Too Late

"Goddess," he breathes with delight and awe. "Lady Lunaga of the dark. We're not to war, are we?"

The mute mask. Of course, I looks like the image of the dark phase of the goddess of passion, who is for lovers in her light and for war in darkness. I start to nod, but there are two questions in that. I pinch the side of the mask between two fingers for just a moment, while I smooth his covers away from his body. "I am she, come from the light. Not war, not violence. Serve me with your gift of passion, and accept my blessing of pleasure."

"Lady, I am yours, blessed beyond all men." It's the drug -- he is not this foolish without it. But he is suggestible and dazed and in love with the world.

He is also coming erect, large and thick, and he is not like Vohan, who could barely maintain an erection long enough to show me how to manipulate him, and could not pleasure himself with me watching. My prey is already more than half-staffed, and in the glow of the fire, he is red at the tip, pink in the middle and violet at the base. A line of hair trails from his heart to his prong and spreads to his legs. My prey is fascinated now by my hands as they smooth over his belly and his thighs.

I have pleasured myself, in the only bodily privacy I have, using my hands in my bath and my bed, but the latter only in winter, when my covers are thick and I can burrow deep and not be seen by a waiting woman. I am unpenetrated, and will stay that way until I decide if I may, must do this again. Too many treaties, too many marriage agreements, would depend on the Prazia's blood on the sheet. I have touched the hole at the core of me, but no more. My own erect nub serves well to vent my frustration and salve my solitude. I am no innocent, no virgin in mind.

I have stroked myself awake and asleep, calm and energetic, more times than I can count. I use the same motions on his thighs and his mound. He moans, thrusting towards me with pleasure and need.

I crawl across his legs, the better to pin them, and take his staff in my hand. It is so warm, so hot and silken and firm. His breath becomes ragged and he pushes his prong towards me, lifting his hips clear of the bed. "Goddess, I'm yours, engulf me and let me serve you."

He would not say this had he his own mind, I remind myself. This power I am exercising is stolen, it is wrong, it is evil, and yet, I stroke and spread my legs so that his thigh rubs against my own nub. My drawers are wet and the silk slides over my skin. I am fully erect in this moment, even though I am sick at myself for doing this. Sparks fly upwards in me, flooding me with heat. I cup his jewels in one hand and begin to slide my hand up and down his soft, warm intimate skin. I am enthralled by his shape and the tiny sounds I evoke. I know that if his memory is blank tomorrow, I will do this again.

The power intoxicates me, better than wine or my hands in the bath, or even thwarting my father and the old lords of the realm. I want this control, of myself and of another. In all else, they control me, but this is mine and I will have it, even if I must steal it.

The skin of his jewels is softer than the suede of my shoes, softer than glove leather, and has the same lively quality. His nether hair is sparse there, softer too than on the mound of his pelvis. Each jewel in its bag shifts under my fingers. I know to be gentle with these -- I have, in the past, accidentally hit Vohan's -- but even more enthralling is the finger length of skin between the jewels and his ass. It is strong, and solid, and soft and touching it makes him writhe with pleasure and gasp and pant.

"Lady -- " He contracts, bucks, cannot breathe. This is new to me. Though I know what should happen, the force of his shattering startles me. His seed flies. My mute mask protects my face, but it takes a hit and I smell it. Fresh clover just cut, and musk and man. I want to taste it, because I love those scents, save man, and I like this one. But I can't, not with the mask.

He is further gone for the moment, lost in lust and passion and the drug. I smooth his skin with gentle touches as his jewels relax back into my palm and his prong begins to soften. He is slick now with his own seed, and I want to see if he and I are the same in this. I can ride waves of pleasure over and over, when I have time and a slightly deaf and sleepy waiting woman. I begin to massage his prong again, softly and gently.

He gasps in half-pain, half-pleasure, and I want that pain, but I want the pleasure more. Softer touches for now, and the jewels and that dark, secret hole.

The seed on his belly is slick. I rub my fingers in it and slide one between the half moons of his arse. I want to know what this is like, to penetrate. It will happen to me often enough, by my will or no. I deserve to be dominant once, to know this power.

My nails are short, broken accidentally on purpose this morning and filed almost to the quick. I have explored this passage on myself a few times, but I don't find the pleasure. I know men must, because the friend we will conscript has told me that his only greater pleasure than having his prong sucked is having one up his ass. He told me once while massively drunk, there's a node inside between the ass and the prong. He had shown me a come here motion with one finger, and giggled that he would follow anyone who made that gesture to him.

It was there, he had not been spouting horseshit. My prey is relaxed, accepting, almost greedy for my finger. I just reach that soft smooth pearl with my longest finger while cupping his jewels in my palm, and I felt them twitch. My prey's eyes rolled up in his head and his mouth dropped open. "No greater passion... all yours... I'm yours. Never stop..." He panted and sweat stood off of skin. He writhed and thrashed and bucked into me, pushing his prong hard into my fist. His earlier movements had been deep thrusts into the air. Now they became a trembling, straining as fast as a butterfly's wings.

He had shattered once, and Vohan had said it would take some minutes for a second, if I insisted on a second, and possibly an hour for a third. I could tell his body was shattering, though not his jewels, and this shatter was like mine -- a long, rolling plain of lust. And I owned it -- stolen, but mine. I put more pressure on his node, gripped more firmly his staff, tried to match my massage to his tremble.

This shatter was harder, longer, more intense. He moaned loud enough that I was glad he was alone up here on the fourth floor. I wanted to drop the button, crawl up his body and stop his mouth with my tongue. I wanted my own hands on my small erection, but his thigh was hard and trembled with the same pulses of his shattering. I wanted to taste his seed, lick his ass, bite tenderly those tender jewels.

I wanted to impale myself and ride him until we were both sopping and sodden and spent.

But I had made my test. This was memorable; if he remembered it tomorrow, I could never return and I would have to conceive an alternate plan. Which might include marrying this fellow. It would be my choice and nobody need know why I picked the relatively poor, obscure son of a back-bench, upstart lord. He never need know his goddess was me.

If he did not remember... I could do it again, be in power, take from him. I could penetrate myself first, so that there would be no tell-tale sign of me on his body. I could drug him again, make my way here, bring him pleasure. I could cover my eyes and nose with a kerchief, leave my mouth free, ravish him with tongue and fingers, engulf him until he begged to be taken to Lunaga's paradise. I could steal his passion for myself... and from other men. Any man. I could own them all in my secret heart and they would never know that the cool, sharp-tongued, not terribly lovely, clever Prazia was their goddess in the night. In this state, they would tell me anything I wanted to know. I was already raping their memory -- I could take the rest. I could manipulate them, own them. Destroy them.

He is spent, shuddering, nearly crying with the intensity of his pleasure. I withdraw my hands and he whimpers as I leave him. I free his wrists, take my sashes and wipe my sticky, wet hands on them. I am shaking with my own need, but that must wait until I am safely in my bath. I am gone before he has enough mind to plead for me to stay.

I'm already a thief. A rapist. A whore. What's a matter of degree?