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“ “Harrow?” Ianthe ventured, from somewhere near the door. Then she obviously stopped and saw you naked, bloodied, flayed in your own anguish, with soapsuds still on your feet. You hallucinated that you could smell her: sweat, musk, vetiver.
You saw your probable future clearly. You had not until that point understood the danger.
If Ianthe Tridentarius knelt beside you the, no matter with what sugary contempt or filigreed third condescension, you would press your diminished bloody terror into her; you would creep naked into her lap, shamelessly and weep. You would crawl like a worm to whatever clinging scrap of solace she would give you. All your slithering, degraded desperation for condolence you would give to your sister Lyctor with a brazen thirst that you would never come back from. She would be your end, as surely as the hammer to oxygen-sealant machine of your childhood. You would have whored yourself to her as necrosis to a wound.”
Which is why it was so ultimately mortifying when those shoes landed weightily before the pathetic heap that was yourself, and when that lovely mother of pearl robe appeared almost on your level when she leaned over you. You almost sobbed when she traced the underside of your chin and caressed the length of your body with her gaze.
“Huh, not how I imagined seeing you like this”
So you threw yourself at her.
You would soon pretend not to know how you ended up in her room, despite the purpose with which you’d followed her, cloaked only in the robe she had so kindly removed from her shoulders to drape over your own. You ignored the volition with which you had kissed her and with which you had allowed her touch, pointedly ignoring the shameless portraits which matched your own nudism.
Ianthe led you, one hand cursing your hip, to her bed. When you reached it she thrusted your torso, with the same hand she had led you by, down onto the thick golden duvet. You thought for a moment to worry about the blood staining Ianthe’s sheets, before realising that you don’t give a damn.
The princess of Ida advanced, flattening her gaunt hipbones against your pelvis, her unimpressive thighs against your even less lavish set. As aggressive as Ianthe’s advances were, you could feel the warmth of her blood under her sallow skin. As piercing as Ianthe’s angular form was, it was coldly comforting to sense her bones within the body pressed into yours, to know that the paralytic helplessness of the saint of duty’s thanergetic sink had passed for the time being.
Ianthe traced her long fingers across your jaw, larynx, clavicle, sternum, and reaching the impasse of your joined hips. She shifted backward a tinge, still close enough for you to feel her feverish heat, and reached her active hand into the dark rift between your bodies.
You felt the compulsion to retreat from the wandering pale hand, even as you leaned into it, allowing the pallid, and evidently cold, fingers of your companion lyctor slip through the wiry switch of hair covering what was now the only part of you that Ianthe had not yet seen, barring your interior of course.
When the tips of her frigid extremities finally made contact, you felt like dying rather than recognize the noise you had made, half-way between a choked sob and a sigh of relief. The pallid girl laughed. She pressed down on the alert centre of your pleasure, rubbing hard for a moment so that she might relish in what other embarrassing sounds you might make. You tried your hardest not to give her the satisfaction.
“why hold back now? I’ve already heard you like a bitch in heat, Harry” The bleached-looking lyctor cackled. She moved her hand, much to your dismay, to guide your hips back fully onto the bed. You let her move you, wanting only for her hand’s return, something to help you empty your mind of any thoughts of your own certain death.
Ianthe drifted one hand to your jaw, tipping it upward, head falling back against the fine fabric of her pillow. She rested her single engaged hand on your throat, casually stroking it with her taloned thumb. This was one of many places that had never been touched by another living body, and you were glad that this would be the first time it’s sensitivity had been exploited. You gasped pathetically. This seemed to be exactly what the princess had been waiting for, her face was split with an expression of predatory glee.
She once again traced down the, rather miniscule, length of your torso, stopping to dig her thumb into the interior face of your hipbone. She didn’t stop here for long, swiftly returning to the space between your trembling legs.
She slid a finger over your opening.
“Hmm, not quite enough moisture,” You thought to defend yourself, but Ianthe wasn’t done talking. “It’s alright, I can fix it myself, I suppose”
You were about to ask what she meant, when she laid her palm over your lap, closing her eyes briefly. You felt a hot nauseous prickle inside the cavity laying beneath her hand. She pulled back her hand, provoking a shameful string of moisture to follow.
“You can’t just mess with my body like that, Tridentarius” You had finally gathered the exasperation to voice your thoughts. Until now you’d been too desperate for affection to risk pissing off your only way to receive it.
Ianthe glanced down at you as if you’d said something mildly funny before refocusing her attentions. She returned her hand to your most sensitive area. You failed to restrain yourself from straining against her needily, you had nearly forgotten to feel ashamed of yourself. You were hit with the fear that you might lose that necessary shame entirely.
She pressed through the hair and flesh in the way of your cunt with her longest finger, not allowing much time for adjustment. She had gone from outside of you to fully inside, pushing as deep into your very core as she could, within only a few seconds. Your eyes closed involuntarily, a sharp breath cutting its way out of your lungs with a pitiable whimper. She curled her long digit inside of you, transforming that whimper into an entirely unchaste moan. Your lust and need possessed your hands, pulling them upward to Ianthe’s thin shoulder, attempting to coax her closer, to lure her body heat against your own.
Ianthe caressed the side of her face against your hand, slowly settling against it before snapping her teeth around your wandering hand.
She withdrew the entire length of her finger from you, causing you to squirm both with it’s absence and with pain. She stole your unfocused gaze, her predatory blue and brown eyes lighting with a perverse spark. Her grin returned, a small comical exhale following along with it.
She returned her hand with a fervour, now using two fingers to grope the inside of your artificially moistened cunt. Her sickly-pink tongue stalked along the indents left by her pearly teeth. She pulled out halfway, before thrusting back in at an almost painful speed, then back out again, in again.
You felt yourself be lost to the rhythm of Ianthe’s achingly long fingers and splendidly rapid onslaught. Your hand tightened again on the Princess’s shoulder. Finally she descended onto you, mouth tickling your oversensative throat. She traced the length of your carotid artery with the flat of her tongue, leaving a tingling and slightly wet trail in her wake. She nipped lightly, provoking you to allow your hand to grasp the back of Ianthe’s stringy hair. She bit down harder.
You were not thinking about The saint of Duty. In fact, You were no longer liable to think. For once, you had been allowed to simply feel, to allow yourself to be a creature of sensation alone.
You thought you might have heard Ianthe growl, but you knew that if you opened your mouth to feel indigent, you’d moan her name. That was a boundary of dignity you simply would not violate. Instead you only let yourself express your flagrant lustfulness wordlessly but far from soundlessly, all modesty long forgotten. Ianthe pressed her face emphatically into the space between your head and shoulder, arm working strenuously to keep you in a state of boundless need for her.
For the shame of the emperor, you were allowing your body to ride out and rebound against her hands. In other words, you were bouncing on her fingers as she fucked into you with more vitality than it looked like she had ever had.
You wouldn’t last and, truthfully, you didn’t care to extend the overwhelming sensation. You never did have the constitution for overwhelming sensations. You let yourself go in the arms of the only person for millions of miles who you felt might pay you a single favourable thought. And if those favourable thoughts happened to involve you in the state you were in now, that would have to be enough.
You languished in Ianthe’s arms, in the only thing you’d really needed from this brazen affair, but not for long. With a greater clarity and a lovely relaxed feeling in your once-haggardly anxious muscles, with Ianthe’s lanky fingers still buried deep inside you, you said “The saint of Duty must die.”