-dripping face.

“We have more time than I thought. Want to play again? But like I said, the punishments are gonna keep getting worse.”

Emma refused. Said it wasn’t worth her dignity.

And then said yes, ten minutes later. The game had her. She was an addict. And she was fucked. We were going to plunge her to rock bottom, not in ten years, but in the next hour.

“Ready for your next riddle?” A smile coiled through me, but I didn’t let it touch my lips. I reached down, and unbuckled my shoe. “But first, I’ll tell you your punishment…”

TO BE CONTINUED

* * *