This is Envy

18+ | FF | BDSM

Welcome Lovers,

This is The Seven Sins.

Because I am such a giver, I am giving this first story to you all for free. The audio is still reserved for those who have paid for the privilege.

Consider upgrading to a paid subscription to access the full series, posted each Tuesday and Thursday for the month of August.

Enjoy.

— S 💋

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The photographer has spent years capturing other people’s desire.

Filthy, controlled, beautiful images. Some that sell for more money than most people will ever see. But the work that haunts her— the collection of pieces that keep her awake at night— belongs to someone else.

A rival. The rival.

The rival’s photographs are… difficult to describe. They’re never staged. Never polite. The people she photographs look like they’re being ruined in real time, and somehow, the camera only makes it more intimate.

The invitation arrives without warning. Without ceremony. A single line, unsigned and yet unmistakably the rival.

Come. Tonight. You may bring nothing.

The photographer knows the address. Everyone in their circle does. She has it memorised the way others remember prayers.

The building itself is quiet, but it breathes, like it is waiting for something to happen. Ready to absorb sound. She stands outside longer than necessary, pulse already uneven, an old familiar ache sitting low in her stomach. Years of studying the other woman’s work has done this to her— the photographs that never look posed, that somehow always capture the moment a person stops pretending to be in control. She tells herself it’s professional admiration.

She tells herself a great many things.

The door opens before she knocks. Before she’s even decided if she should knock at all.

The rival stands in the threshold, barefoot, dressed in silken black that looks poured on rather than worn. Dark hair pulled into a slicked-back ponytail that hangs down her back. She doesn’t smile. She simply steps aside.

‘Inside.’

Not a request.

The apartment is bare. Stripped of softness. Concrete floors. One long mirror. A low, leather bench. No art on the wall.

The only light coming from two lamps that throw shadows into each corner of the room. The rival closes the door and locks it without looking at the photographer.

‘Undress.’

She hesitates only long enough for the other woman to notice.

‘I said undress. Completely. Fold everything and put it on the floor by the door. Then… I want you to kneel. Right there.’ She points to a spot on the concrete that is half bathed in warm light. The contrast is aesthetically pleasing. It’s where she would place someone, too. But she isn’t in control here.

There is no heat in her voice. Only certainty that her command will be followed. The kind of certainty that makes the photographer’s hands shake as she obeys. Jacket. Shirt. Skirt. Underwear. She folds each piece with the same precision she uses when packing her expensive equipment. She hates herself for the small, desperate hope that her neatness might earn her something. When everything is piled neatly, and she stands naked in front of the other woman, she moves to the spot the rival pointed to and lowers herself to the concrete. Knees spreading automatically, spine straight because that feels implied.

The rival circles her once. Slow.

‘Look up.’

She does. And the rival’s eyes move over her the way a collector examines a flawed piece— interested, deciding what to do with it.

‘You’ve wanted this for a long time,’ her rival whispers. ‘Not the work. Me. You want to know what it feels like to be the one in the frame. To have people look at you the way they look at my work. Like something worth remembering.’

The photographer opens her mouth, but the rival’s fingers close around her jaw, thumb pressing hard into the hinge.

‘Don’t speak yet. You’ll speak when I decide the words are worth hearing.’

The hand releases.

She walks to a bag the photographer didn’t notice before, and returns with a length of black silk and a small, heavy camera. Not one of the sleek, beautiful machines one might expect. Something more… antique.

‘Wrists.’

She offers them, pressed together like a gift. The silk is wound tight— tighter than necessary— then secured behind her back so her shoulders pull and her chest juts out. The rival checks the knots with clinical care, then steps back.

The flash is harsh. The sound of satisfaction she makes is sweet.

‘Open your mouth.’

She does. The second flash. A third. The rival moves closer, and a bare foot appears between the photographer’s spread knees. Two fingers force themselves into her mouth, past her teeth, pressing down on her tongue.

‘Keep it open. Look at the lens.’

Spit gathers and spills over her lower lip, and the shutter never stops firing. The rival’s fingers, the ones she’s coveted like something rare and precious, fuck her mouth slowly. Deliberately. Until drool runs down her chin, and drips onto her bare breasts. Only then, does the hand withdraw. The rival wipes her fingers on the photographer’s cheek, smearing spit across her skin like a signature.

‘You photograph people like this,’ she says quietly. ‘But the difference between us is that you clean it up. You make it beautiful. I don’t.’

The photographer is pulled forward by the hair until her face presses against the rival’s clothed cunt. The fabric is already damp. The rival holds her there, grinding once, twice, letting her smell and feel how little this is about affection.

‘Lick.’

She does. She makes the fabric darken with her spit. And then the rival shifts, pulls the material up and out of the way, and pushes her face harder against her wet heat. The photographer’s tongue works obediently. Filthy and eager. While the rival’s hand stays locked in her hair. The camera flashes again somewhere above her. She can feel the rival’s thighs trembling. But her voice is calm.

‘You’re better at this than I expected. Look at you. This is where all that envy gets you. Already dripping on my floor.’

A foot nudges her knees wider. The rival presses her toes against her clit without warning.

She makes a broken sound against her pussy, and jerks against the rival’s foot which works her ruthlessly while she’s forced to keep licking.

‘You’re going to come like this. Mouth on me, rutting against my foot, and you’re going to watch yourself in the mirror while you do it. I want you to see what envy looks like when it finally gets what it asks for. I want you to watch yourself become exactly as small as you’ve always been afraid you are.’

She tries to turn away. Tries to look away. But the hand in her hair stops her.

‘The mirror. Now.’

She looks. The woman in the glass is unrecognisable. Flushed. Open mouthed. Slick with spit. Wrists bound. Fucking herself on the rival’s foot like a bitch in heat. The hand in her hair once again redirects her.

‘Come.’

Mortifyingly, she does. Hard. Messy. Shamefully loud. Her body clenches around nothing; wetness spilling over the rival’s skin. She keeps her foot there, working her through it, not moving, until the photographer tries to pull away. Only then is the foot withdrawn, sliding back through the come on the concrete floor. It glistens.

‘Clean.’

Not daring to look up, or question the command, the photographer leans forward and licks it clean. Every shiny drop. The rival’s camera watches and clicks. She sinks to her knees, the shutter the only sound in the room.

‘Say it.’

The photographer blinks at the floor. ‘I–’ Her voice is wrecked. ‘I wanted to be you.’

‘More. Say the rest of it. The part you’ll barely admit to yourself.

‘I wanted what you have. The way people look at you. The way you take them apart and they thank you for it. I wanted to be the one who never has to ask. I wanted to stop being the one that studies, and start being the one who is studied.’

The rival reaches forward, sinking her hand between the photographer’s legs, two fingers— still soft from being in her mouth— push into her cunt. Slow. Possessive. Almost kind in its cruelty.

‘And now?’

‘I want you to keep taking me apart.’

The rival smiled then— small, cold, satisfied.

‘Good. Because I already have. These pictures stay with me. You leave with nothing except the knowledge that you came here and gave yourself to me for free. That is what your envy costs. It doesn’t make you better. It barely makes you useful.’

The photographer is used again after that— fucked on the bench with her face pressed to the mirror, the rival’s body heavy over hers, one hand around her throat, the other reaching under to rub her clit in tight, mean circles until she comes a second time with a shattered cry.

The rival comes on her tongue. The photographer’s head held tightly between her legs with the flash on. Over exposed. The aperture allows slivers of shadow across her eyes. Her identity likely hidden.

She swallows everything.

When it’s over, the silk is cut from her body. The rival holds the camera up, capturing the indentations spiraling up her arms. The photographer is allowed to stand. Her legs barely hold her. She is walked to the door, still naked, still marked with spit and come, and the red lines from the silk.

‘You may dress now.’

She obeys. Hands unsteady. The rival watching every movement.

At the threshold, she speaks once more. ‘You wanted to know what it feels like to be in one of my photos. Now you know. Don’t come back asking for more. I already took the only thing you have that interests me.’

The door closes between them.

The photographer stands there for a long time, the taste of the other woman still thick on her tongue, bruises already beginning to bloom. The feeling is still there. It has simply changed shape. It no longer has her wanting to become the rival.

It wanted to ruin her.

And it already knew— with the same cold clarity the rival had revealed to her in the mirror— that envy doesn’t care what you want.

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