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She thought she needed romance - candles, whispers, a careful touch. But what broke her open wasn’t softness. It was Masha’s mouth at her throat and Sasha’s hands between her thighs, testing limits she didn’t know she had. The old sweater was gone, forgotten on the floor, replaced by sweat-slick skin and legs trembling against unfamiliar hunger. Words blurred, became moans. Her body, once quiet, now spoke in pulses. She wasn’t being taken - she was being shown. Shown what it meant to be touched like a truth, used like a prayer, seen like a secret no one was supposed to find. In that room, with two women guiding her through each gasp and grip, she didn’t just become. She arrived.