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“Spare me,” Viago says.
Andarateia draws the tips of her nails over the lapels of his coat, scratching out the soft sounds of shifting silk. She tugs on the thin, satiny ropes that crisscross down his arms, pinning his clothes against his flesh—a sliver of wrist is visible between cuff and glove, bared by the tension of bondage. He pulls tight against the scarlet length that tethers him to the bed.
“You were such a tricky little mark,” she coos, turning one corner of her mouth up in a promising smirk. “Just out of reach all evening, flirting with the danger that tailed you. You should have poisoned the wine.”
Viago’s dark eyes are darker still, swallowed up by the black of his dilated pupils. His jaw tenses as she traces the faintest of red lines up over his throat with the thin blade hidden in the palm of her hand. The tip does not break the skin, but his lashes flutter with the threat of it.
“Speak, my target,” she murmurs. “Beg me for your life.”
He twists under her as she straddles his waist. She is bare beneath her skirts, and she feels his belt buckle against her heat.
“To beg,” he gasps, “would be to presume my life worth keeping.”
“Isn’t it?” she laughs, the levity in it betraying the deadly precision of her hidden knife. She draws it close to his collar, severing merely one button’s threads.
Viago only groans in response.
Teia hums, shifting her hips to gently grind against his buckle, the buttoned fly of his trousers. She parts another button from his shirt with her blade, revealing a sliver of throat and clavicle—with so little of him ever shown to the world, that mere slice of skin is as provocative as a bare breast.
His chest rises and falls, lifting and lowering her with the strength of his hurried breaths. She slides the knife back up her sleeve and draws the flats of her hands down his sides.
“You are so easy to rile up,” she giggles, breaking just long enough to touch her nose to his. He sighs a soft laugh, scented of sweet wine, before she seals up his mouth with a kiss.
As her tongue slides against his, between his teeth, he whimpers and presses up against her. His shoulders pull back to raise his chest to hers. Buttons strain, and she grins as she draws back and slices another one free. Viago watches her, lips shining and red from her bites, and she holds his darkened gaze as she cuts free another, and another, and finally slides the tip of her knife beneath the gapped half of that black silk. She flips it open without so much as a cut in the fabric.
Teia slides sleekly back into character, lifting the knife to her mouth and licking up the spine of its blade. “Shall I have my way with you before you die? Or can you earn your freedom still?”
He swallows—the movement of his throat is mesmerising. His dark hair has fallen forward on his forehead. “What must I do?”
She shifts down, sighing softly to herself, and nudges his legs apart with her knees. “Open for me.”
His legs tremble—an eager sign she’d learned long ago. But in this context, to someone pretending to be a stranger, it would feel like fear.
“Please,” he breathes, twisting away from her hands as she lays them on his belt buckle. “No please. Stop.”
“Don’t you want to live?”
A sob works free of his throat. He presses his head back into the pillows, hair splaying across the fabric. His jaw tenses and releases, visible through his dark, trimmed beard. He doesn’t speak.
She loosens the belt and whips it free of his trousers. Teia does not hesitate to slit the fly open with her blade, to graze its tip just inside to tease his flesh beneath, then slice the fabric across the line of his hip. His bared, flushed skin is whole, unharmed, begging for marks in its satiny-pure surface. But she swallows her want and keeps control—instead of leaning down to suck, to bite, she draws her knifetip from his bare hip to his clothed one. He looks up at her—his pulse is leaping in his throat.
“Do you want to beg me now, my little mark?” she coos. “For your freedom or your life… or my mouth on your cock, perhaps?”
He can’t stop the little whimper that slips through his nose. His lips part, but he is so very good—he says, “no, stop,” instead of “please, yes.” His legs part ever so slightly more between her knees.
She cuts the other hip free, and his skin runs uninterrupted from throat to chest to belly to pelvis. The fabric falls away from his erect cock, already weeping precum from its slit. She resists the urge to suck him down to his root and take his salty seed down her throat.
Teia is so flushed, so hot—in a moment of frustration, she opens up her blouse and stays and casts them aside, letting her breasts fall free. The cool air on her nipples is almost torture, and so is Viago’s blown-pupiled gaze. She looks away just long enough to divest herself of her skirts and petticoat and take her seat, once again, between Viago’s spread legs. Her slick has begun to spread down the inside of her thighs.
She slices his trousers fully free of him, but leaves his jacket and shirt open and pooling at his shoulders and sides. Teia likes the look of it—urgent and sloppy in contrast to the careful knots of her satiny ropes at his wrists. His gloved hands grip the woven tether.
“Your skin is so perfect,” she murmurs, tracing the tip of her knife up the center of his chest. “Like it has never seen the sun, or hard work, or a woman’s touch. Shall I carve you up?”
Viago twitches beneath her, and his cock leaps when she skips the knife over his hard nipple. He’s almost lost in the space beyond acting, but he’s just present enough to say, “Please, let me go.”
“No,” she says, ever so sweetly. “No, you’re mine, you beautiful man. Mine to do what I like with.”
She drags the knife’s spine back down the center of his chest, over his belly, and follows the line of dark hair that leads to his cock. She circles it with the tip—he whimpers and flinches away, but she is careful. She shushes him gently as his sounds grow in volume, and to drive her point home she traces the vein that winds up the underside of his length with the dulled point of her blade.
Viago is very nearly gone—his eyes are glassy, his lips slack around desperate sounds. She hesitates, then sets the knife aside on the bedside table.
“My love,” she murmurs. “Do you remember your word?”
“Didactic,” he whispers instantly.
“Good, good,” she says, relieved. “You’re being so good for me, so sweet. Can you open up for me?”
His lids flicker, as if he’s remembering something he should say. “N-no, please don’t—”
Teia slaps his cock—Viago cries out, a lewd moan that contains zero hesitance, no shame or metered self-consciousness. It exults in the pain that is pleasure.
“You’ll take me inside you,” she sighs, gently sliding the same hand she’d struck him with down over his balls to the soft flesh beneath them. “I’m going to fuck you until you come and come and come again. I’ll have you sobbing out a thank you soon enough.”
He moans again at the promise of it—he bucks up to meet her hand, his lewd sounds nothing but encouragement. She reaches to the bedside table for the bottle of oil and pours it, warmed and sweet smelling, onto her fingers. Teia tips the extra in her palm against his flesh and smooths it into his rim.
Viago groans a deep, long groan as she works a pair of slender fingers inside his body. For a moment she thinks he’s forgotten, but then he twists away from her and whimpers.
“No, no, no, no no no no no,” he whispers in an uninterrupted string, a word that becomes nonsense and sounds like please, yes, keep going, go deeper, faster, harder. “Please stop, I’ll do anything—”
“You’ll do nothing,” she murmurs, “except lay here and take it.”
She rises on her knees and draws her hand from his body. Her slick is dripping, her cunt pulsing with its own heartbeat, but she ignores it—she turns her attention instead to the thin dildo she plucks up from the bedside table, the width of two fingers and the length of her hand. She traces her spare hand over the leather harness she’d worn beneath her skirt, now the only thing between her and utter nakedness. She slides the oiled dildo into place.
Viago makes the most beautiful, plaintive, mournful sounds as she leans over him to brace herself on her elbows. She steals a pillow from beside his head and tucks it under his hips—her hand never once touching the cock that he tries to thrust towards it—and folds her smaller body close until her dick slides against his oiled hole.
“Here,” she says, testing the resistance of his clenched rim, “can you feel me? I’ll split you open, my pathetic little mark. I’ll take my time, I promise. More time for you to live in.”
“Please,” he just says, “please.”
She kisses him, helpless for a moment in the face of such plaintive sounds, and forces her dick inside.
He twists and sobs and cries into her mouth—she bites his lips, sips up his sounds, eats from him until she leans just far enough back to watch his face. His broad, human body beneath hers is so warm, so real, sweat-slicked and musky with want, and he spreads his legs further still as she begins to fuck him.
Her dark curls spill over her shoulder onto his black-haired chest. She watches it rise and fall with his heavy breaths, the tendons taut in his neck, the clench of his jaw. Teia moans in tandem with him, eager to hear more and more.
He is so eager, so starved for touch, that just a few thrusts of her hips draws him close. She fucks him through his rising tension, steady and deep and slow, and lets out a giddy laugh when he groans out a please and I need to come. She gives it to him, deep, deep, steady despite her urge to fuck his brains out, and when his first deep cry rips from his chest she fucks him through one hot pulse after another against his belly.
But she doesn’t stop.
His hands go limp and dangle, weak, from his binds. Viago whines when she leans back, his arms tugging as if he tried to reach for her—he gasps when she grips his spent cock in her hand.
“Again,” she promises.
He sobs, overstimulated and raw, as she swipes the flat of her hand through the spend on his soft belly. She wets his cock with it and strokes him through his struggles and cries, grinning broadly as she watches his glassy eyes for warning signs.
But his trembling body doesn’t lie. He’s tensing again, even though his cock is still soft in her hand.
She shifts her knees, still inside him, and clumsily works her thighs beneath his on either side of the raised pillow. She tugs him back onto her thrusts with one hand on his hip—the other strokes him through his shudders and wordless sounds. She fucks him raw, promising to draw every bit of seed out of him that he’ll give her.
“Love,” she finally says, “love, come for me.”
Her muscles are leaden, her skin beaded with sweat, but Viago’s eyes on her smooth the discomfort away. His lips are parted and reddened, eyes glassy and too bright, and his body jolts with her speeding thrusts—their breaths whistle between their lips, matching inhale for exhale.
His cock is not hard, his spend begins to dry, tacky, on her fingers, but still she works at him. She spits on his cockhead and fucks him, still steady and deep. Their roles have dropped away—no longer is she his attacker, nor he her victim. She is Teia, and he is Viago—his arms, now straining over his head, are her safe haven. She can’t wait to have them around her, unbound and bare against her skin.
But first—
Viago makes a needy, weak sound, eyes fixed on her, and she knows it well. She does not stop, does not speed her pace nor change the grip of her hand, and Viago only tightens, tightens, tightens beneath her until he is bowing up into her hand, spending and spending until he must be empty. Only then does she finally let go of his abused cock, pull out of his raw, reddened hole, and smooth the wetness of his come into his skin.
First the harness. It thumps to the floor, followed by the remains of Viago’s tattered trousers. She retrieves the knife and quickly frees his wrists and upper arms of their pretty, knotted satin, then sets it and her rope aside. His hands have fallen in her lap—she pulls sleeves from him, baring all of his naked skin but for his gloves, then works the black leather from fingertip after fingertip. Teia kisses one hot, flushed palm after the other as she frees his hands to the open air.
She does not realise she’s saying his name, over and over and over, until he presses a thumb to her lip. She gathers him up in her arms—his head is large and heavy on her chest, shoulders broad and strong, arms just as much a haven as she knew them to be. She feels small.
“My love,” she whispers raggedly into his dark, waving hair. “My love.”
Viago takes a deep breath and slowly, slowly begins to respond. His arms tighten first, then his lips find the curve of her breast and kiss her there. He climbs up the diminutive length of her body to tug her against his chest with a sigh.
“Sore,” he chuckles in response to her questioning hum. “But good.”
He retrieves the glass of water from the bedside table and drinks from it as if he had trekked through a desert. She does not register that she is trembling until he places the glass back and holds her tight and tighter still.
“I am safe,” he reminds her. “I am content. You were incredible, stellina, and I enjoyed every moment.”
Teia sighs raggedly through what she did not know were tears until he wipes them from her face.
“I entrust myself only to you,” he whispers—a sweet, moving reminder that she nonetheless needs to hear. “I do not fear your touch, nor your hands on my skin. Only you, tesoro, only you.”
She floats, nearly content on the sound of his voice alone—but it is his hands, bare on her skin when they are bared to no one for fear of poison and death, that comfort her to sleep.