sob, loaded prompts.
“Stay still.”
Souma tries to oblige, but every so often the tiniest electric current traces a line up her spine, causing hip and shoulder and everything in between to shudder. Resting here on her stomach like this has made her a little uneasy, especially with Kendappa-ou being so quiet and so distant as she moves around the room, each step a spider-whisper, each movement silent and cold.
She's left some candles burning, and the combined light from fireplace and smaller flame dances on the walls, sometimes catching the hem of Kendappa's nightslip or glancing off her hair, pulled into a loose plait for sleeping. Souma is conscious, as she often is when her lady is clothed and she is not, of her own nudity, acutely aware of her own body, of Kendappa watching her as she comes near, carrying another candle for the bedstand.
“You're a bit flushed, Souma,” she says, kneeling beside her on the bed and placing one hand on her shoulder. Her fingers are slender, nimble, and unbelievably cold. “Do you feel quite all right?”
“Yes, my lady,” Souma replies, shivering only a little when those cold fingers travel to the base of her neck. “Ah, your hands -”
And Kendappa-ou lets the wax fall.
The first drop is so hot and unexpected that she yelps a little, and it feels more like a live flame than anything else, a slow, lingering burn on her spine. The next droplet is no different, nor the next, and Souma cannot help but squirm a little as Kendappa-ou compounds one, two, three beads of heat low on her back, drawing from her a noise that wants to be a word but fails.
Kendappa-ou tsks softly. “I told you to be still. If you are burned, it'll be your own fault,” she says, pressing her finger into the still-soft dimple of wax now pooling in the small of Souma's back. She leans forward, pressing down with those fingers as she whispers, “You're all right,” in her ear, as much warning as it is reassurance. "It is a soft wax." Souma feels her shift her weight, feels her move to kneel behind her, feels her fingers trail to the rise of her hip and linger.
Brushing the shaggier strands of hair from the nape of her neck, Kendappa places a kiss there on the freshly-bared skin, then another at the beginning of her spine, and when she draws away, she leaves a splash of wax, until the memory of the touch burns into the skin and lingers. Souma is amazed that such a small touch can be so powerful, that Kendappa-ou barely has to lay skin to skin to arouse her, and that the wax can be so potent; painful at first, and then not quite as painful, but nothing comforting, either.
“This is really quite pretty,” the harpist says. “A pity you can't see it.” She giggles and goes about her way, leaving wax in a path behind her mouth, laughing once in a while at her own work, or when a line of stray paraffin trails down the sides of Souma's ribs, where she is somewhat ticklish, and makes her mewl, embarrassed by her reactions. Every so often, Kendappa-ou draws her breath in through her teeth and trails her hand to Souma's thighs and the apex of them. With no sight and so little of her own touch to go by, this is how Souma judges the situation, and maybe, just maybe, debauches herself a bit to hear Kendappa-ou make the noise again.
“Are you a coquette?” she asks, finally, and Souma hears her pause to take a damp breath, to swallow, and thinks of the muscles in her neck tightening. She considers answering yes, for all the trouble it will cause.
“No, my lady.”
“Then you shouldn't act so much like one.”
Anyone else might not notice the small catch in her voice or the way she hurries to readjust her free hand further up her thigh, but Souma does. Taking what she thinks might be a great risk, she tilts her head to one side, arches her back and lifts her hips coyly towards Kendappa-ou's fingers, saying, “Yes, my lady,” as though she didn't mean a bit of it.
“Mm.”
She leaves the subject alone, then, and returns things to as they were before, continuing her slow, laborious work of art, no longer laughing or making any noise at all, until, eventually, her unoccupied hand becomes occupied, stroking Souma with a touch that is deliberately light, teasing, giving her reason beside the wax to squirm and gasp. Souma resists the desire to sit up on her knees, to open herself more readily, instead convincing herself to stay still, still, still, until Kendappa finally says, “I think we're finished here.” It's the only noise she's made within perhaps a quarter of an hour.
There is a click just above her head as Kendappa leans to set the candle down, and then a world of silence and flickering light and stillness. Her now empty hand rests tenderly on Souma's head, feather-light, at first, when the musician whispers her name. As sudden as a flash of lightning, she is unexpectedly fierce, and the once-gentle hand forces Souma's head down face-first by the hair, holding her hard to pillows.
“Don't mock me again, you wanton little thing,” she hisses, and takes her forcefully with two fingers. They are fast and rough and insistent inside her, the hand in her hair equally demanding, her movements shallow and in time with her breathing. Souma does go up to her knees then, allowing herself to moan and writhe openly, and wonders if wanton was what she wanted from her all along.
She is so easily undone, for Kendappa knows by now what is fastest and most effective, and she comes almost as soon as the fingers in her hair go tender, tracing the bare shell of her ear.
“Over - roll over,” her lady urges after a moment, and she obliges, slowly, almost lazily, her back stiff and sore with dried wax, her limbs weak from orgasm. She takes a moment, now on her back, to recollect her thoughts, adjusting to the strange sensation of lying on this mess.
Kendappa-ou sits herself astride her thigh, and Souma feels a sudden overload of all the senses she's been so deprived of, able, finally, to see her, flushed and a little disheveled and looking so pleased with herself, and able to touch her, placing either hand gingerly on her waist and tilting up to kiss her. Kendappa deigns to allow all of this, even providing time for a second, languid, kiss, but when she speaks next, her voice is a little taut and rushed.
“I think this bedding may be done for.”
She's right. Even a cursory glance around shows the sheets as a bit worse for wear, wax (it was - pink? - Souma noticed, not without some humor) ground and dried into the fabric wherever it dripped or rolled from her skin, bound to the fiber perhaps permanently. It was a considerable amount, and even Kendappa-ou's nightgown has not escaped unstained, the cuffs and half-unbuttoned opening practically crusted with it. It's no wonder, Souma thinks, that her back feels so stiff.
“Well,” she says, thumbs stroking thoughtful circles on her hips.. “I can have it removed before we sleep. I'll take care of it as soon as we...after you...Whenever you wish, or now, if you'd rather."
“Oh,” Kendappa-ou says, her face drawing into a curious, innocent sort of expression, “I don't think it would do to clean it all up now. We've still a little light left, I think.”
Souma is aware of her eyes visibly widening, the thought of going through - well, of going through all this again - neither expected nor unwelcome, despite the growing discomfort on her back. Kendappa-ou smiles, her eyes dark and lidded and sensual, and rests one hand with fingers splayed on Souma's belly, reaching for the votive glass on the headboard.
“Now,” she says, “stay still.”
Souma tries to oblige, but every so often the tiniest electric current traces a line up her spine, causing hip and shoulder and everything in between to shudder. Resting here on her stomach like this has made her a little uneasy, especially with Kendappa-ou being so quiet and so distant as she moves around the room, each step a spider-whisper, each movement silent and cold.
She's left some candles burning, and the combined light from fireplace and smaller flame dances on the walls, sometimes catching the hem of Kendappa's nightslip or glancing off her hair, pulled into a loose plait for sleeping. Souma is conscious, as she often is when her lady is clothed and she is not, of her own nudity, acutely aware of her own body, of Kendappa watching her as she comes near, carrying another candle for the bedstand.
“You're a bit flushed, Souma,” she says, kneeling beside her on the bed and placing one hand on her shoulder. Her fingers are slender, nimble, and unbelievably cold. “Do you feel quite all right?”
“Yes, my lady,” Souma replies, shivering only a little when those cold fingers travel to the base of her neck. “Ah, your hands -”
And Kendappa-ou lets the wax fall.
The first drop is so hot and unexpected that she yelps a little, and it feels more like a live flame than anything else, a slow, lingering burn on her spine. The next droplet is no different, nor the next, and Souma cannot help but squirm a little as Kendappa-ou compounds one, two, three beads of heat low on her back, drawing from her a noise that wants to be a word but fails.
Kendappa-ou tsks softly. “I told you to be still. If you are burned, it'll be your own fault,” she says, pressing her finger into the still-soft dimple of wax now pooling in the small of Souma's back. She leans forward, pressing down with those fingers as she whispers, “You're all right,” in her ear, as much warning as it is reassurance. "It is a soft wax." Souma feels her shift her weight, feels her move to kneel behind her, feels her fingers trail to the rise of her hip and linger.
Brushing the shaggier strands of hair from the nape of her neck, Kendappa places a kiss there on the freshly-bared skin, then another at the beginning of her spine, and when she draws away, she leaves a splash of wax, until the memory of the touch burns into the skin and lingers. Souma is amazed that such a small touch can be so powerful, that Kendappa-ou barely has to lay skin to skin to arouse her, and that the wax can be so potent; painful at first, and then not quite as painful, but nothing comforting, either.
“This is really quite pretty,” the harpist says. “A pity you can't see it.” She giggles and goes about her way, leaving wax in a path behind her mouth, laughing once in a while at her own work, or when a line of stray paraffin trails down the sides of Souma's ribs, where she is somewhat ticklish, and makes her mewl, embarrassed by her reactions. Every so often, Kendappa-ou draws her breath in through her teeth and trails her hand to Souma's thighs and the apex of them. With no sight and so little of her own touch to go by, this is how Souma judges the situation, and maybe, just maybe, debauches herself a bit to hear Kendappa-ou make the noise again.
“Are you a coquette?” she asks, finally, and Souma hears her pause to take a damp breath, to swallow, and thinks of the muscles in her neck tightening. She considers answering yes, for all the trouble it will cause.
“No, my lady.”
“Then you shouldn't act so much like one.”
Anyone else might not notice the small catch in her voice or the way she hurries to readjust her free hand further up her thigh, but Souma does. Taking what she thinks might be a great risk, she tilts her head to one side, arches her back and lifts her hips coyly towards Kendappa-ou's fingers, saying, “Yes, my lady,” as though she didn't mean a bit of it.
“Mm.”
She leaves the subject alone, then, and returns things to as they were before, continuing her slow, laborious work of art, no longer laughing or making any noise at all, until, eventually, her unoccupied hand becomes occupied, stroking Souma with a touch that is deliberately light, teasing, giving her reason beside the wax to squirm and gasp. Souma resists the desire to sit up on her knees, to open herself more readily, instead convincing herself to stay still, still, still, until Kendappa finally says, “I think we're finished here.” It's the only noise she's made within perhaps a quarter of an hour.
There is a click just above her head as Kendappa leans to set the candle down, and then a world of silence and flickering light and stillness. Her now empty hand rests tenderly on Souma's head, feather-light, at first, when the musician whispers her name. As sudden as a flash of lightning, she is unexpectedly fierce, and the once-gentle hand forces Souma's head down face-first by the hair, holding her hard to pillows.
“Don't mock me again, you wanton little thing,” she hisses, and takes her forcefully with two fingers. They are fast and rough and insistent inside her, the hand in her hair equally demanding, her movements shallow and in time with her breathing. Souma does go up to her knees then, allowing herself to moan and writhe openly, and wonders if wanton was what she wanted from her all along.
She is so easily undone, for Kendappa knows by now what is fastest and most effective, and she comes almost as soon as the fingers in her hair go tender, tracing the bare shell of her ear.
“Over - roll over,” her lady urges after a moment, and she obliges, slowly, almost lazily, her back stiff and sore with dried wax, her limbs weak from orgasm. She takes a moment, now on her back, to recollect her thoughts, adjusting to the strange sensation of lying on this mess.
Kendappa-ou sits herself astride her thigh, and Souma feels a sudden overload of all the senses she's been so deprived of, able, finally, to see her, flushed and a little disheveled and looking so pleased with herself, and able to touch her, placing either hand gingerly on her waist and tilting up to kiss her. Kendappa deigns to allow all of this, even providing time for a second, languid, kiss, but when she speaks next, her voice is a little taut and rushed.
“I think this bedding may be done for.”
She's right. Even a cursory glance around shows the sheets as a bit worse for wear, wax (it was - pink? - Souma noticed, not without some humor) ground and dried into the fabric wherever it dripped or rolled from her skin, bound to the fiber perhaps permanently. It was a considerable amount, and even Kendappa-ou's nightgown has not escaped unstained, the cuffs and half-unbuttoned opening practically crusted with it. It's no wonder, Souma thinks, that her back feels so stiff.
“Well,” she says, thumbs stroking thoughtful circles on her hips.. “I can have it removed before we sleep. I'll take care of it as soon as we...after you...Whenever you wish, or now, if you'd rather."
“Oh,” Kendappa-ou says, her face drawing into a curious, innocent sort of expression, “I don't think it would do to clean it all up now. We've still a little light left, I think.”
Souma is aware of her eyes visibly widening, the thought of going through - well, of going through all this again - neither expected nor unwelcome, despite the growing discomfort on her back. Kendappa-ou smiles, her eyes dark and lidded and sensual, and rests one hand with fingers splayed on Souma's belly, reaching for the votive glass on the headboard.
“Now,” she says, “stay still.”