Chapter Text
The Mithraeum - Present
Abigail resisted the urge to smile. “Good choice. Pity you won’t get to use it. Open wide.”
Mercymorn the First, Saint of Joy, Second to Serve the Emperor Undying, kneeled at Abigail’s feet. A threadbare rug featuring a pattern trendy for all of half a decade five thousand years ago was all that separated her from the cold, stone floor. An iridescent cloak sat neatly folded on an armchair in a distant corner, relinquished with the rest of her clothes. Goosebumps, coaxed up by the still, cool air of the Mithraeum, rose on her pale skin—or was that just anticipation? She stared up defiantly into the green eyes of the woman in front of her.
What she beheld was impressive. Abigail towered above her, returning an imperious gaze. A sleek silver clip held her brown hair in a tight bun. She looked comfortable in her simple black lingerie, which revealed light skin dotted with a sparse constellation of moles. And those kind eyes– beautiful, but almost out of place in these circumstances. They bore a certain distance too, like their owner wasn’t ever entirely present. Mercymorn drank them in while wondering if they could give her what she truly needed this evening.
Notably, Mercy failed to actually open her mouth. Abigail expected nothing less. It wouldn’t have been fun otherwise. Without breaking eye contact, she reached down and stroked Mercymorn’s hair. The short, pink locks felt soft on her skin, like cotton candy at a Fifth House Soul Festival. She then slid the back of a finger down along the side of Mercy’s face, savoring the feel of each vellus hair before arriving at her chin, which she gripped tenderly between her curled finger and thumb.
Mercy plotted her next move. She could envision Abigail’s other hand, hidden behind her back and poised to deliver a tangle of straps that would secure a black rubber ball between her teeth. She’d been on both sides of this exchange more times than she could remember, although never with Abigail. Of course, Mercymorn was a Lyctor, the consummate anatomist. And for a woman of her talents, restraints were optional. Dislocating her jaw and slithering the gag down around her neck would be trivial. But that would have been missing the point.
So she played along, feeling firmly in control of the situation, as always. How to be a brat today? she wondered. Talking back to give her an opening? Keeping mum, forcing her to pry my lips apart? She settled on an ancient standby and stuck out her tongue.
Abigail took the bait, grabbing the offending muscle and pulling it forward. “Saliva. Now”. On request (Mercymorn wouldn’t consider it a command coming from the mouth of this child ), Mercy bid her salivary glands work at full capacity. Within seconds, she felt her mouth watering as if a juicy steak of exquisite meat had been presented to her. Abigail pulled the gag from behind her back and spun the ball on Mercy’s tongue, applying a layer of lubrication. Eyes still locked, she worked the ball up the tongue and past the teeth. Mercy tasted the rubber and felt the slight squish of the ball as it settled into its temporary residence. She also felt a pull at the corner of her mouth from the wide leather straps which Abigail then pulled taut, caressing her cheeks along the way to the back of her skill. The supple leather dug slightly into her flesh and pinched as Abigail circled behind her to cinch and buckle the gag. A mild release of pressure signaled that Abigail’s work was done.
She hadn’t taken care to keep Mercy’s hair tidy. Rude. But titillating.
Two smaller straps hung from a pair of rings situated on the strap a few centimeters from either side of the ball. Abigail dragged a hand from a pink shock of tousled hair, down around Mercy’s neck, and up the underside of her chin to grab the two straps. Kneeling down on one knee, she pulled them snug as Mercy felt another tug of leather and heard the quiet shuffle-click of the buckle under her chin. Her tongue now pressed firmly up against the rubber ball. For the near future, she would not enjoy the luxury of precise verbal articulation.
Through vision partially obscured by some errant locks of hair, Mercymorn saw Abigail draw forward to eye level and meet her stare. Abigail neared, puckered her lips, and planted a kiss dead center on the gag. Mercymorn whined. She could imagine the feeling of her soft lips locking on hers. The taste of Abigail’s tongue loomed large in her imagination, but that flavor would be denied her for now; she resigned herself to the smell of leather and the taste of rubber.
Abigail drew back. It was only then that she cracked a grin. “I’ve been wanting to shove a gag between those beautiful lips of yours since the first time I heard you speak.” She grew serious again. “And remember, the safeword now is grunts in sets of three. Let me hear it once for reference.”
Mercymorn made to speak instead. “Mmmffmmm xf xf ffffmmfng fmf…” A lightning bolt of scorn flashed across hazel eyes but quickly melted into acceptance. “Hhmf. Hhmf. Hhmf.”
Abigail the First ruffled Mercy’s hair and smirked. “You’re cute when you shut up.”