Although she is taller, Lust has learned to make sure her head is lower than Sloth's. Sloth's orders come directly from him, from the Father, and Lust would not want to challenge her dominance.

Kneeling is the best of these options, and so she kneels.

Sloth is a woman who conserves motion, conserves energy, uses little that she can't get back in other ways. She watches Lust kneel and does not move, her face does not change.

"Give me some of what you are," Sloth says, and Lust lowers her head further before shifting forward on her heels, pressing her face into Sloth's skirt, nosing along the hard lines of Sloth's legs until she reaches the place she must stop. She opens her mouth and exhales heat.

Sloth shifts, very slightly, and watches. After a moment, lazy, she raises a hand and puts it on Lust's head. It is a gesture of ownership.

"Do it for me," Sloth says.

Lust lets her fingers grow, sharpen, slides them up under Sloth's skirt. She trails them slowly along Sloth's legs, feeling the coolness of her skin, the sheer rasp of pantyhose, skips past Sloth's groin, moves them to Sloth's waistline, then twists, cuts, lets the evenly sliced skirt fall away from her waist. She keeps her face lowered, pressed to the white satin pantyline of Sloth's hose.

Her hands slide up over her head, under Sloth's blouse; she cups full breasts in her hands, kneads them slowly, feels the way Sloth's nipples go hard in the centre of her palms. Lust wears gloves with no palms, so that she can feel and not be touched; this is what she is. She folds her fingers back, lengthens them again, cuts Sloth's shirt away.

Sloth watches her, eyelids lowered lazily.

Lust is not, herself, a creature of desires. She was made to incite desires, not to contain them herself. She wears as many clothes as she can, to tease, and desires nothing more than that. Nudity revolts her. She is a creature of causing wants, but not satisfying them.

Orders are orders.

Sloth's brassiere goes next and her breasts are full and heavy. Then her pantyhose, which shred easily; Lust doesn't bother to tear more than the crotch, and she knows Sloth will hardly care. And her panties cut away and Sloth waits.

Lust wonders if this bores her.

She sticks out her tongue, runs it up into the vulva, over the hard nub of her clitoris. Sloth makes a little noise and oh, that's rare, quite rare. Gently, like a corpse folding, Sloth leans back against the wall, spreads her thighs a little more. Her hand is loose on Lust's head.

The threat is implicit, but not frightening.

Lust uses her hands, strokes teasingly, dips a finger in, then around, then over. She will have to wash her gloves, she thinks distastefully. And that means she will be without them, for a while.

Sloth tugs at Lust's hair and she raises her head, looks up along the incline of Sloth's body. Sloth's expression is bland, and her arms are going to protoplasm.

Lust closes her eyes, opens her mouth, lets Sloth's fingers melt. She tastes like flesh, even melted. Her fingers dribble down Lust's throat, fill it, choke off Lust's air.

It is not even a threat; she can't die, they can't die.

Lust lets her fingers thicken and lengthen, thin and shorten. Sloth's other arm flows to the flow, up under Lust's skirt, around Lust's underwear. She doesn't flinch, she doesn't respond; she's not made to respond. She is made to be unfulfilled.

Sloth doesn't rock, doesn't move, but eventually she has somehow been satisfied, and Lust is dizzy, her brain slow and sluggish and useless after so long without oxygen. As Sloth's limbs flow back out of her mouth and nose, pour out of her vagina, she folds backwards, helpless, the closest she's come to ever turning off.

She thinks, hazily, that their Father would kill them if he knew how much they both desired this.