Merlin: Morgana/Gwen - coming too quickly (sensitive spot, & w/o being touched) part 1 of 2wildejoySeptember 4 2010, 05:30:01 UTC
I hope this is something like what you wanted!♥ It comes with a side of clothing kink, because I seem to be unable to write Merlin without gushing over the clothes.
* * *
Morgana has never treated Gwen the way so many lords and ladies do their servants. Even Arthur doesn’t hesitate to cuff Merlin around the ears or put him in the stocks, though he is clearly fond of his servant. But Morgana rarely scolds Gwen, preferring to save her sharp tongue for Arthur, and - on occasion - the king. Gwen never forgets her place, not really, but secretly she has always thought of Morgana as a friend before a mistress. It is Gwen who she calls for stories or games of chess to cure her insomnia; it is Gwen who is always at her side in an instant when she has a nightmare. Morgana could command Gwen to bring her a glass of water before bed or blow out the candle or draw her bath, but often Gwen has done so before the request even has to be made. Authority is unnecessary.
Many aspects of serving Morgana are genuinely enjoyable. Gwen loves to help her in and out of her clothes - to feel the silk running over her hands like water, the almost unbearable softness of crushed velvet, the fine weave of cotton, chiffon and tulle floating across her skin like a whisper; to trace the landscapes of embroidery spread over gowns, and the careful stitching of patterns on corsets.
And Morgana loves to be helped. Some of her dresses really don’t require it, but every night she stands and waits for Gwen to unfasten the lacings and draw the skirts over her head. On the days she wears corsets, she will sit at her vanity and Gwen will carefully unlace it, relishing the smooth satin laces running between her fingers. Morgana will sigh with relief as the unforgiving lines relaxed and she could breathe again. She will sweep her hair over one shoulder as if to luxuriate in the air now washing over her bare skin, and Gwen, having carefully folded the corset and put it back in its box, will stroke Morgana’s back gently, tracing spine and shoulderblades and feeling them shift under the skin as Morgana stretches.
Any other servant might not dare to keep going, but Gwen can feel the way Morgana arches into her touch. And so her hands will slide around the front, past the natural dip of the waist to follow the curve of ribs, and at last she will start to massage the feeling back. Some of the corsets worn as undergarments leave indentations in the skin from where the boning protrudes or the fabric folds, and Gwen will press her fingers around them, knowing how they tingle. It has always only been this - Gwen has never dared to reach up to do the same for Morgana’s breasts, though she has long since memorized their every detail in appearance. Morgana has never asked, though every night Gwen longs for her to do so. Even to hint at it.
“It’s awful,” Morgana sighs one night, as Gwen settles a corset in its case. “Especially the ones like that, which bind my chest. They leave me so terribly sore. I’d like to see how the men would take to their own flesh being bound in such a way,” she adds, with a meaningful glance downwards. Gwen bites her lip to keep in a burst of laughter as she settles back down behind Morgana, and begins to press her fingers into Morgana’s abused ribs.
“Gwen,” Morgana says after several minutes, as if she knows Gwen had been about to stop. “Wait.”
Re: Merlin: Morgana/Gwen - coming too quickly (sensitive spot, & w/o being touched) part 2 of 2wildejoySeptember 4 2010, 05:30:38 UTC
Gwen’s hands freeze at Morgana’s waist, and Morgana’s own hands settle on top of hers. Slowly, she slides Gwen’s hands up her torso and over the swell of her breasts, and holds them there. Gwen hardly dares breathe. She can feel Morgana’s nipples hardening under her palms, and her heart starts to pound in a way she’s never known before.
“My lady?”
“They’re very sore,” Morgana says, softly, and Gwen thinks she hears a little crack in the words but she can’t bring herself to meet Morgana’s eyes in the mirror.
Morgana’s hands drop to her lap again, and Gwen begins to gently massage the yielding flesh of Morgana’s breasts. The skin there is as soft as any of Morgana’s fine silks or satins, and their curve settles so perfectly into Gwen’s palms. She draws a thumb over Morgana’s nipple, an experiment - because with her hands pressed there, she can feel Morgana’s heartbeat, and it is quickening with her own - and Morgana whimpers, a delicate sound Gwen’s never heard from her before. Gwen chances a glance up into the mirror and sees a flush rising in Morgana’s cheeks, sees her lips red, not from rouge, but from the way Morgana keeps biting them with every movement Gwen makes. Morgana’s blue eyes are glazed over and half-lidded, fixed on Gwen’s face. She looks wanton and desperate, and as she arches her back into the caresses, she leans more of her weight into Gwen, as though she can’t possibly support herself any longer.
Gwen can’t answer - she can hardly comprehend the words. She slides off her chair and sinks to her knees beside Morgana, who reaches back to grip the edges of Gwen’s chair to stay upright. Gwen leans in and kisses the skin just beside Morgana’s nipple and Morgana whimpers again, a lower sound, more imploring than appreciative. Gwen kisses a path to her other breast and does the same, and Morgana squirms beneath the attention. At last Gwen takes a nipple into her mouth and oh, she could never have predicted the reaction.
Morgana keens, helplessly, arching into Gwen’s mouth so much that she throws her head back, and desires nearly chokes Gwen. She wishes she could see Morgana properly right now - dark hair loose and tumbling in glossy waves, red lips and pink cheeks, gasping for air. Morgana’s breaths are ragged and quick, and her exhalations have become streams of words that Gwen can’t focus on enough to make out. She’s too busy exploring - holding Morgana’s nipple gently in her teeth and flicking her tongue across it, or sucking or tugging. Morgana trembles beneath her. She even risks a few quick bites, sharp enough that they might bruise, and it’s something that could get her into so much trouble if Morgana didn’t hiss, “Yes, oh, yes, please-”
One of Morgana’s hands sinks into Gwen’s hair, gripping tightly and holding her there, and suddenly Morgana moans, a husky, broken sound that’s shaped a little like Gwen’s name. Gwen knows somehow that Morgana has climaxed, without even needing a touch. Gwen didn’t know this was possible, but she keeps her face pressed to Morgana’s breast, kissing the smooth white skin there and feeling Morgana’s heart still stuttering against her ribcage.
The hand that had held Gwen’s hair so tightly is now stroking it, as Morgana breathes deeply, trying to steady herself.
“Thank you,” she says, barely more than a whisper. She sounds so relaxed, so at peace, that Gwen wants to carry her straight to bed, to allow her to slip from afterglow into sleep. But Morgana still must bathe, wash her face and clean her teeth, and Gwen must comb her hair.
Nevertheless, Morgana does sleep without trouble that night. Gwen stays awake listening for any sign of distress, long after Morgana has fallen into slumber.
* * *
Morgana has never treated Gwen the way so many lords and ladies do their servants. Even Arthur doesn’t hesitate to cuff Merlin around the ears or put him in the stocks, though he is clearly fond of his servant. But Morgana rarely scolds Gwen, preferring to save her sharp tongue for Arthur, and - on occasion - the king. Gwen never forgets her place, not really, but secretly she has always thought of Morgana as a friend before a mistress. It is Gwen who she calls for stories or games of chess to cure her insomnia; it is Gwen who is always at her side in an instant when she has a nightmare. Morgana could command Gwen to bring her a glass of water before bed or blow out the candle or draw her bath, but often Gwen has done so before the request even has to be made. Authority is unnecessary.
Many aspects of serving Morgana are genuinely enjoyable. Gwen loves to help her in and out of her clothes - to feel the silk running over her hands like water, the almost unbearable softness of crushed velvet, the fine weave of cotton, chiffon and tulle floating across her skin like a whisper; to trace the landscapes of embroidery spread over gowns, and the careful stitching of patterns on corsets.
And Morgana loves to be helped. Some of her dresses really don’t require it, but every night she stands and waits for Gwen to unfasten the lacings and draw the skirts over her head. On the days she wears corsets, she will sit at her vanity and Gwen will carefully unlace it, relishing the smooth satin laces running between her fingers. Morgana will sigh with relief as the unforgiving lines relaxed and she could breathe again. She will sweep her hair over one shoulder as if to luxuriate in the air now washing over her bare skin, and Gwen, having carefully folded the corset and put it back in its box, will stroke Morgana’s back gently, tracing spine and shoulderblades and feeling them shift under the skin as Morgana stretches.
Any other servant might not dare to keep going, but Gwen can feel the way Morgana arches into her touch. And so her hands will slide around the front, past the natural dip of the waist to follow the curve of ribs, and at last she will start to massage the feeling back. Some of the corsets worn as undergarments leave indentations in the skin from where the boning protrudes or the fabric folds, and Gwen will press her fingers around them, knowing how they tingle. It has always only been this - Gwen has never dared to reach up to do the same for Morgana’s breasts, though she has long since memorized their every detail in appearance. Morgana has never asked, though every night Gwen longs for her to do so. Even to hint at it.
“It’s awful,” Morgana sighs one night, as Gwen settles a corset in its case. “Especially the ones like that, which bind my chest. They leave me so terribly sore. I’d like to see how the men would take to their own flesh being bound in such a way,” she adds, with a meaningful glance downwards. Gwen bites her lip to keep in a burst of laughter as she settles back down behind Morgana, and begins to press her fingers into Morgana’s abused ribs.
“Gwen,” Morgana says after several minutes, as if she knows Gwen had been about to stop. “Wait.”
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“My lady?”
“They’re very sore,” Morgana says, softly, and Gwen thinks she hears a little crack in the words but she can’t bring herself to meet Morgana’s eyes in the mirror.
Morgana’s hands drop to her lap again, and Gwen begins to gently massage the yielding flesh of Morgana’s breasts. The skin there is as soft as any of Morgana’s fine silks or satins, and their curve settles so perfectly into Gwen’s palms. She draws a thumb over Morgana’s nipple, an experiment - because with her hands pressed there, she can feel Morgana’s heartbeat, and it is quickening with her own - and Morgana whimpers, a delicate sound Gwen’s never heard from her before. Gwen chances a glance up into the mirror and sees a flush rising in Morgana’s cheeks, sees her lips red, not from rouge, but from the way Morgana keeps biting them with every movement Gwen makes. Morgana’s blue eyes are glazed over and half-lidded, fixed on Gwen’s face. She looks wanton and desperate, and as she arches her back into the caresses, she leans more of her weight into Gwen, as though she can’t possibly support herself any longer.
“Gwen,” Morgana gasps. “You understand, don’t you-”
Gwen can’t answer - she can hardly comprehend the words. She slides off her chair and sinks to her knees beside Morgana, who reaches back to grip the edges of Gwen’s chair to stay upright. Gwen leans in and kisses the skin just beside Morgana’s nipple and Morgana whimpers again, a lower sound, more imploring than appreciative. Gwen kisses a path to her other breast and does the same, and Morgana squirms beneath the attention. At last Gwen takes a nipple into her mouth and oh, she could never have predicted the reaction.
Morgana keens, helplessly, arching into Gwen’s mouth so much that she throws her head back, and desires nearly chokes Gwen. She wishes she could see Morgana properly right now - dark hair loose and tumbling in glossy waves, red lips and pink cheeks, gasping for air. Morgana’s breaths are ragged and quick, and her exhalations have become streams of words that Gwen can’t focus on enough to make out. She’s too busy exploring - holding Morgana’s nipple gently in her teeth and flicking her tongue across it, or sucking or tugging. Morgana trembles beneath her. She even risks a few quick bites, sharp enough that they might bruise, and it’s something that could get her into so much trouble if Morgana didn’t hiss, “Yes, oh, yes, please-”
One of Morgana’s hands sinks into Gwen’s hair, gripping tightly and holding her there, and suddenly Morgana moans, a husky, broken sound that’s shaped a little like Gwen’s name. Gwen knows somehow that Morgana has climaxed, without even needing a touch. Gwen didn’t know this was possible, but she keeps her face pressed to Morgana’s breast, kissing the smooth white skin there and feeling Morgana’s heart still stuttering against her ribcage.
The hand that had held Gwen’s hair so tightly is now stroking it, as Morgana breathes deeply, trying to steady herself.
“Thank you,” she says, barely more than a whisper. She sounds so relaxed, so at peace, that Gwen wants to carry her straight to bed, to allow her to slip from afterglow into sleep. But Morgana still must bathe, wash her face and clean her teeth, and Gwen must comb her hair.
Nevertheless, Morgana does sleep without trouble that night. Gwen stays awake listening for any sign of distress, long after Morgana has fallen into slumber.
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