That night, they’d just gotten home from a group project. Camilla rolled her eyes at the guy from psych who kept staring at the four mounds on their chest—like the twins didn’t know they already looked good in their tight orange mini-dress.
“I swear, if that creep licked his lips one more time, I was gonna—”
“You weren’t gonna do anything,” Blake interrupted, smirking. Her voice was a little huskier, a teasing edge in every syllable. “You liked the attention.”
Camilla turned her head, inches away from Blake’s. “Maybe I just liked sharing the attention,” she purred.
Blake licked her lips. “You wanna share something else?”
Camilla’s fingers slid down their dress, bunching it up at their thigh, revealing just the hint of black lace. Their shared legs wobbled slightly in the heels, the tension pooling lower and lower.
They lay tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, their breaths shallow and quick, skin slick from exertion and heat. The room glowed in amber citylight that slipped through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the curves of their shared body—hips rising and falling in unison, two flushed faces inches apart, mirroring each other’s panting, euphoric high.
They moaned as Camilla slowly pulled her fingers out of their shared snatch, before tracing a lazy fingertip down Blake’s jaw, her smile lopsided, satisfied. “Since we're already on the subject, still think your ex suspects anything?”
Blake snorted, chest still heaving. “Not a chance. He thinks we hate each other so much we must dream about stabbing each other in our sleep.”
“Mmm…” Camilla’s voice was soft, a sultry murmur. “We do dream about each other.”
Blake giggled. “Not the stabbing part, though. If we had a cock to use though . . .”
Camilla giggled, then leaned in, nuzzling their sweaty foreheads together, their hands clasped, breasts pressed side-by-side - a pleasant mingling of complimenting skin tones. “You think your parents still buy this charade?”
Blake didn’t answer at first. Her smile faded slightly, expression darkening with thought. “My mom still asks if I want to secretly see a therapist when you're asleep. Says I ‘must feel so trapped’... being stuck to you.”
Camilla’s eyes softened. Her fingers brushed a curl from Blake’s temple. “Hey,” she said, her tone turning gentle. “You’re not stuck. You’re with me. That’s different.”
Blake gave a small, brittle laugh. “You sure? Because I think sometimes I forget where you end and I begin.”
Camilla smiled, slow and warm. “Then you’re doing it right.”
Their lips met again—not rushed this time, but long, aching, with a kind of tenderness that only came from years of knowing, of sharing, of surviving something no one else could understand.
And then the kiss deepened.
“You always start something you can’t finish,” Camilla whispered against Blake’s lips.
“Oh, baby,” Blake murmured. “I’ve finished with you a hundred times.”
Their mouths collided. One head tilted left, the other right, lips tangling in perfect rhythm—because they knew every curve, every soft moan, every little gasp the other loved. Four hands explored their own body, tracing their shared waist, slipping under that tight dress, teasing at straps and hidden lace.
Clothes dropped like secrets. The dress, the matching panties, the jewelry—tossed over the couch, forgotten. They stumbled back toward the bedroom, their shared thighs rubbing, already slick with anticipation.
“I love when we pretend to hate each other,” Camilla breathed against Blake’s neck. “Makes this feel so... wrong.”
“It is wrong,” Blake grinned. “Wrong enough to feel this good.”
They collapsed onto the bed, giggling breathlessly. Blake’s fingers circled one of Camilla’s nipples, firm and aching. Camilla returned the favor with a slow stroke down the centerline of their body, teasing at a spot they both knew well. Shared nerve endings made every touch double. Every flick, every pinch, every rub—a pleasure loop that fed itself.
They moaned in stereo.
Camilla turned slightly, nuzzling into Blake’s ear. “You wanna take charge tonight?”
Blake bit her lip, eyes darkening. “Only if you beg for it first.”
“You wish, slut.”
“Oh, I know.”
They kissed again—sloppier now, hungrier. Fingers dove deeper. Their hips arched. Their moans echoed off the bedroom walls like music, building, throbbing, climbing higher.
They were their own lovers. Their own audience. Their own fantasy.
They clutched each other, panting, their bodies shivering in the aftermath of another shared, blinding climax. Skin slick, fingers trembling, legs curled tight around one another, they lay there—entwined in satin sheets and the heavy perfume of sweat and sex.
Their shared chest rose and fell, Camilla's face and forehead pressed tight to Blake’s. Her dark curls were plastered to one temple, while Blake’s blonde waves clung to the other. Their faces were flushed, their lipstick smeared and glittering faintly under the soft amber light from the bedside lamp.
Blake turned slightly, brushing the tip of her nose along Camilla’s cheek. “God,” she breathed. “Do you think any of our old gang suspects?”
Camilla chuckled—low, throaty, delicious. “Please. Our friends still think we’re seconds away from clawing each other’s eyes out.”
Blake let out a breathy laugh, then winced as Camilla’s thigh twitched against her over-sensitive heat. “They probably think we wear earplugs and just tolerate each other to save money.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Camilla grinned, brushing a thumb across Blake’s lip, “they don’t have the imagination for what really happens in here.”
They laughed together then—soft and dizzy and high on the kind of pleasure that rewires the brain.
Then Blake’s smile faded a little. Her eyes dropped to the bed, her fingers tracing idle shapes on Camilla’s hip, just below where their two torsos met in seamless, surreal perfection.
“Do you ever wish we didn’t have to pretend?” she whispered.
Camilla blinked. She didn’t answer right away.
Blake swallowed. “Like… I love us. Everything about this. About you. But sometimes I want to just—be us. Not act like we’re still mortal enemies just because our families can’t deal with this shit.”
Camilla softened. She reached up and brushed a kiss across Blake’s forehead. “Hey. Hey…” she murmured. “Look at me.”
Blake did. Their noses touched.
“You remember how your mom practically had an aneurysm when she thought you were making peace with me senior year?”
Blake snorted through a sniffle. “She was halfway into planning a victory party - no joke.”
Camilla grinned. “Exactly. And mine? Still thinks I’m plotting your downfall like some high-gloss villainess.”
“Your mom would love that,” Blake murmured.
Camilla cupped Blake’s cheek and held her gaze. “Blake… baby. We don’t have to pretend forever. But right now? I like that we have this little secret. Our own world. Our own game.”
Blake’s eyes shimmered.
Camilla leaned in closer, brushing her lips along Blake’s jaw, then to her ear. “And you know how turned on I get when you call me a bitch in front of everyone…”
That earned her a half-laugh, half-moan. “You would, you kinky tease.”
“I’m your kinky tease.” Camilla pressed their foreheads together. “And nothing’s wrong. Okay? We’ve got this.” Raising her arms, she took Blake's two hands within her own - clasping, they pulled as close as they could.
She kissed her then—slow, firm, grounding.
And Blake melted.
The tension dissolved like sugar in heat.
Their hands slid over each other’s shared skin again—lazily now, reverently. Camilla dipped lower, her fingers teasing the edge of Blake’s thigh, while Blake’s nails raked lightly up Camilla’s spine. The afterglow reignited into something softer, but no less consuming.
They kissed until they forgot the world outside their apartment even existed. Until the only thing that mattered was the wet heat between them, the pulse that beat in perfect sync, and the truth that echoed between two hearts beating in one body.
Rivals?
Not anymore.
Not when every night ended like this—tangled, gasping, giggling in the dark…
Wearing the mask for everyone else.
But letting it fall the second the door clicked shut.
Hands started to wander again. Familiar routes, traced by muscle memory and pure craving. Fingertips danced down their shared spine, circling the small of their back, sliding up to stroke the valley between their twin chests. Their breaths mingled again, faster now, heavier. Hungry.
Camilla’s fingers found the edge of sensation between them, a spot they both knew too well—a place where nerve endings converged and bloomed into wildfire.
“I can feel you getting needy,” Camilla whispered with a teasing curl to her lips.
Blake’s voice was barely audible, a rasp. “You feel it because you’re needy too.”
They giggled again, forehead to forehead, eyes wide with mutual want. Their hands worked in tandem now, tugging the sheet away, fingers slipping between soft folds and tender curves, coaxing out shivers with every practiced stroke.
The pleasure built in perfect synchronicity—an echo chamber of shared nerves, moans layered atop moans, whimpers rising as thighs clenched around each other. Their clit—fused, sensitive, swollen—throbbed between them, trembling with anticipation. That singular quirk from their transformation, a pleasure center unlike anything they had before.
Camilla’s breath hitched. “Blake…”
“Ooh," Blake whispered back, biting her lip. “Let's do this.”
Their fingers moved in unison now—slick, confident, desperate. Every twitch, every flick, sent pleasure ricocheting through both of them, spiraling tighter and tighter. Their hips bucked, straining against their fingers, against the building storm in their core.
Blake whimpered, eyes clenched. “I’m… Camilla, I’m—”
“Let it go, baby,” Camilla gasped, curling into her twin, forehead pressed to Blake’s, mouth open. “Come with me. Let’s—”
The climax hit them like a wave slamming into shore.
Their fused clit pulsed—and then, with a slick, sudden burst, it erupted. Hot fluid shot between their thighs, spattering their skin, the sheets, their stomachs, drenching everything in slick warmth. They cried out in unison—sharp, guttural, their voices overlapping, trembling, undone. Their bodies convulsed, hips grinding against the soaked sheets, toes curling, muscles clenching. A raw, animal release that sent sparks behind their eyes and left their limbs twitching with aftershocks.
Minutes passed.
They collapsed together, gasping, tangled, wet and breathless. Their hearts thudded in unison against each other..
Finally, Blake chuckled weakly. “You ruined the sheets again.”
Camilla smirked. “I always ruin the sheets.”
“You know we’re gonna have to do laundry tomorrow.”
Camilla kissed her temple. “Worth it.”
They lay in silence for a while, breathing each other in, their bodies still softly twitching with afterglow.
“I love you,” Blake murmured, barely audible.
Camilla smiled. “I know. And I love you more.”
“Liar.”
“Prove me wrong, slut.”
They laughed, and the tension faded as they leaned in for a gentle kiss—just two girls, conjoined by fate, bound by something deeper than flesh. Something they’d fight for, lie for, pretend for. Because in private, where the masks fell and the moans were real, they had everything they ever wanted. Each other. Forever.
Minutes passed in breathless quiet.
Finally, Camilla rolled her eyes and smirked. “Still think you’re the top?”
Blake laughed, voice hoarse. “Honey… with you? We’re both on top.”
- - -
Later, dressed again, lounging on their bed, they shared popcorn and rewatched an old cheer vs. volleyball rivalry match from high school.
“You really thought you could spike past me with that technique?” Camilla teased.
“Says the girl who rolled her ankle trying to copy my routine.”
They grinned.
Enemies on paper. Lovers in secret. Tied together by fate—and more than happy to keep pretending for the world… so long as they got to keep tearing each other’s clothes off,
Behind closed doors.