Secret Santa #1
Hello!! So over on the OC server, we had a secret santa (with a twist!) We wrote for our own characters for anonymous prompters to tell us what they wanted to see, and my prompter was pretty fire with their requests so I wrote a couple of them! this is the first c:
It's hot nasty snezbian sex, and some weird unnegotiated D/s + degradation because that's just how they roll. Inducing, dust allergies. 3.1k
Prompt: "Rhoda having a desperate fit after a few failed holdbacks, bonus points if Florence is there to tease her about it"
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"You move too much."
"I said I would sit for you. I never said I would be a compliant model."
"You've never once been compliant."
"You would find me terribly dull if I was."
"You're correct."
Rhoda's hands are deft in the way she arranges the carefully preserved mushrooms over the fabric, pinning them into place. Florence shifts, simply because she can, and knocks one askew with her restless fidgeting. "Aren't you almost finished?"
She laughs, bringing one hand down to take Florence's chin. "We've only just begun."
The toe of her shoes nudges beneath her skirts, raising them a few inches to graze the stockings above the tops of her heels. "I can think of something more fun for us to be doing."
"If I don't finish this commission, I'll be thrown out on my ear. You know an appointment for the Empress's Court isn't one to be brushed aside thoughtlessly, nor is it one to rush through." Having said that, she does nothing to move away from the contact, Florence's shoe nudging a bit higher and gently working its way between her shins to part her legs somewhat.
"Or..." She takes one of her hands by the wrist, gently works her fingers beneath the cuff of her glove to peel it off one hand, entwines their fingers. "...I could distract you now, and make it up to you later."
She tips the brim of the hat back away from Florence's face, lets the light fall over her pale, freckled skin instead of what she should be focusing on. "You won't help me. You will do what you always do; you will leave here, satisfied with yourself, and leave me to gather myself on my own, to return to my work and work at a feverish pace to make up for lost time."
"And you will do what you always do; you will fuss and fret and curse me for my distraction, and despite all this, despite your show of resistance and disapproval, you will still say yes the next time I leave my calling card for you."
She sets her work aside, and Florence grabs her by the lapel of her jacket, drags her over to the work table that stands relatively clear. With one swipe of her arm, she shoves whatever is laying on the tabletop onto the floor, then forces her to bend over it. She isn't even granted the opportunity to shed her first layer, palms pressed flat against the work surface, one bare, one still gloved.
"You're wretched."
She moans when Florence's shoe kicks the inside of her ankles in an unspoken but decidedly clear command to spread her legs, her skirts being hiked up and pushed beneath her torso on the table to keep them pinned up and out of the way. "I know."
"What do you want?"
"You."
"What do you want?"
"You, sir."
"That's what I thought." Her hat is pulled off, the pins clattering to the floor unceremoniously, her hair loosed from its careful arrangement so teeth can meet the back of her neck, grazing her skin. Her breath is hot against her when she snaps. "I want your breasts. Disrobe, now."
Warmth floods her as she strips off her jacket, unbuttoning her blouse and carefully undoing the layers to let her breasts spill out from the confines of her chemise. Florence's mouth is quick to take one dark nipple into it, running her tongue over the sensitive skin and earning a shiver of approval. She aches to touch herself, but she knows well that she will be punished for acting out of turn, so she focuses on merely enjoying what touch she is receiving rather than that which she isn't.
She is no stranger to the feeling of someone's body against hers. She could have most women she wanted--she is not titled, but she is well connected, well respected. She's ascended the ranks well as a parvenu, but proved to be shrewd enough to maintain the status she's achieved. Many climb, only to immediately misstep and allow themselves to fall once again into obscurity and squalor.
She could have any woman she wanted, and yet she always comes back to Florence. She accepts her calling card with eagerness, and occasionally even lowers herself to call upon her personally to serve as the model for her work.
There is a stack of advertisements in the drawer beside her bed, colorful illustrations of her in some of her works, calling upon the women of the Neath to make an appointment with Westing and Co. for her design services and ready-made product. Pages and pages of Florence, of those pale lips, those sharp eyes, those brightly lacquered nails shining beneath her chin. They always make her more appealing than she is--the artist is skilled at softening any harsh edges, at training that lazy smile into something proper, at making that half-lidded, rakish gaze into something bright and prim.
She is anything but as she sucks on her like a babe to nurse, the hand not occupied holding at her waist instead busied with pinching and rubbing at her other nipple. She moans, elbows on the tabletop to hold her up comfortably until Florence decides that she is finished and will move on to what she's really waiting for. She is forbade from rushing things along, but the heat coiled tightly in her stomach is bidding her to move on.
Perhaps Florence senses it, because she releases her with a wet pop. "Turn around."
"Yes, sir."
She resumes her previous position, bent over the tabletop and legs spread far enough to grant her unimpeded access to her body. She can't see her, but she can feel Florence behind her, feel the gaze raking over her flesh. "You belong to me."
"I know."
"Why?"
"Because no one else would want me."
"Nor would they know how to handle you as I do." She pressed against her, her spare frame draped across her back, arms snaking around to caress one cheek--and then to shove something in front of her.
Feathers, plush and speckled with the dust of disuse. Where she acquired them--real feathers, not something of the Neath's home!--is beyond her, but they are impossibly delicate. They waver in her mere breath.
"Florence--"
"Who?"
"Sir, I can't..."
"Why not?"
"My hay-fever...you know what these will do to me."
"I won't hear another word from you on the matter. You'll have to find some way about it--I expect to hear nothing from you, save for your approval. Have I made myself clear to you?"
"Yes, sir." She knows this game. It lights a fire in her at the mere suggestion that she be forced to hold back like this, to keep herself in check until she's permitted to. She hadn't expected it when she called upon her services--that she may end up like this, she anticipated. When does she not? But to have this element mixed into it...oh, she is truly being spoiled. She knows this can only mean one thing: Florence wants something from her, something that she would say no to ordinarily. Something she will take advantage of her when she's too spent to say no to it to ask for.
The feathers are just beneath her nose, not touching yet, but she knows that when her breathing grows more labored, they will begin to make contact. She dreads and lusts for it in equal measure.
Florence hikes up the rest of her skirts, slips a hand beneath them to begin to gently tease at her. She gasps when her fingers brush over her bud, already met with the slick warmth of her arousal that threatens to drip.
Florence's breath is hot in her ear, her teeth meeting the lobe to nibble on it lightly. "So desperate already? What a greedy woman you are. I've hardly even begun and you're already trying to come undone. I can't trust your judgment. You would rush this along, just to enjoy your reward as quickly as possible. No, you will wait until I decide that you're ready."
She sucks in a sharp breath when her fingers slip into her, and she's torn between the pleasure of that feeling and the soft tickle that's already forming in her nose, the plush strands of the feather teasing along her nostrils from the gasp. She knows that even if she isn't being tickled, it's merely a matter of time before the proximity to them undoes her resolve, the dust having infiltrated deep into her sinuses already.
"Who do you bend to?"
"You, sir."
"And who else?"
"No one, sir."
"That's right." She makes a deep pass, and it makes her weak in the knees to feel those pretty fingers stroking into her. "What do I want?"
"Me."
"How much of you?"
"All of me, because I'm all yours."
She's rewarded with Florence's mouth over the back of her neck, hungry kisses pressed along her skin. "You are, and you always shall be." She withdraws her hand from her, and she whines at the lack of contact. "Oh? You ask too much. You know you only receive what I feel you should. Certainly not what you've earned, nor what you deserve. You deserve nothing."
She pushes her down harder against the desk, the feathers being shoved into her face. "And yet...I give it to you all the same, don't I?"
"You do..." Her breath catches on the second word, her nose threatening to betray her. She can't sniffle, not like this, so she works to try and breathe through her mouth instead.
Florence knows it, of this she's certain, because she peels off the other glove she had previously neglected, and shoves it into her mouth, the supple leather on her tongue and inching towards her throat. "I said I didn't want to hear from you."
She has no choice--she sniffles, and the feathers grace the curve of her septum, peeking lovingly into her nostrils. The tickle is not yet unable to be ignored, but that doesn't mean that this feeling isn't difficult to contend with. She wrinkles her nose, hard, scrunching it and trying to avoid their ticklish barbs as they caress her like this.
The mere thought drives lust deeper into her core.
Florence grinds the heel of her palm over her bud, and she keens in response, biting down hard on the leather of her glove. It is going to be ruined after this. She will need to go visit her glover and see them replaced, as soon as she is able to come back to her senses.
"You're pitiful. Look at you."
She moves to pull away from the feathers, but doesn't have the choice--she is held in place by Florence's hand on the back of her head, holding a fistful of her hair to keep her motionless. She wants to hold it back. She wants to comply with the direction that she's been given.
But she can't.
She sneezes, the mist of it settling beautifully across the table in front of her nose.
Florence seems surprised, as if she had more faith in her than this, pausing almost imperceptibly in their little dalliance. "Come again?"
She moans through the inhale, before sneezing a second time, then a third, then a fourth. She is nearly beside herself in this moment, the hot arousal nearly molten in her core, Florence's skillful touch halting in response to her disobedience.
She pulls her back by her hair, turning her so she is leaning her back on the edge of the table and looking up at her. "That's what I thought you said. What did I tell you?" She doesn't wait for an answer, grabbing her by the chin roughly so that her fingers are digging into her cheeks. "Your willpower is shameful. You cannot behave yourself at all, even when I've commanded you to. You can't control your nose. You can't control your arousal."
She leans so close that they are nearly nose to nose. "You expect me to reward behavior like this?"
She doesn't answer her--not that she could--but the gaze with which she fixes her is one that speaks for itself, one that is not nearly so regretful as it ought to be.
Florence stands over her, still clad in the sumptuous shades of teal that draw the eye of any passerby. From this angle, she nearly forgets how spare her frame really is, standing several inches beneath her, even only in their stockings. She imagines that many have seen her from this position. That many more might even find her intimidating.
She, for one, revels in the knowledge that she is not going to be rewarded. That such a transgression against her mistress will be one met with the sweetest of punishments.
Florence knows that she is enjoying herself, and the sneer that graces her face is something that sends her heart hammering in her chest. "You've done this on purpose, haven't you?"
She shakes her head vehemently, but having told the truth does her no credit. Florence remains unconvinced, roughly pinching one nipple and making her weak in the knees.
"You're lying to me. We both know that you're a woman bereft of any patience. That you seek your own pleasure and nothing further, regardless of what I've ordered." She nearly straddles her, stepping in close to put her leg between hers, the pressure against her swollen clit maddening when she knows she doesn't have the permission to make use of it. "What am I to do with a bitch who pays no heed to her master?"
She shifts, ever so slightly, to try and take advantage of Florence's positioning, and it doesn't go unnoticed. Her heartbeat is in her ears as her mistress leans so close that there was scarcely a hair's breadth between their bodies.
"Your disobedience will have consequences."
She takes the handful of feathers off the table behind her, and brings them to her nose, shoving them in with a startling swiftness that gives her no chance to brace herself for the feeling. Her head tries to pull itself back of its own accord, but Florence doesn't give the chance, her grip like a vise.
She gasps sharply, but finds her nose pinched shut painfully, stopping the sneeze in its tracks, but doing nothing to halt the mounting irritation. "No. If you cannot control your nose yourself, then I will control it for you instead."
The glove is peeled from her mouth, finally, the leather gouged with teeth marks, shiny and slick with her saliva. She finds her voice is a thin, reedy thing when she's finally able to regain it enough for a wavering, breathless "sir--"
Of the handful of feathers, a small number were withheld from torturing her nose, instead being put to use beneath her skirts, lighting a fire beneath her skin as they make contact with her. "Sir what?"
"Please--"
"Where was this obedience earlier? How quickly a dog obeys the tug of the leash when reminded of its place. It's too late to appeal to my better nature; I have none, and especially none that you could avail yourself of. You have made your own bed, and now you will lie in it."
She draws in a shuddering breath, her mind clouded by the lust as the heel of Florence's palm provides her the leverage to grind herself against it. She's beginning to develop a rhythm when that hand pulls away, too far and too swift to allow her to simply give chase.
"No. I haven't decided I've forgiven you yet." She releases the grip on her nose, and the feeling is nearly intolerable. Florence's voice, that look in her eye, keep her barely present in the moment.
From her pocket, she produces a cigarette, and a match. The cigarette rests between her lips, and she raises an expectant brow, snapping her fingers impatiently and handing the match over to her. Rhoda's hands tremble as she forces herself to strike the match, to light the cigarette for her.
She takes a long drag, and slowly exhales the smoke. "Good girl. You're finally useful for something."
"M-may I--hh!"
The eyes on her feel predatory. She is a hare in a fox's den. "Very well." One lacquered nail drags itself along her septum. "You can have one."
The feeling itself was intolerable without her intervention, but now she's left with no choice. She sneezes, relentlessly, each one so close on the heels of the last that she finds herself struggling to take a breath between them at all. It's dizzying, both in the breathlessness it produces physically and the breathlessness it produces sexually.
Despite what she said, Florence's hand returns to her, deft fingers working as if this was the purpose they were created for from the beginning. She moans through each sneeze as the irritation slowly cedes, replaced by the heady intoxication of the approaching orgasm.
"You truly are a greedy, disobedient whore." She whimpers at Florence's voice, at her touch, at the white hot heat in the depths of her that mounts with each sneeze. Her fingers meet her clit, grinding firmly against it as she rocks with another sneeze.
It's too much to bear.
She cries out and melts to the floor, unable to support herself any longer. Florence leaves her there, the leather of her shoes shining with the results of her handiwork, glittering spray and ruined feathers strewn around them where they've been abandoned.
She steps beside her, leaning one hip against the edge of the table. Her cigarette's ember glows like a star between her lips. "Well?"
She sucks in a thin breath, can hardly find her voice to offer a quavering, "thank you."
Florence brushes back some of the hair in her face, lets her hand linger on her cheek for a second longer than it needs to. "You're going to get me into His Amused Lordship's next soiree. I need to meet someone there, and you will be my access. Bring someone else if you must, but ensure that I am on the guest list. I don't need his footmen turning me away at the door."
"Florence, I--"
"Radhika." Her eyes, cold and unnaturally blue, flash with anger as she bends down to her level. Her voice is absolutely frigid. "I did not ask you. I told you what you will do for me."
Hearing her own name in that tone, in Florence's voice, graveled with her smoking, is like burning herself stoking the fire. "I will do what I am able."
"That's not enough." She stands, tilting her chin up with the ferrule of her cane to have her gaze follow her as she rises from the kneel. "Send for me when the arrangements are made."
The room is nearly silent in her wake as she strides towards the door, taking only a brief moment to inspect herself in the mirror, straighten her jacket, and slip out. It closes against her cane, the devil of a woman leaning back in to flash her a lascivious smile.
"Miss Westing? God bless you."