Today’s prompt selection was: Coming untouched, Age play, Kidnapping.
Of those three, I only have one that examples spring to mind of (or, well, example, at least) – while I do have some substantial age differences in a few pieces, they’re nor important if they’re even known about. I may have one character who is secretly thousands of years old who’s had sex with people in their twenties, but it’s a secret and she’s certainly not happy about her age – and it doesn’t provide any of the motive force of the scene, no fuel for the heat. Not to say that I would never write it, I just haven’t so far, so instead we’re gonna go with “Coming untouched”, the scene of which also plays with some dom/sub tendencies and a degree of light humiliation as well – an excerpt from a long piece written for my wife about a party her TTRPG character threw, as told from every attendee’s POV.
Today’s excerpt centres around two Dwarven women: Izzrannyk Kurkarros, and Avvyurik Gursen, told from Izzrannyk’s perspective. Their family Houses are both fairly major within the city, but where House Gursen is considered to be a thuggish and strong-arming one – but a powerful dreadnought as well – House Kurkarros is not so much of ill repute as they are of little repute. Within the family, there are rumours of a curse which prevents them from amassing either fame or infamy.
This story is set in Arellan, a fantasy world.
It is also worth noting that this is 0-e material: it has undergone zero edits. However, I do have faith in my 0-e level, and think it is still pretty good – please be tolerant of (and feel free to point out) typos, missed/messed punctuation, or anything else you wish honestly! <3
If all of this sounds enjoyable or at least acceptable to you, by all means continue to read! If any of this is objectionable to you, or if objections arise within you whilst reading, you are hereby granted permission (and even requested, in fact) to stop reading and depart at any given point <3
After this break begin some spicy things, if I’ve done my job right.
It was likely to be the only closed door behind which she would find herself with the object of her attractions, anyway.
“Excuse me.” It was a short phrase, twofold in its intents: to draw Avvyurik’s attention, and to give Izzrannyk a brief moment to panickedly withdraw from her plan entirely and instead simply stretch past the other woman for a snack, if needed.
The intensity was almost immediate, and clear. An expression rested on Avvyurik’s face, and when her eyes dropped the couple of inches to meet Izzrannyk’s, it didn’t change – but the eyes, somehow, did. They sharpened, deepened, held firmly and strongly on Izzrannyk’s, and it slightly robbed her breath as Avvyurik turned fully around.
“Yes? Can I help you with something?”
A first attempt to speak was briefly forestalled by a recognition: that Avvyurik was disguised, or at least had put some effort toward disguise, and only a foolish person would outwardly disregard that. Only a very foolish one would externalize it enough for others to know.
The first words out of her mouth, then, were not the other woman’s name; she swallowed back Avvyurik’s name like a mouthful of water and nodded instead. “I recognize you. I can see you recognize me too.”
“Recognize?” Avvyurik laughed, once. Only once. “Perhaps. Have we met?”
“We have,” Izzrannyk murmured, and Avvyurik’s eyes didn’t shift away or do anything except stay locked on hers with the exact same intensity.
It was all the courage Izzrannyk needed.
“You are gorgeous,” Izzrannyk breathed, forcefully sighing the words out past lips which trembled to be pressed to those waiting inches from them. “I have thought so since the first moment I saw you, and every time since; I have admired your beauty from afar and in silence for years, and this is perhaps my only opportunity to do so in any other fashion so I find myself driven to necessity by it – I need you. I need you to know how much I want you. I’ve seen the look in your eyes…”
A soft huff of a laugh, and Avvyurik turned away to leave. “Nonsense,” she sighed, and Izzrannyk’s hand flew out as if it wasn’t hers at all, reaching for one of Avvyurik’s wrists.
In technicality, it did touch. With the intent perhaps to grab, but with no ability to do so – it didn’t close around Avvyurik’s wrist, because when it started to, the wrist in question suddenly shifted. Avvyurik spun swiftly on heel, grabbing a fistful of the front of Izzrannyk’s shirt and shoving her backward, pinning her firmly against the wall with the look in her eye sharpened to an edge unlike Izzrannyk had seen before and stoked to a heat with which she was unfamiliar.
“Please,” she insisted, uncertain of what she was even pleading for exactly but knowing that it deserved a plea – that she needed it, that whatever she was asking for was worth not only asking but anything: explanation, safety from retribution, satisfaction, reciprocation, she couldn’t begin to guess in the fraction of a second afforded to her, but she felt the weight of its necessity as the word lurched from her lips again. “Please! Please-”
A finger against her lips silenced her in an instant, heart hammering behind her ribs as Avvyurik’s sharp gaze dropped from her eye for the briefest instant and then returned. “The only thing I like about this, daughter Kurkarros,” she whispered, confirming that she did indeed recognize, “is that you are begging me.”
There was no opportunity to consider the words, and certainly no hope of motion or anything of the sort before Avvyurik pressed her firmer back against the wall, hard enough that her spine popped and cracked in one or two places as the finger on Izzrannyk’s lips turned into a hand on her chin instead, tipping her head to one side and encouraging her mouth open as Avvyurik’s met it – firmly and openly, her tongue plunging aggressively enough into Izzrannyk’s mouth that she might had collapsed if not for the fervor with which she was pinned against the wall.
“So,” Avvyurik whispered against the skin of her neck, “you had best not stop begging…”
There was nothing of suggestion in it. Nothing of yielding or of possibility, of offer or extension, but that was of little consequence.
Primarily because Izzrannyk had no desire whatsoever – not the slightest impulse toward – anything of the sort. She did not want to stop, did not wish to refuse, did not see any point in wanting to have the ability to turn away since she had no intention of doing as much.
Why would it matter if she could, when she wouldn’t?
She had been told not to stop begging. Instructed. Commanded.
It struck something within her, with a shiver; the same shiver that ran through her when pinned by the neck with force – the one which spoke of relief, of removal of both bodily autonomy but also of bodily obligation.
Avvyurik did not like her. She liked her begging. Avvyurik did not find her attractive. She found the begging attractive.
As a result, Izzrannyk could hold on to very little concern over whether she might continue or suddenly fail to be attractive any further. It was never her to begin with.
“Please,” she gushed, Avvyurik’s manacle grip on her wrist pulling her further along through the heavy curtain into the other room as hairs stood up along Izzrannyk’s arms, her legs, her back, every inch of her body. “Please, please – I want you, I- I need you!”
“How long?”
Avvyurik spun around, pinning her to the wall with a suddenness that left Izzrannyk’s already-racing heart stammering around sharp disturbance as her breath was cut off and with it went some ability on her heart’s part as well – she muffled a moan that was a pitiful and paltry attempt at words of reply as Avvyurik’s tongue plunged through her mouth, and her knees shook beneath her in a display that she gladly played into and could only hope was sufficiently affected to continue to pique the other woman’s interest.
Withdrawing, Avvyurik held her in place with a fist twisted up in the front of her shirt, and a look on her face with which Izzrannyk was familiar; stoic, flat in expression as was normal for her (or indeed any of the Gursens, or perhaps any member of any Great House save for the Bassinecks), but with a certain intensity of the eyes.
“How long have you wanted me?” Avvyurik’s head tipped slightly to one side, the smirk of a cat playing with a mouse guaranteed not to survive the interaction lingering on her lips. “How long have you needed me?”
“Since-” Izzrannyk’s voice squeaked slightly on its emergence but she let it; if she was only in this position as a plaything, she could only then hope to be such a plaything as to be impossible to put down – however, a truth surely universal did arise from her mind.
Cats lost interest once the mouse was dead.
Perhaps earlier than that, indeed, but most certainly one would not continue to play with a dead mouse for long – they might eat it, might abandon it, but would cease to continue to play, and so if Izzrannyk wished to be a plaything (and she dearly did wish to be a plaything), then she would need to have some degree of continued vitality in her interactions. Some play at least at attempts to escape, perhaps, or at interaction of some type; she had been told to beg, decidedly interactive in and of itself, but perhaps not to amount to the sum of their relationship such as it was.
That, or perhaps it was simply that the intense, shining beauty of Avvyurik Gursen was directly in front of her. Not across a room, not in a morass of other people – only them, alone in a small space in a room steeped in moans and the scent of sweat and sex as her heart hammered within her chest.
“Since the first moment I saw you,” Izzrannyk repeated, the words escaping her lips on bare breath. “Meeting you and your husband at the gathering of the shadows… and for every moment since.”
Avvyurik’s head tipped further to the side, no shift on her lips whatsoever. “Is that so? Say that I do not believe you. How would you prove it to me?”
Izzrannyk scoffed a laugh. “Prove? Beyond its mere admission, itself enough to cut the hamstrings from my every social situation? I-”
“Oh,” Avvyurik let out a single dismissive and derisive laugh, tapping Izzrannyk on the nose with one finger. “Daughter of Kurkarros – you have no social situations. Turn out your pockets of the people’s goodwill all you wish; there is nothing there to give to me as proof.”
A groaned, growled, grumble of a laugh rumbled somewhere between Izzrannyk’s chest and throat as she quirked an eyebrow. “I find myself uninspired to disagree, which is convenient – it saves me a losing battle-”
“Yet you raise the point with which to begin,” Avvyurik interjected in a purr, her finger dropping to trace at Izzrannyk’s throat, right along the pulse in the side of it.
“A clear mistake born of reflex and- furthered by the distractive powers of your presence,” Izzrannyk hissed, a thrill rippling through her at Avvyurik’s chuckle, because when one is dealing with a cat with cleverness as well as claws, perhaps there is more to playing with a mouse than simply swatting it.
“Say that you do not believe me and I would prove it with any offering,” Izzrannyk sighed forcefully. “With every touch of fingertip or lip upon your body, every plea and moan and hiss, I-” Izzrannyk’s words cut off to a groan as Avvyurik twisted the fist in the front of her shirt tighter and pressed more firmly back against the wall.
“Presumptuous.”
“Please!” Izzrannyk’s words shot out through gritted teeth, her vision faintly sparkling at the edges; Avvyurik’s finger continued its slow tracing path downward, beyond her neck and over the collar of her shirt, across an armpit and down one side of her ribs. “Give me some way to prove it to you, then, if not by virt-”
“But why?” Avvyurik’s hand released so suddenly that Izzrannyk nearly fell down despite her feet having been planted steadily on the floor already. She stepped away with a smile, sliding into a chair easily and crossing her legs at the knee. “You have, after all, daughter of Kurkarros, already provided.”
Izzrannyk tugged her shirt straighter, not bothering to hide the shiver which ran through her. “Presumptuous but not incorrect, then,” she murmured, her heart trembling softly as Avvyurik’s head shifted just barely – not a nod, precisely, but an admission of sorts, and Izzrannyk took a step toward her.
Only one, before one of Avvyurik’s fingers raised from the chair’s arm. A small gesture, of the sort which could have been called easy to miss were it not for the degree of focus and attention which Izzrannyk was pouring into her, and it stilled Izzrannyk’s feet in an instant.
“On your knees. Crawl to me.”
“I should expect nothing less,” Izzrannyk hissed, sinking to her knees as a tremor ran up her spine and brought delightful flourishes in its wake. Flourishes which only redoubled at Avvyurik’s laugh.
“If you cannot even convince me of your desires, I think you will find yourself even harder pressed to convince me of any lack,” Avvyurik shot, with all the clear implication that Izzrannyk liked it – the play of it, and her position within it.
“Expectation foretells truth with perhaps no more nor less frequency than presumption,” Izzrannyk murmured, her knees causing the hardwood floors to creak gently beneath them and those creaks seeming to echo through her own body as thrills.
“Take off your shirt.”
Izzrannyk swallowed heavily, her hands flying to her buttons as swiftly as ever they had in their best impression of some puppet or automaton obeying thoughtlessly the whims of its mistress. “I thought I was meant to be the one begging?”
“Yet you’ve stoppe-”
It was Izzrannyk’s turn to interrupt, all of the air leaving her lungs in a single groaned word as she stripped her shirt off and flung it to the side, “please!”
Avvyurik watched her, silently and flatly for a few seconds, before nudging her chin forward. “Your trousers. Do not stand.”
“Anything,” Izzrannyk sighed in reiteration, undoing her trousers and struggling to remove them without rising from her knees. The fabric pulled taught against her skin and rubbed roughly over it, but she didn’t mind, and her mouth continued with its pleas. “Please, I will do anything you ask, everything you ask, if only you grant me-”
“Your bra.”
“-the opportunity to see you,” Izzrannyk pulled off her bra with rapidly disintegrating care in the integrity of it or any other garment as she continued to plead and beg. “To be with you, to touch you, to please you, in whatever form I can-”
“You presume you can please me!”
“Presuming has seen me well-served so far,” Izzrannyk shot back swiftly, her eyes locked on Avvyurik’s and seeing the soft silent chuckle in the other woman’s chest, but she didn’t let the interjection truly stop her ongoing task. “Please, if you ask me to strip, to crawl, to debase myself before you – as if my mere existence such as it is does not prove sufficient debasement already-”
“She pre-empts me,” Avvyurik grinned, “does she expect some treat?”
Izzrannyk barked a laugh, grinning openly in return, nearly bare with her knees on the floor. “Expect? Nonsense. I think any expectation would be an epitome of folly on my part – but desire, yes. Hope, wish, lust and burn and long for, yes! Please-”
“Say my name.”
“Avvyurik!” Izzrannyk felt her voice crack slightly around the word, even at a tame volume; not screamed, yelled, or screeched with such loudness as to make her throat unable to handle it, but simply loaded with so much strain as to render the effect the same. Strength, without volume, and Izzrannyk felt her muscles twitch and shiver in the word’s passage as if it had been a small ecstasy itself, and it had.
For several seconds, silence stretched.
Slowly, Avvyurik dragged a hand softly toward her waist, and slipped it into her breeches, and the whole time her eyes stayed locked on Izzrannyk’s. “Again.”
“Avvyurik,” Izzranyk repeated, whimpered this time with desperation that she didn’t need to feign in the slightest. “Please, please let me-”
“Again.”
“Avvyurik!” It felt like a sob in her throat but an exultant one, resounding against the heat and tension in every portion of her body. “I want you, I need you, please I-”
“Again!”
“Avvyurik!” Izzrannyk felt her voice nearly shriek out of her throat, quiet enough but with all the force and shrillness of a scream at a lesser volume, and a sharp shudder wracked her strongly enough to drop her forward, one fist pressing against the floor as she shivered.
Through the ringing in her ears, she heard a light laugh, but when she pushed herself upright seconds later, Avvyurik looked unchanged. Still sitting, stoically, with her legs crossed at the knee and one hand slipped down the front of her breeches, clearly toying with herself with slow deliberation.
Izzrannyk’s eyes burned with focus and intensity as they centred on Avvyurik’s lips, which shifted only slightly to mouth another word.
Again.
“Avvyurik,” Izzrannyk whispered, forcefully, becoming more forceful and louder with each repetition, “Avvyurik – Avvyurik, please, Avvyurik, Avvyurik, AVVYURIK PLEASE!”
Izzranyk’s trembling thighs shook further with each time the name left her lips; the feel of it, soft at the start like a kiss or a moan itself and sharp at its end like a spank; the thought that its being spoken encouraged Avvyurik’s slow masturbation, itself seemingly as much a display of power as self-pleasure but surely not unpleasurable to self; the way calling out the name brought Izzrannyk’s mind and heart and memory all together around the sharp and hot confluence of her attraction.
With a half-choked cry, Izzrannyk collapsed completely against the floor, her jaw locking up as an orgasm rippled through her almost agonizingly; like a lover had withdrawn their hand (or whatever other implement) at the barest moment of the ecstasy’s birth, leaving her to only half-climax and be half-frustrated as well, and then Avvyurik barked a laugh which was so deliciously derisive that Izzrannyk’s orgasmic frustration gave way like a crumbling dam and let the ecstasy rush wholly through her body and caused a gushed moan to erupt from her mouth.
Slowly, Izzrannyk forced her breath back under control, awaiting whatever teasing laceration Avvyurik would send her way next: inability to hold back, clear desperation, she’d just came on the floor from shouting her name alone and couldn’t think of any more basal nor possibly debased way of proving her desire, and could expect more mockery to follow in its wake and presume as much as well.
Sometimes, however, neither expectation nor presumption foretell truth.
“Panties now.”
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