The rain started hammering the roof a few hours ago. It’s the first real storm since we got trapped. The sound is so loud it almost drowns out the dead outside. Almost.

Lily is crying quietly in the corner. Not from fear—from memory. She told us about a shoot she did in the rain once, some high-fashion editorial where they drenched her in a sheer white dress. She said the photographer kept telling her to look ‘ethereal,’ but all she wanted was for him to push her against the wet brick wall and fuck her right there, dress ripped open, his cock driving into her from behind while the rain washed over them. She said she came just from the fantasy, right there under the lights.

It got us talking. Confessing. Scarlet admitted she lost her virginity backstage at a runway show, bent over a clothing rack while her then-boyfriend pounded her from behind, her ass red from his slaps. Lillian just smirked and said her favorite ‘client’ used to pay her extra to wear a strap-on and dominate him, to call him a worthless slut while she fucked his ass. Isabell, of course, had the wildest story—a three-way in a penthouse elevator, coming on a stranger’s cock while another woman’s tongue was buried in her cunt.

We’re not sharing food. We’re sharing the last pieces of ourselves that feel human—the dirty, raw, unfiltered memories of when our bodies were for pleasure, not just survival. My own? I was once tied spread-eagle to a four-poster bed for a weekend. No safe word needed because I didn’t want one. I wanted to be used until I was sore, until my throat was raw from screaming, until I was nothing but a well-fucked, cum-drenched mess. I’d give anything to feel that helpless again, instead of this kind of helpless.

The rain is washing the world outside. It’s not washing this away. Nothing can.