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Adamina
Planetoid
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2018
100% Switch
78% Primal (Hunter)
73% Dominant
63% Voyeur
63% Primal (Prey)
61% Masochist
61% Submissive
59% Brat tamer
56% Brat
55% Sadist
51% Exhibitionist
50% Rope bunny
50% Experimentalist
49% Master/Mistress
48% Slave
43% Vanilla
43% Rigger
41% Daddy/Mommy
35% Boy/Girl
31% Owner
28% Ageplayer
27% Pet
26% Degrader
26% Non-monogamist
4% Degradee
BDSM Test: What kind of sexual deviant are you?
78% Primal (Hunter)
73% Dominant
63% Voyeur
63% Primal (Prey)
61% Masochist
61% Submissive
59% Brat tamer
56% Brat
55% Sadist
51% Exhibitionist
50% Rope bunny
50% Experimentalist
49% Master/Mistress
48% Slave
43% Vanilla
43% Rigger
41% Daddy/Mommy
35% Boy/Girl
31% Owner
28% Ageplayer
27% Pet
26% Degrader
26% Non-monogamist
4% Degradee
BDSM Test: What kind of sexual deviant are you?
n/a
-
Dunes were like monuments, the one they hiked nonexempt. It rose as a mountain to nudge the sky, wisps off its top, confused almost with the clouds that never rained. Keeping balance was difficult, as sometimes the sand held, other times it gave, and a man never knew which would be. The best form was all fours, back to the sun, hands anchoring, so if two ends gave, there were at least two more. Up and up, no way around, climbing for what felt days-long, but was merely hours. To those young, the unconditioned boys that had yet to grow leathern skin and build endurance, it would be brutal. Stamina was pivotal, maintaining a low heartbeat and spaced breaths was the thin line betwixt living and dying. Not all journeys could be made by skiff, because there were sinkholes, things underneath the surface that too much noise, too much movement, would attract.
They were there to explore, not battle.
He was Sopyru, a first son of the current chief, with a mother yet alive, and three other brothers. High-standards were his lifeblood, since preadolescence he was challenged, pushed, hammered into his sire's formidable lefthand. This meant he was an apex scaler, quick, perfect, toned against rabid heat and light alike. Most could not match him, few raised their voices when he mentioned scouting. There was a lot to prove, after all, when a person was being forged to lead, to best and eventually overtake. Age did the majority in before they made half a century alive. It was no secret that the tribe's head would someday not awaken. Humans were adaptable, evolution's life-obsessed creation and earth's ungiving parasite - but they were not infallible. Existing in a state of dehydration, overheat, malnourishment, and more took tolls; elderly tribesmen existed less than even females.
Higher, higher, air becoming denser, grittier. From deceased mouths, there had been an age where day and night were similar lengths, with neither overpowering. Dawns and dusks could be timed, there were no noons that went on and on with no sign of sunset, there was not darkness that lasted long enough to morph wastes into icelands. That fabled time had gone, the sun abided no moon, and in her jealousy, the moon responded in likewise greed. Perhaps in an hour, they would see orange on the horizon, belling relief from three-digit temperatures. Then again, the swelter might not submit, and they could find themselves broiled another week.
The top. Brightness was so severe a tinted visor had to be flipped over goggles, lest pupils be scorched. The dune's crown radiated, shafts of heat rippling in curtains, making inhalation hard, turning otherwise stiff gear malleable. The two were on what appeared the only summit for eternity; around them spread a beige sea, sand forever in every direction. The sky was no longer blue, but white, a molten quilt suffocating a dead land, and at its center, the sun, booming as a yellow, predatory bulb promising to fry. Sopyru put a hand over his already masked face, unclipped the sight from his rifle, used it to see their focal. That was another place afar, a gem concealed by the very sand mountain they climbed. A former skyscraper, elongated and tipped, crested by a spindle that shone a dozen colors.
"A hundred levels, at least," Sopyru had a voice cracked by heat, "no seeing how far under it goes." As the majority, he donned findings picked from the past: old Kevlar wrapped shins, forearms and hands to defend against burns, whereas patchy beast skins carefully stitched the rest of him. Supply-bags packed his back and thighs, rations solely a man with incredible fortitude would be able to survive off. He was tall, lean, complected in the darkest brown with eyes to match. Little would be seen of him currently, thanks to protective layers, howbeit he stood with poise, strength. He was the first infant born after Griest sowed his seed, the son that lived the longest wherein others perished, and a favorite by lot. Calm was his way, violence was scant in the man, and made-up for in ability in the wastes, his gift for bringing something out of nothing. It was what ultimately permitted him to enter the ring of fatherhood, to have a woman back home heavying with his seed- an honor few realized.
He capped the sight, clipped it back on the rifle over his shoulder, unseen. They could not linger there for long, another someodd minutes and heatstroke would sink roots through layers. Their destination remained a ways, another journey-leg that would be exhausting to complete. He eyed drifts, sand fanning on winds' shoulders, and wondered if the two could glide on descent. "You're sure, brother," he pointed, "that's what you want out there?" Talk of exploring the spire had been before, but bravery had lacked. It could be another building of useless materials, tech that would not help, unnecessary furniture and assorted weirdities. Then what? Failed possibility turned his throat to cotton; even without an answer yet, he spread makeshift flaps of snakeskin, roping them around wrists. -
Seventeen days...still no Georgie.
Logic offered two outcomes: lost or grabbed. Impenetrable dark made everything mazelike, there was no navigating without artificial light, and with it, one then became a beacon. Tahiri assumed the college kid had done exactly so - used his flashlight, been seen, got snatched. God had more lackeys than she and Ira had dealt with, there were rumors of outside friends that surely shared predatory mindsets, he could be victim of many. She assayed explaining such, her voice soft, gestures plaintive. They lacked an infinite vault of batteries, oil lanterns only burned so long, and each person that exited Vassar could be another body lost. Her combatants remained unyielding, ignorant of her reasoning. They had pack-bonded, an empty bed was akin to a severed limb they longed for, no matter conversational bandaging.
And so, with her threshold for nagging depleted, she adorned layers, stuffed a bag, and embarked at the four o'clock hour. There was no destination, only a retracing of steps, a useless search for evidence that would lead nowhere. The walk was long, blackness enclosing, broken only by the occasional beam. Cold crunched underfoot, she had learned the difference between concrete, asphalt, and grass, and used this to keep course. Eventually, they returned to the park, the church with the busted doors, the tiretracks on frozen ground. Though against her better judgement, Tahiri used the flashlight for a good thirty minutes, swinging it here, turning it there. Nothing of Georgie emerged. She entered the building, scanned the interior, plucked bullets, jumped pews, checked storage rooms for the hell of it. If there were any clues, even her sharp eyes missed them. Then what? Go back to Vassar, relay the bad news, deal with whines and sobs again? Tahiri thought not.
More walking followed and in a way, she liked it. It was reminiscent of tromping New York's streets after a night of hard-boozing. Looking up, she could delineate zilch, howbeit she imagined highrises, her memory aflash with art-deco and lights. Some moments went and she spoke, her story that of midnight romps, runs from police and creeps, conversation with the mango-man in the middle of a nowhere boulevard. Life had been different. Life had been life. What was life now, she asked? All answers and no answer applied in the same. "It's still life, isn't it? Just different." Change was inevitable, survival was to somehow contour the unavoidable. She pulled her coat tighter, noticed the sidewalk end, almost tripped on a carstop. This was a parking lot? She stopped, listened to ensure they were safe, then used her flashlight.
Illumination shone on frosty vehicles and lampposts, and as she turned, a particular storefront. Glass windows and door showcased an interesting business, one that apparently sold adult entertainment and toys. She saw the unlit neons advertising it, the raunchy posters with tits and asses barely covered. She smirked. Of all areas for them to end up, it was in the old lot of a sex-retailer. Honestly, it was better than playing the older sister to a gaggle of teens. "If that door opens, I'm going inside." Tahiri started forward peppily. "Maybe those basement dwellers will perk up if we bring back edible panties?" Realistically that was unlikely, but their reactions could be worth it. She stopped at the door, tested the pull-handle...and to her surprise, it was unlocked.
She entered a green-carpet, eggshell-shelf abyss, rounding the front partition to where the true goods lay, after securing the door behind them. Lightbright toys soon became their source of seeing, one clicked on after the other. She took the biggest - a hot pink horse dick - and used it to show her way. True to the shop, there were movies and books, an entire section of hentai, a wall of restraints. She personally enjoyed the simpler versions...handcuffs, gags, blindfolds, leashes and collars. Most were patent, some were genuine, like the hefty black one she grabbed. She disposed of the tag, unbuckled it, measured by the eye. It would fit, no? If not, there were other sizes, she also had a knife for adjustments. "Ira, give me your neck for a second." -
“I try to handle myself well in general, nowadays,” he loaned. In thought, that was a weird word. Nowadays – did that mean she recalled yesterdays? Fifteen years or something, it had been, and not every unirradiated person had memories bogged by trauma. Elijah should know, he had encountered three not long ago. Their faces and hopes were fresh suns in his head. It was them who imparted trust, and the drive he wielded to unite with another; without them, he would have remained rogue, and probably would’ve stopped speaking all together.
He watched the woman scan the ceiling. She walked with uninjured ease, there did not appear to be sunkenness in her face, no dullness in the eyes. All were favorable signs, though Elijah couldn’t decide for what. That she was capable of handling herself? That wouldn’t matter to him unless they linked up, and even considering such was off the table. He readjusted what he hefted, made sure it was secure and in place, removed the helmet too. His hair fell in crinkly curls, puffy and misshapen from minimal care. He looked like a light-eyed lion, dirtied by the world’s fingers – however, also very much alive. They both were, and it was miraculous.
The groaning sky snapped him from thought, and he moved to stand under a hole. Greenish and blackish clouds, the eye of gnarly radiation and poison gases turning into precipitation. The winds were not yet strong, but Elijah could taste their chemical sweetness. He tucked the helmet under his arm and watched the woman launch over the counter. He said nothing, but shit was correct. The sky threatened to melt the fabric and flesh off their bones, and irradiated threatened to pummel down the door. They were trapped, and it was a feeling he’d grown accustomed to. He trailed behind her a moment after, staring at the still-hung frames on the walls. They were families, advertisements, the past sticking its tongue at the future.
“Your people? There are more of you?” The man was unsure how to feel about that. He could be ganged upon and robbed, forced in to a kind of slavery, as he had seen others. He had to be wary, and he closed the distance betwixt them like a predator stalking another predator. Stalking may not have been the word, actually, but he did move purposefully, suspiciously.
In the debris-laden hall, there was a concrete flight of stairs to an exit door, sign aglow. He paused in their middle, and tried to follow wherever she was with his ears. Normally, he would go through the offices and lunchroom top to bottom, but didn’t feel like it. The vault would probably be down there, impenetrable and protective. And yet, did they want to corner themselves? Together? A room with a sturdy door could be more freeing. Then, there was the exit too. There had to be other structures around, possibly better than the one they were in. The risk there was that the storm could drop and catch them uncovered. He was undecided. “The vault is here…” he lobbed, same as she had. His boot on the first step made a crunch. The lights still worked when he flicked the switch, and found the space rather empty. There was money spewed across the floor, and it looked like some valuables too - all meaningless now.
He did like glittery things. Dusty gold bars were pretty and he’d never held one before. So, he snatched two. Solid, good for bludgeoning close-range. Meld them onto a metal pole, tie them real tight as well, and they could make a nice club of sorts. He moved onto the ajar vault itself, and really had to heave to get the door to budge. “Fucking damn.” It was heavy as all godshitting hell. What was it made from? The inside was oddly neat, just a bit dusty, and that light still worked as well. But…was there a way out of it, besides the one opening? That’s what discomforted him. “No irradiated or water would get in here, and no one inside would be able to get out. Good and bad.”
-
"Ahah, haven't we all? Bimbos are the pennies of the dollar world." Useless, much too many in gutters and on the ground. Brant's cane clicked between his steps, he looked at his watch as they entered the employee hall, deciding he had but fifteen minutes to spare. Meetings were always done in the morning, blast as it be, and he had to be punctual. "She is a gift from Gabriel and he knows you quite well, buttons." Those at the top were keen on Marcus in general, their eyes and ears often on his back, though none were likely as personal as their boss. That man sparkled whenever Mr. Flynn's name arose, and none dare bash him for fear that sparkle would turn heinous.
The tall man opened the door ceremoniously, loud stomps, big exhale. The Mulsanne was a yellow splot in the parking lot of grays and blacks, idling, the driver's door cracked. The underboss halted him with a hand. "Mogul business only, I am afraid. Do pop the trunk." He purposefully slowed, glancing at Marcus over his shoulder. Animated and couth as he was, there was viciousness in his sky-colored stare, his predatory fetish for ruining people to the core...particularly the unfortunate denoted to slave status. "Well as he knows you and your tastes, if she is not on par, I call dibs on next of ownership." A fetid smirk, two taps of his cane, and they were at the rear. "For now, feast your eyes."
She lay in a sarafan, a yanochka scarf across her face, purple silk and floral pattern, telltale of foreign origins. Porcelain skin flashed beneath, so unflawed the very sun could blemish, and while the Bentley's trunk was non-spacious, she curled only slightly, because she was short. Brant dragged fingers through impossibly long hair, red as garnets, and instead of flinching, the slave inclined toward him for more. She smelled good, felt like satin when he took her jaw to turn her in their direction. Freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and cheeks, her lips were pink and soft, cheekbones high, silver dangling from her ears. Rarely did a slave look the way she did, so perfectly kept, her fingers and toes even manicured.
"From Anadyr, Russia." There was no reason to remove the blindfold, that was for when Marcus wished. His hand slithered to her throat instead, showing how nicely she'd fit if he squeezed. Into the dress' ornate collar, popping the buttons to her breasts. They were perky handfuls, pink nipples pebbled, pierced with small silver hoops. The underboss gave one a pinch until she made the littlest noise. "Multilingual. Intelligent. Beat Damian at chess." The Whispers' bookish, hawk-nosed man was reputable, so her victories were a feat. Brant lifted her right hand, her knuckles bluish and tender. "Punched him after he flipped the table on her. Though she be but little, she is fierce."
His curdly expression returned and he snapped the rest of the dress open. Her body revealed athleticism, she had faint abs, hourglass hips, ass like a peach, shapely legs - but his interest was between. He cupped and maneuvered the slave so she was better exposed to them. "I am one-hundred percent assured you have not seen one of these in a time. I surely have not." Fingers parted plump labia to the rosy folds inside, tracing her clit down to her tiny entrance, spreading her slightly more. "A hymen." He pressed, causing her to raise her hips, though like a well-trained doll, she didn't shut her legs or resist further.
"If that is what you plan to do...please, not here." Her voice was accented however clear, and took the underboss by surprise.
"Not here, she says," Brant was bemused, "is the Bentley inadequate?"
"No. But I cannot fuck you back in this position."
A chuckle exploded from the tall man. His hand left her unpenetrated hole, fingertips in his mouth. "Did you hear that, buttons? A virgin that intends to fuck back." He noticed passerby behind them, looking, and he covered her with the sarafan; he was unsure about Marcus, but he for one, did not like eyes on his new toys. "What is your name, slut?"
"Yesenya." -
She smiled along his jaw and throat while he poured lust in her ear. He was one for restraints and dandy struggle. He liked to showcase and create sensual art. And he had eye enough to pay attention to numerous details. She enjoyed what she heard and knew in her core she could please him. Ixora would tiptoe, accentuate feminine lines, womanhood lathering thighs or puddling the floor. She'd shine in that oil, whimper, gasp, pull her bottom lip with her teeth at each hit. This master wanted exposé and she'd be certain to be the best exhibit. The pinkness, the flush, the tense before impact, the hiss at its sting. Her eyes would search for his, the sounds come from her mouth would plead and narrate her submission.
As an a-tier slave, she was languid in his hold, and she'd make no other moves besides tracing his jaw. Her lips hovered hair's breadth from his, her breath cool, elegantly heavied by his effect. "Take me from behind..." She surveyed their surroundings, listened a moment. It was quiet, solely them and white walls, shafts of sunlight. She pointedly focused on the bench, then the floor, a nearby pillar. She could get on her knees and arch hips, stand and spread legs, rise on the balls of her feet to meet him. "What if I begged you for options now? Right here. Quickly." The risk and possible consequence of not being pristine were not lost - yet Ixora didn't quite care. There was an edge to her, a lecherous gloss in her gaze.
She stood, presented her back to him, made a little show of bending just so. She was hourglass, hips and ass like a heart, perfect for grasping, pounding, striking. She extended a leg through the slit, teased the gown sideways, centimeters from exposure. Thorsten had seen her bare previously, that newness was gone, however tantalization lingered. Did he want to view her sweet shell from behind, glossed by the dampness he caused? Did he want to watch her spread that pink delicateness, see a finger glide along? Ixora was brazen, unafraid, like they weren't in a rigid place that'd detest such antics. It was baiting, asking for this master's own bravery in the way only the feminine could...and she was good at it.
"Have you ever had a woman that could make you come without moving? That could take all your worth and urge you for more? I'd follow every command. I'd give you the exact scene you craved and be the best slave ever in your possession. By the time you entered me, I'd have performed so well you'd ache for release. From behind, I'd make your fingers so slick you wouldn't believe it. Bless my body with your cock, and I'd work my walls so deeply, so needily around your thrusts, you'd feel my pulse." Sex was an art, a natural act made for pleasure, and Ixora was gluttonous. She watched him over her shoulder, hand slinking her thigh, disappearing in front of her. A small trickling could be heard. "Slaves are vessels for their masters, yes? I'd swallow you happily. Feel you twitch inside of me gleefully. I'd savor you. Thank you. Wear the marks and stings you gifted me proudly."
Her hand reemerged, her dainty finger covered in clear, copious arousal. Showing him from the side, she sucked it clean, her soft lips tight as a vise, cheeks hollowing. When done, there was a smile as she regarded him over her shoulder. "There is more I would do, if you are the kind to give his slaves some rein."
-
She licked his lobe, tongue soon to find his cheek. She was always warm like this, a savorer that wanted to map him with her mouth. Her lips planted again, the print red, she liked the color on his complexion; he should wear her marks more often. Nails feathered his throat, black-lacquer and pointy, tracing those bends and rises to his collar, where she sliced the top button just because. Did she want him shirtless? No, it was simply a reminder that Aaron could be cut too.
There was one thing Saffron was after, and it lay tucked by belt and zipper. The woman did not move from him, her lips stayed close, printing claim again and again, until he faced enough to greet her mouth. That kiss was warm, wet, essenced by Midleton whiskey. She was gentle, tongue padding him to part, so she could suckle his lower lip and guide his head back. Her chest met his, breasts damp and free, though she didn’t let their weight on him. Aaron was glass to her, face cupped delicately, as if the rest of him couldn’t withstand the passion leaked from her mouth.
Tease? A brow arched, nothing was said. She preferred sensualist, someone who enjoyed little pleasure ticks along with bigger orgasmic tocks. Was that a bad thing? By how he - and many others - reacted, it couldn’t have been.
She kissed his chin, gliding under his jaw, pushing his head back. The line she made was neither fast nor slow, printing red down his throat, mouthing his larynx. Lower to the dip between collarbones, then to the next shirt button, undoing with her teeth, her nails too, because impatience was a bitch. Her thighs pushed his ajar so that she could be on her knees, her breath now on his navel. Here, she liked to scrape the sharp tips of her fingers, messing with sensitivity, amused in the way some flinched and others relaxed. At any moment, Saffron could hurt, and by how versed she was, it was apparent she had in the past. Aaron being a good boy spared him of such.
"I’m never scared, handsome." He throbbed, she flattened her palm on his cockhead, pressuring. "Especially not of a man." Had she confessed that this was her favorite part of him? Of course she had, she always did, always showed it. Up and down she pumped, root to glans, fingers tightening on his girth, eking like she wanted him to explode already. It was rhythmic, her hand warming from the friction. She popped his trousers with a thumb, took the zipper in her teeth, pulled it. Her exhales came next, poured on his shaft as she took painstaking time to print her lips on his still-covered cock. He wasn’t bare yet, no, a ploy again - she wasn’t done teasing.
She striped the underside, opened her mouth around the head, hugging with her lips, ever so carefully grazing. Reaching his base, she did so again, this time sucking, promising to pull him deep into her throat if he were patient. "I can’t imagine you bending me over. It’s just...not realistic." Finally, Saffron shimmied his briefs, freed Aaron from their opening. One hand directed his member to stand against her face, her fingertips tracing veins, lavishing him. The woman was a glutton when it came to men, a connoisseur of their bodies, and he was one to be savored. She reached into one of her pockets, there was a plasticky pop, three mints went into her mouth, and soon, he’d learn how they felt on sensitive skin. "You look pretty comfy anyhow; I’ve yet to fuck anyone that moves when they’re comfy." -
"You told me and I told Remi."
She didn't want to hear it - moreover, she didn't want to hear him. This was a side-effect had by the serum, one unknown that she'd need to report. The light-eyed boy she raised as a brother wasn't back in the slums he escaped. He wasn't mixing business and dipping dick with the blond. In her mind, he ascended and conquered the sparkling heights they'd equated to heaven as kids; Senna refused to believe otherwise. Her Nath was intelligent, capable on his own, contrary to his preference for deferring to her, and he wouldn't entertain such risks. He absolutely, positively wouldn't.
"Are you sure you want to take point? You don't have a gun and that wound in your side is bad. My bullet holes are both minor through and throughs."
A long-lost need broke her surface, wherein she had to be sure he was alright. In the past, she would've done so immediately. They'd hurry to safety, somewhere hidden, her hands quick to reveal him, do what was necessary to make Nathan better. She tamped the instinct in the dark, sentencing it back to the casket it'd been rotting in. Again, this man wasn't her streethood charge. He couldn't be, she bucked the possibility.
What she didn't buck was the firearm, weighing it in her hand, checking the safety, thanking Remi. She stowed it with a lift of her coat and flash of her thong, because she knew conflict wasn't over. They were underground, the silence palpable, and in it, her over-keen hearing caught vibrations. There were heavy vehicles rolling, mechanical footsteps on broken tar. The three were about to exit into another fight. She narrowed eyes at the thought, trying to strategize as they approached the tunnel's end. It would be best for her to outright charge, commence violent chaos so the men could escape. It was the classic plan of distract thy enemy and had been successful before.
Crumbling steps led to rusty and holey cellar doors, evening light tumbling to greet them. The girl paused, wondering if the two would be stubborn or cooperative. Whence being an unedited human, Senna had usually been able to handle all and any thing. Now with amped genetics and physical ability, that gift was increased multifold. She listened, her ears full with the sound of breaths, blood sluggishly pattering from her side and Solomon City's nonstop grumble.
"I'm going to rocket out of here and do as much damage as possible. You two run, okay? Get that car and go."
She left no chance for riposte, blasting through the doors and onto the mangy road beyond. As assumed, two armored trucks awaited, droids assembled, shooting instantaneously. She met a row in a red blur, dropped two before a third and fourth could react, then folded them as well. Her shots were precise, speed and agility difficult to contend. Lasers bolted this way and that, she whirled with them, dodging wide and narrow, using metal bodies as shields where applicable. It was a killer and perilous dance, slowed only for seconds when she perched atop a vehicle, imitating a beacon for her opponents to follow. She was grazed, cheeks flush, staring at a dozen plus heinous yellow optics.
She leapt to the otherside and the deadly tango started once more. -
She loved his lips, couldn't have enough, hers on his, pressing lustfully. Their mouths met countless times like this, in corridors untouched, halls alive with sunlight, behind pillars and in stairwells where breaths echoed pleasure. Each were sparking and igniting another call within, the kind that said to open legs, let him sink in the vulnerability betwixt. Hers were open now to straddle, sure to settle her flower to his stem, let them greet and ready for oneness. She hugged the king, arms around his neck, breaking the kiss to pepper the bridge of his nose, rest her cheek against his forehead. The affection was pure, different than the type had by those passing only in sheets; he was a person to her, more than the wearer of an afflicted crown.
"Mischief?" Pointy claws swirled his hair, capable of slicing, albeit never unto Aidan. "Me?" She was the good little servant, blessed to have been taken in and displaying graciousness. She helped and more, duties completed perfectly, service flawless, unshakably loyal - he just happened to know her better. That feyblooded was the tease that took him in her mouth beneath tables while he politicked: suckling every throb, lapping each drop, humming her delight. She was the tantalizer capturing his length in arousal-basted thighs, drenching him, pumping until he could give no more. In that manner, she was less fey and more succubus, gluttonous for the daze in his eyes she so loved.
Tonight would be no different...at least on the surface. Motive remained for intimacy, closeness and the shared euphoria of rising and falling together. She would take him this round, there'd be no squirreling from the unity they both yearned. Her brow met his, lashes long enough to tickle. "I intend to put you on your back and have my way until you beg." Brave words, perhaps, from one young and still with innocence. Seduction profused her blood as much as magic and flounced in her tone, denial of her erotic prowess was futile. "Perchance ride your face to begin? Ensure she is slick enough to take him?"
"There's on knees too, nice and arched, so you can stroke deep as desired, my king, and I'll have a pillow to bite." Hands cupped his jaw, holding his face to hers. In public, this would not be. There were protocols, pretenses, class rigidity and a fair amount of hate for those of her lineage. Servants were lessers and fey a race to be extinguished; her ancestors slayed humans, turned peace to violence and while that was centuries gone, she should still pay. Omitted as it be, she enjoyed the secretiveness; it accompanied a delicious vein of risk and she prized the ability to have Aidan so. "Or me beneath, my mouth on you instead, legs wrapped around..."
A second kiss, nibblings on his bottom lip, her tongue tamping where teeth had been. She purred, a low, delicate sound when parting, her fingers at his chin. Duty laid on his desk, beckoning for attention it needn't more of for the night. Once, the feyblooded had asked if he didn't lament those tethers. Did he ever think just of freedom? Not having to proctor a thousand others? She considered setting the entire thing ablaze, watching her bluish flames consume and grant him wings. "One thing first, of course." Her gaze returned to the king, a claw through his shirt's top button...slicing it.
Zsahima wanted him to strip.
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