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brigdhTitle: And When Resisted, Cruel
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: R. This is a sex pollen story. Though the sex itself is about as consensual as it's possible for sex pollen!sex to be, this is still a story explicitly about consent issues.
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hc_bingo's May Challenge. My prompt was "sex pollen".
Summary: “A drug. It was in that drink,” she said, and swore, remembering its bitter taste.
Rose gets dosed with sex pollen.
(Set around the same time as A Free Man of Color.)
3,093 words. Also available on AO3.
And When Resisted, Cruel
Rose took her students out that evening; they’d wanted to watch the Mardi Gras celebrations and she’d agreed, as long as they went early enough that the drinking and mayhem would be at a minimum. Even so, the streets were crowded, passersby anonymous and strange in their masks and costumes. Music spilled from almost every doorway or window, and even from the street itself, where a brass band had set up to play for coins. They were all competing to be the loudest, and instead had lost whatever melodies they’d possessed in an indistinct roar.
A couple danced a waltz near the band, though Rose wasn’t sure that any of the clashing songs were suitable. A small crowd had gathered to listen and watch, and she and her students joined it out of curiosity. As they did, the dancing woman spun from her partner’s arms and selected another man from the watchers, pulling him to her without missing a step. She was dressed as Circe in a Grecian tunic and headdress of vine-leaf and grapes; her mask was a stylized wolf that covered all of her features except for her dark eyes, which glittered out of the shadows of the early February evening. Her new partner clasped her roughly, crushing the loose dress tight against her waist, but she only laughed, her head tipping back to show the strong column of her throat.
The sight unsettled Rose, though she couldn’t have said why; she turned to her students, who were merely pleasurably scandalized, clustered close together. Geneviève clutched Isabel’s hand, then leaned in to whisper in her ear, and they both glanced to and away from Circe, as if to look at her for too long might blind them. A blush – more excitement than embarrassment, Rose judged – flushed Geneviève’s fair cheeks, intensifying her beauty. A young man standing nearby in the crowd noticed as well, and smiled flirtatiously. Geneviève giggled in response and he, emboldened, offered her his drink, possibly only because there were no flowers or sweets at hand. But Rose intervened at that point, plucking the cup from Geneviève’s hand before she could make up her mind to hand it back or take a sip. Rose gave the young man her most cool, school-mistress-esque look and pointedly did not return his cup; he blushed himself and turned back to his friends, who laughed and shouted ribald comments. Rose ushered Geneviève and the other students away from the knot of people around Circe, who had chosen yet another partner for her dance, keeping time to music only she heard.
The cup held tafia. Without anything else to do with it, Rose drank it herself, but it was cheap and bitter with an almost gritty quality, like the dregs of the barrel.
They returned to the house and the girls went quickly to bed; Rose suspected that they did so only so that they could discuss the evening out of her hearing. But regardless of their motivation, she was grateful, because she’d begun to feel slightly odd. Her skin seemed like a new dress, too tight and stiff, and she was uncomfortable in her chair no matter how many times she readjusted. She’d meant to read, but found herself going over the same page again and again without retaining a single word. It wasn’t the right season for fevers, nor was that what she felt; she was only restless, not ill. The sensation wasn’t even entirely disagreeable, but it did make it impossible to concentrate. She put aside her book and began to pace the room; her nerves prickled and itched, but she didn’t know what would calm their formless craving.
There was a knock on the door and she went quickly to answer it, relieved to have a distraction. Outside was Hannibal, who at least was familiar with strange behavior himself and thus unlikely to think poorly of her if she should do or say something peculiar. She let him in and they exchanged greetings, after which he looked at her more closely, tilting his head in concentration. “Are you well?”
She put a hand to her chest self-consciously and was startled to feel how fast her heart was beating. “I’m not sure,” she said. Her voice was rough, and she paused to clear her throat. “It’s probably nothing; just an odd mood. Do I look ill?”
Though the polite thing to do was deny it immediately, Hannibal considered the question before replying. “You look... excited.”
Her laughter was edged and brief. “I feel like a citizen of Pompeii on the twenty-third of August, impatiently anticipating the imminent future. If only I knew what it was that I can feel coming to the crescendo, then I could....” She trailed off, then spread her hands in a gesture of futile frustration. “Could do something. Unfortunately, that’s the part I’m unclear on.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure if I should be glad New Orleans has no volcanoes, or afraid. What if what’s coming is worse?”
The idea made her smile, as well as the fact that he hadn’t simply dismissed her feelings as silly or meaningless. She felt a sudden rush of fondness for him and leaned across the table to lay her hand over his. She’d only intended to touch him briefly, but there seemed no reason to stop; she stroked the back of his hand, considering the quality of his skin, its smooth softness. He was still cool from the night air outside, and it felt good against her own warmth. She was tempted to turn over his hand to touch the soft flower of his palm, tempted to slide her fingers under the cuff of his jacket to feel the bones of his wrist or his pulse beside them. She was not accustomed to noticing the details of Hannibal’s body in such a way. Normally she thought more of his tendency to have memorized the strangest bits of history, his skill with languages, his humor or gentleness or easy understanding. Now she was keenly aware of the texture of his hair, the shade of his eyes in the candlelight, even how she smelled. She would like to put her face against him and breathe deeply, to stroke the skin beneath his clothes.
She met his eyes to find him watching her, puzzled but unafraid. She snatched her hand off of his and curled it into a fist, as though there was some protection in being small and closed. Now she recognized the thrum under her skin, the itchiness in her belly: this was desire in its purest state, distilled down to primary colors and bold lines, without the complexities of shading and perspective that she was used to. She had never before felt it to such a degree, not even as a girl, when everything had felt simpler and more vivid, and had been without tarnish.
This lust felt foreign, alien to her own wants, like something imposed on her from the outside. Even her desire for Hannibal had a horrifying anonymity to it, as though she would have experienced the same compulsion toward anyone who had happened to be nearby. She seemed to have lost a great deal of herself in that haze of want and overwhelming sensitivity, but there was enough left to sort and shift through the physical symptoms, to mark when they had begun.
“A drug. It was in that drink,” she said, and swore, remembering its bitter taste. She had been speaking to herself – not a habit she had when not under the influence of unknown stimulants – but Hannibal understood her.
Anger on Hannibal turned out to be a quiet emotion, seen mostly in his stillness, in a new tightness to his jaw and mouth. “Who?” he asked.
Despite her own urge for revenge, she shook her head. “I don’t know – a stranger. He didn’t even give it to me.” Her anger grew at the thought of Geneviève, still young and innocent as a plaçée’s daughter could be, suffering this betrayal of body against mind, her own senses used against her, like dogs turning on their owners to tear their flesh. She burned with the need to touch, her heartbeat throbbing between her legs in a beat she struggled to ignore. Even her fury hadn’t calmed her longings. Her muscles were knotted stiff, begging for release, and there seemed very little difference between violence or sex; she wasn’t even sure which she would prefer. “I think it would be best if you left.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” But Hannibal hesitated, not moving toward the door, though neither did he approach her. He only watched her with sympathy, not a trace of lust or prurient curiosity in his eyes. “Do you have someone else to go to? If you do nothing the potency will continue to increase. That’s the point of such drugs, to drive the user into a frenzy.”
“Of course you would know all about them,” she snapped, though the situation was hardly Hannibal’s fault. She clung to her anger; it was better than fear or despair at her choices being taken from her, her body being used against her – again. Her throat was tight with repressed tears or vomit, an acid taste in the back of her mouth.
Hannibal looked abashed. “Some people take these things willingly. I once knew a man who paid–” He seemed to change his mind about finishing that particular story. “Ah. Never mind.”
She took a deep breath and tightened her hands into fists. She could feel the edges of her nails in the skin of her palms, sharp enough to center her for a moment. “Is there an antidote?”
“Not of the sort you’re thinking of. But the effects only last until the intended goal has been reached.” He folded his hands then immediately unfolded them again, a nervous gesture, then continued in a quiet voice, “If you like, I could help you. It would make it pass more quickly.”
“I don’t need that sort of help,” she said, though in truth she felt nearly raw with want. She was aware of a liquid between her legs, her thighs slippery where they touched, and she could stop it no more than she could have willed a wound to stop bleeding. And just as she would have with a mortal wound, she was desperate to touch, to press, to take any remedy that was offered. She felt a crazed certainty that she would die if left alone, and almost begged Hannibal to fuck her. She covered her mouth to hold back the words, but horrified as she was at the impulse, her resistance was weakening. Her anger and lust had melded together to a single, overwhelming need to do something, anything, no matter what it might be. She wanted help. She wanted, very much, to have someone put his cool hand to the back of her neck or to soothe away the rigid tension in her muscles. She didn’t want to face this alone.
Her thoughts must have been easy to read, but Hannibal remained where he was, well back from her. “You’re suffering, but you still have a choice. Tell me, Rose, before you can’t,” he said. “Would you rather not make the beast with two backs? There are ways that you might find less... bitter.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded, not sure that she wasn’t just giving in to the drug’s temptation. “All right, yes” she said, and stood. “Just your mouth, then.”
Hannibal followed her to her feet, but waited, almost as though he expected her to take back her permission. She took hold of her skirts, mostly to keep herself from seizing hold of him, and in one quick movement lifted them to bare her legs. His eyes dropped from her face to look, and she saw his shoulders lift as he drew a deep breath. He sank to his knees in front of her with a surprising degree of grace, and desire spiked in her, sharp and solid as an actual blade. She was grateful that her petticoats hid him from view when he leaned in; she was already clinging to dignity with the last tattered shreds of her self-control and didn’t want to know how it would feel to watch him do this for her.
He raised her skirts the rest of the way, his hands sliding up her thighs to her hips. Her skin prickled at his touch, the fever in her climbing to an unbearable pitch. She leaned back on the table so that its edge pressed into the back of her thighs, a cool and steady line. She put one hand flat to the table’s surface to brace herself, her other hand still holding up her skirts.
Hannibal moved slowly, probably trying to ease her into what they were about to do, but the delay was a torment to her aching nerves. He didn’t kiss her. She was grateful; if he had brushed his lips against her legs, it would only have made this harder. She wanted no pretense of romance. He came close enough that she felt his breath on her cunt, like a teasing, subtle whisper, and she lost the last of her composure. “Now,” she said, her voice shaking.
He obeyed, dipping his head down immediately to lick one long stripe up her folds before concentrating on the most sensitive spot. He was thorough, almost businesslike, alternating tongue and lips in such a way as to bring her quickly to the edge. Her orgasm was hard and sudden and not nearly enough. Her hand was somehow fisted in his hair, and she held him hard against her. “Don’t stop,” she ordered, “don’t stop.” He made some sound; it was incomprehensible since he didn’t lift his mouth from her body, but she supposed he must have meant it to be reassuring. His hand on her thigh shifted, fingers tightening, but there was no break in his rhythm. He didn’t slow until she’d come a second time, this one slower to build but longer-lasting. She locked her jaw to keep from crying out, and trembled with the waves that rolled through her from her center to her fingertips. She relaxed her grip on Hannibal’s hair and he sank back. He pressed his face to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, just above her knee, and for a minute both of them were still, catching their breath.
Rose felt washed out, swept clean, like the ocean after a storm has passed. Hannibal had been right: she could nearly feel the drug dissolving from her veins like the last clouds thinning away to nothing. Her legs were unsteady and her heart still raced, but those were normal physiological factors, post-orgasm. She wasn’t even embarrassed; not yet, at least. Every emotion had been wrung from her, and she was entirely tranquil.
Hannibal got to his feet and helped her shake her skirts back into place; somehow they were both still fully clothed. He didn’t meet her eyes, and quickly backed away to collapse into a nearby chair. She could tell that he was aroused, from the clumsiness of his movements and, more prosaically, in the arrangement of his trousers. His face was flushed and his eyes, what she could see of them, were wide; she wondered if she had looked like that, if desire had lent her a similar attractiveness.
She watched him for a moment, apprehensions beginning to filter into her thoughts. “Should I return the favor?” she asked, her voice stiff in her own ears.
“It’s not necessary. This is one thing I can do for myself.” Hannibal smiled wryly, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face. It was a discordant sight; too normal for what had just happened between them.
Her uncertainty grew. She wasn’t afraid of Hannibal physically – she knew she was stronger than he was – but the vulnerability of sex was a leverage that men could wield against women. She was familiar with the expectations, the demands, the pressure that could follow such an intimacy. At least there was no chance of finding herself pregnant. She pushed herself off of the table and closed the distance between them, hoping for some hint of his intentions. She reached for him, setting her shoulders, and made herself say, “If you did this for me, it seems only fair –”
“No, Rose.” He caught her hand before it could touch him and gently turned it away. “I can think of nothing less seductive than a partner who acts only out of obligation. I did no such thing.”
She considered again his hot breath on her skin, the tremor of his fingers on her thigh and nodded, glancing away from his open gaze. “Then... thank you.”
He shrugged, folding his handkerchief and tucking it away again. “Friendship’s full of dregs. Wouldn’t you have held my hair back for me, if I was sick?”
“This was rather different.”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “This was much more pleasant.”
Despite herself, she laughed; a shocked, startled laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. She wasn’t hurt. He hadn’t betrayed her trust, nor taken advantage of her defenseless state to push her into an ill-judged act. Although she wouldn’t say that she was happy with the events of the evening, she had – somehow – survived them unscathed. It seemed so unlikely that she laughed again. One corner of Hannibal’s mouth curled up, evidently pleased with having cheered her.
“Now what?” she asked when she had recovered her calm and found that she could think of nothing else to say.
“Well, I had come by to repay a loan,” Hannibal said, digging in his pocket until he came up with a handful of coins for her. “Though it seems inappropriate now. I’d wait until tomorrow to give you the money, but I suspect I’d lose it to someone less deserving in the meantime.”
She accepted the coins and arranged for him to come again the next day, when there would be lessons to grade. After he left, she locked the door, put out the lights, and went to bed. She slept alone, of course, and this night in particular she was glad of it; she needed a place for herself, somewhere she could recover her strength. But though she’d expected to pass a troubled night, she fell asleep almost at once, and any dreams that came were so light and easy that she couldn’t recall them in the morning.
***
Notes:
Capricious, wanton, bold, and brutal, lust
Is meanly selfish, when resisted cruel.
And like the blast of pestilential winds
Taints the sweet bloom of Nature's fairest forms.
-John Milton, Comus
I wonder whether all the legs they make
Are worth the sums they cost you; Friendship's full
Of dregs; base, filthy dregs. Thus honest fools
Lay out their wealth for cringes.
-Thomas Shadwell, The History of Timon of Athens, the Man-hater
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: R. This is a sex pollen story. Though the sex itself is about as consensual as it's possible for sex pollen!sex to be, this is still a story explicitly about consent issues.
Disclaimer: The Benjamin January mysteries are by Barbara Hambly.
Notes: Written for
hc_bingo's May Challenge. My prompt was "sex pollen". Summary: “A drug. It was in that drink,” she said, and swore, remembering its bitter taste.
Rose gets dosed with sex pollen.
(Set around the same time as A Free Man of Color.)
3,093 words. Also available on AO3.
And When Resisted, Cruel
Rose took her students out that evening; they’d wanted to watch the Mardi Gras celebrations and she’d agreed, as long as they went early enough that the drinking and mayhem would be at a minimum. Even so, the streets were crowded, passersby anonymous and strange in their masks and costumes. Music spilled from almost every doorway or window, and even from the street itself, where a brass band had set up to play for coins. They were all competing to be the loudest, and instead had lost whatever melodies they’d possessed in an indistinct roar.
A couple danced a waltz near the band, though Rose wasn’t sure that any of the clashing songs were suitable. A small crowd had gathered to listen and watch, and she and her students joined it out of curiosity. As they did, the dancing woman spun from her partner’s arms and selected another man from the watchers, pulling him to her without missing a step. She was dressed as Circe in a Grecian tunic and headdress of vine-leaf and grapes; her mask was a stylized wolf that covered all of her features except for her dark eyes, which glittered out of the shadows of the early February evening. Her new partner clasped her roughly, crushing the loose dress tight against her waist, but she only laughed, her head tipping back to show the strong column of her throat.
The sight unsettled Rose, though she couldn’t have said why; she turned to her students, who were merely pleasurably scandalized, clustered close together. Geneviève clutched Isabel’s hand, then leaned in to whisper in her ear, and they both glanced to and away from Circe, as if to look at her for too long might blind them. A blush – more excitement than embarrassment, Rose judged – flushed Geneviève’s fair cheeks, intensifying her beauty. A young man standing nearby in the crowd noticed as well, and smiled flirtatiously. Geneviève giggled in response and he, emboldened, offered her his drink, possibly only because there were no flowers or sweets at hand. But Rose intervened at that point, plucking the cup from Geneviève’s hand before she could make up her mind to hand it back or take a sip. Rose gave the young man her most cool, school-mistress-esque look and pointedly did not return his cup; he blushed himself and turned back to his friends, who laughed and shouted ribald comments. Rose ushered Geneviève and the other students away from the knot of people around Circe, who had chosen yet another partner for her dance, keeping time to music only she heard.
The cup held tafia. Without anything else to do with it, Rose drank it herself, but it was cheap and bitter with an almost gritty quality, like the dregs of the barrel.
They returned to the house and the girls went quickly to bed; Rose suspected that they did so only so that they could discuss the evening out of her hearing. But regardless of their motivation, she was grateful, because she’d begun to feel slightly odd. Her skin seemed like a new dress, too tight and stiff, and she was uncomfortable in her chair no matter how many times she readjusted. She’d meant to read, but found herself going over the same page again and again without retaining a single word. It wasn’t the right season for fevers, nor was that what she felt; she was only restless, not ill. The sensation wasn’t even entirely disagreeable, but it did make it impossible to concentrate. She put aside her book and began to pace the room; her nerves prickled and itched, but she didn’t know what would calm their formless craving.
There was a knock on the door and she went quickly to answer it, relieved to have a distraction. Outside was Hannibal, who at least was familiar with strange behavior himself and thus unlikely to think poorly of her if she should do or say something peculiar. She let him in and they exchanged greetings, after which he looked at her more closely, tilting his head in concentration. “Are you well?”
She put a hand to her chest self-consciously and was startled to feel how fast her heart was beating. “I’m not sure,” she said. Her voice was rough, and she paused to clear her throat. “It’s probably nothing; just an odd mood. Do I look ill?”
Though the polite thing to do was deny it immediately, Hannibal considered the question before replying. “You look... excited.”
Her laughter was edged and brief. “I feel like a citizen of Pompeii on the twenty-third of August, impatiently anticipating the imminent future. If only I knew what it was that I can feel coming to the crescendo, then I could....” She trailed off, then spread her hands in a gesture of futile frustration. “Could do something. Unfortunately, that’s the part I’m unclear on.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure if I should be glad New Orleans has no volcanoes, or afraid. What if what’s coming is worse?”
The idea made her smile, as well as the fact that he hadn’t simply dismissed her feelings as silly or meaningless. She felt a sudden rush of fondness for him and leaned across the table to lay her hand over his. She’d only intended to touch him briefly, but there seemed no reason to stop; she stroked the back of his hand, considering the quality of his skin, its smooth softness. He was still cool from the night air outside, and it felt good against her own warmth. She was tempted to turn over his hand to touch the soft flower of his palm, tempted to slide her fingers under the cuff of his jacket to feel the bones of his wrist or his pulse beside them. She was not accustomed to noticing the details of Hannibal’s body in such a way. Normally she thought more of his tendency to have memorized the strangest bits of history, his skill with languages, his humor or gentleness or easy understanding. Now she was keenly aware of the texture of his hair, the shade of his eyes in the candlelight, even how she smelled. She would like to put her face against him and breathe deeply, to stroke the skin beneath his clothes.
She met his eyes to find him watching her, puzzled but unafraid. She snatched her hand off of his and curled it into a fist, as though there was some protection in being small and closed. Now she recognized the thrum under her skin, the itchiness in her belly: this was desire in its purest state, distilled down to primary colors and bold lines, without the complexities of shading and perspective that she was used to. She had never before felt it to such a degree, not even as a girl, when everything had felt simpler and more vivid, and had been without tarnish.
This lust felt foreign, alien to her own wants, like something imposed on her from the outside. Even her desire for Hannibal had a horrifying anonymity to it, as though she would have experienced the same compulsion toward anyone who had happened to be nearby. She seemed to have lost a great deal of herself in that haze of want and overwhelming sensitivity, but there was enough left to sort and shift through the physical symptoms, to mark when they had begun.
“A drug. It was in that drink,” she said, and swore, remembering its bitter taste. She had been speaking to herself – not a habit she had when not under the influence of unknown stimulants – but Hannibal understood her.
Anger on Hannibal turned out to be a quiet emotion, seen mostly in his stillness, in a new tightness to his jaw and mouth. “Who?” he asked.
Despite her own urge for revenge, she shook her head. “I don’t know – a stranger. He didn’t even give it to me.” Her anger grew at the thought of Geneviève, still young and innocent as a plaçée’s daughter could be, suffering this betrayal of body against mind, her own senses used against her, like dogs turning on their owners to tear their flesh. She burned with the need to touch, her heartbeat throbbing between her legs in a beat she struggled to ignore. Even her fury hadn’t calmed her longings. Her muscles were knotted stiff, begging for release, and there seemed very little difference between violence or sex; she wasn’t even sure which she would prefer. “I think it would be best if you left.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” But Hannibal hesitated, not moving toward the door, though neither did he approach her. He only watched her with sympathy, not a trace of lust or prurient curiosity in his eyes. “Do you have someone else to go to? If you do nothing the potency will continue to increase. That’s the point of such drugs, to drive the user into a frenzy.”
“Of course you would know all about them,” she snapped, though the situation was hardly Hannibal’s fault. She clung to her anger; it was better than fear or despair at her choices being taken from her, her body being used against her – again. Her throat was tight with repressed tears or vomit, an acid taste in the back of her mouth.
Hannibal looked abashed. “Some people take these things willingly. I once knew a man who paid–” He seemed to change his mind about finishing that particular story. “Ah. Never mind.”
She took a deep breath and tightened her hands into fists. She could feel the edges of her nails in the skin of her palms, sharp enough to center her for a moment. “Is there an antidote?”
“Not of the sort you’re thinking of. But the effects only last until the intended goal has been reached.” He folded his hands then immediately unfolded them again, a nervous gesture, then continued in a quiet voice, “If you like, I could help you. It would make it pass more quickly.”
“I don’t need that sort of help,” she said, though in truth she felt nearly raw with want. She was aware of a liquid between her legs, her thighs slippery where they touched, and she could stop it no more than she could have willed a wound to stop bleeding. And just as she would have with a mortal wound, she was desperate to touch, to press, to take any remedy that was offered. She felt a crazed certainty that she would die if left alone, and almost begged Hannibal to fuck her. She covered her mouth to hold back the words, but horrified as she was at the impulse, her resistance was weakening. Her anger and lust had melded together to a single, overwhelming need to do something, anything, no matter what it might be. She wanted help. She wanted, very much, to have someone put his cool hand to the back of her neck or to soothe away the rigid tension in her muscles. She didn’t want to face this alone.
Her thoughts must have been easy to read, but Hannibal remained where he was, well back from her. “You’re suffering, but you still have a choice. Tell me, Rose, before you can’t,” he said. “Would you rather not make the beast with two backs? There are ways that you might find less... bitter.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded, not sure that she wasn’t just giving in to the drug’s temptation. “All right, yes” she said, and stood. “Just your mouth, then.”
Hannibal followed her to her feet, but waited, almost as though he expected her to take back her permission. She took hold of her skirts, mostly to keep herself from seizing hold of him, and in one quick movement lifted them to bare her legs. His eyes dropped from her face to look, and she saw his shoulders lift as he drew a deep breath. He sank to his knees in front of her with a surprising degree of grace, and desire spiked in her, sharp and solid as an actual blade. She was grateful that her petticoats hid him from view when he leaned in; she was already clinging to dignity with the last tattered shreds of her self-control and didn’t want to know how it would feel to watch him do this for her.
He raised her skirts the rest of the way, his hands sliding up her thighs to her hips. Her skin prickled at his touch, the fever in her climbing to an unbearable pitch. She leaned back on the table so that its edge pressed into the back of her thighs, a cool and steady line. She put one hand flat to the table’s surface to brace herself, her other hand still holding up her skirts.
Hannibal moved slowly, probably trying to ease her into what they were about to do, but the delay was a torment to her aching nerves. He didn’t kiss her. She was grateful; if he had brushed his lips against her legs, it would only have made this harder. She wanted no pretense of romance. He came close enough that she felt his breath on her cunt, like a teasing, subtle whisper, and she lost the last of her composure. “Now,” she said, her voice shaking.
He obeyed, dipping his head down immediately to lick one long stripe up her folds before concentrating on the most sensitive spot. He was thorough, almost businesslike, alternating tongue and lips in such a way as to bring her quickly to the edge. Her orgasm was hard and sudden and not nearly enough. Her hand was somehow fisted in his hair, and she held him hard against her. “Don’t stop,” she ordered, “don’t stop.” He made some sound; it was incomprehensible since he didn’t lift his mouth from her body, but she supposed he must have meant it to be reassuring. His hand on her thigh shifted, fingers tightening, but there was no break in his rhythm. He didn’t slow until she’d come a second time, this one slower to build but longer-lasting. She locked her jaw to keep from crying out, and trembled with the waves that rolled through her from her center to her fingertips. She relaxed her grip on Hannibal’s hair and he sank back. He pressed his face to the soft flesh of her inner thigh, just above her knee, and for a minute both of them were still, catching their breath.
Rose felt washed out, swept clean, like the ocean after a storm has passed. Hannibal had been right: she could nearly feel the drug dissolving from her veins like the last clouds thinning away to nothing. Her legs were unsteady and her heart still raced, but those were normal physiological factors, post-orgasm. She wasn’t even embarrassed; not yet, at least. Every emotion had been wrung from her, and she was entirely tranquil.
Hannibal got to his feet and helped her shake her skirts back into place; somehow they were both still fully clothed. He didn’t meet her eyes, and quickly backed away to collapse into a nearby chair. She could tell that he was aroused, from the clumsiness of his movements and, more prosaically, in the arrangement of his trousers. His face was flushed and his eyes, what she could see of them, were wide; she wondered if she had looked like that, if desire had lent her a similar attractiveness.
She watched him for a moment, apprehensions beginning to filter into her thoughts. “Should I return the favor?” she asked, her voice stiff in her own ears.
“It’s not necessary. This is one thing I can do for myself.” Hannibal smiled wryly, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his face. It was a discordant sight; too normal for what had just happened between them.
Her uncertainty grew. She wasn’t afraid of Hannibal physically – she knew she was stronger than he was – but the vulnerability of sex was a leverage that men could wield against women. She was familiar with the expectations, the demands, the pressure that could follow such an intimacy. At least there was no chance of finding herself pregnant. She pushed herself off of the table and closed the distance between them, hoping for some hint of his intentions. She reached for him, setting her shoulders, and made herself say, “If you did this for me, it seems only fair –”
“No, Rose.” He caught her hand before it could touch him and gently turned it away. “I can think of nothing less seductive than a partner who acts only out of obligation. I did no such thing.”
She considered again his hot breath on her skin, the tremor of his fingers on her thigh and nodded, glancing away from his open gaze. “Then... thank you.”
He shrugged, folding his handkerchief and tucking it away again. “Friendship’s full of dregs. Wouldn’t you have held my hair back for me, if I was sick?”
“This was rather different.”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “This was much more pleasant.”
Despite herself, she laughed; a shocked, startled laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. She wasn’t hurt. He hadn’t betrayed her trust, nor taken advantage of her defenseless state to push her into an ill-judged act. Although she wouldn’t say that she was happy with the events of the evening, she had – somehow – survived them unscathed. It seemed so unlikely that she laughed again. One corner of Hannibal’s mouth curled up, evidently pleased with having cheered her.
“Now what?” she asked when she had recovered her calm and found that she could think of nothing else to say.
“Well, I had come by to repay a loan,” Hannibal said, digging in his pocket until he came up with a handful of coins for her. “Though it seems inappropriate now. I’d wait until tomorrow to give you the money, but I suspect I’d lose it to someone less deserving in the meantime.”
She accepted the coins and arranged for him to come again the next day, when there would be lessons to grade. After he left, she locked the door, put out the lights, and went to bed. She slept alone, of course, and this night in particular she was glad of it; she needed a place for herself, somewhere she could recover her strength. But though she’d expected to pass a troubled night, she fell asleep almost at once, and any dreams that came were so light and easy that she couldn’t recall them in the morning.
Notes:
Capricious, wanton, bold, and brutal, lust
Is meanly selfish, when resisted cruel.
And like the blast of pestilential winds
Taints the sweet bloom of Nature's fairest forms.
-John Milton, Comus
I wonder whether all the legs they make
Are worth the sums they cost you; Friendship's full
Of dregs; base, filthy dregs. Thus honest fools
Lay out their wealth for cringes.
-Thomas Shadwell, The History of Timon of Athens, the Man-hater
