Page 73 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
She’s shackled to a leather-upholstered thing which is mostly bed, but partly bench, and studded all over with convenient bolts and eyes and hooks for binding down submissives. There’s no walls as such, just the facsimile of walls made with cheap black curtains, and the ceiling is the warehouse’s ceiling—so high above her that she can barely make out the metal girders holding it up.
She can’t remember any noise that’s not the cool snap of Rebecca’s voice or the harsh buzz of the vibrator. She can’t remember any smell other than the bouquet of sex and Rebecca’s own scent—mossy, botanical, green.
She can’t remember any other feeling than this: acute, miserable pleasure.
“Once more,” Rebecca says, and Delphine strains against her bonds.
“I can’t,” she pants. She’s already come three times, and the orgasms from that vibrator are mean. Mean, mean, mean. Sharp and greedy and bright.
“Oh, I think you can,” Rebecca says calmly. Her braids are pulled up in a high pony, and they swish over her shoulder as she leans down to tap Delphine’s open mouth. “What did you say this lipstick was called again?”
“Violet Fury,” Delphine manages. “It’s Fenty.”
“It’s slutty. I like it.”
Rebecca had let Delphine pack for her, and so tonight her Mistress is dressed in an outfit much sexier than what she normally wears. Tight jeans, shiny black heels, a cropped leather jacket. When Rebecca leans over to wedge the vibrating wand against Delphine’s pussy again, the sides of the jacket part and move open, revealing nothing but a lacy red bralette underneath.
Despite her calm voice and amused expression, Rebecca’s body is less coy—her stomach caves and swells with quick, urgent breaths. Her dark nipples are hard and jutting against all that red lace. And in her jeans is the final thing Delphine had packed for her. Rebecca had been shocked, since Delphine has shied away from anything but Rebecca’s fingers since the night of the gala, but her mistress was too tantalized by the possibility of getting to use it that she didn’t question why.
Which was good, because Delphine didn’t know if she could actually explain why she wanted to pack it, or why suddenly the idea of Rebecca wearing it now made her wet and squirmy instead of cold and apprehensive. It came on like spring, the easing of her anxiety; one day there was mud, cold and bare, and the next day there were daffodil shoots, tender and clean. Like the last three years of talk therapy and group sessions and the occasional anti-anxiety med had been all for tilling and planting and weeding, and now finally there was a bloom, a harvest on the horizon.
Anyway, she packed it and Rebecca pretended that she wasn’t turned on by her sub asking for such a thing, and now Rebecca is wearing it tonight: a slim pink cock tucked up against her fly. Delphine fondled it so much on the way here that the moment they parked the car, Rebecca bent Delphine over the bonnet and spanked her bottom for bad manners.
Delphine could have cried with happiness.
“I’m glad we came back tonight,” Delphine says. Auden, Saint, and Poe are back at Poe’s father’s house, having the awkwardest “meet our girlfriend’s dad” dinner of all time, and Becket went to Clinton Lake for a walk in the moonlight, leaving Delphine and Rebecca alone to their devices. It took them less than a minute to decide they wanted to go back to Orthia’s, and off they’d scampered, giggling the whole
drive there like teenagers sneaking off to snog.
“Me too,” Rebecca says, her eyes raking over Delphine’s naked frame. “Me too.”
“Can I come in?” someone asks.
Rebecca eyes blaze over Delphine’s body once more and then she straightens up and sighs. “Yes,” she answers, and Emily Genovese saunters in, all boots and eyeliner and attitude.
“I just wanted to play the part of hostess and make sure you had everything you needed,” Emily says. “And also to tell you Poe invited me to the funeral, so I’ll see you tomorrow too. Fuck, your submissive is pretty.”
“I know,” Rebecca replies, pride and wariness in her voice.
“May I?” Emily asks, gesturing at Delphine, and it’s Rebecca’s turn to be the hostess. She nods once, eyes narrowed, and steps back, allowing Emily to run an appreciative hand over Delphine’s tits and stomach. “Pussy too?” she inquires, asking both of them now.
Delphine surprises herself by answering, “Yes.” She can feel Rebecca’s surprise too. Even though she’s had Rebecca’s fingers inside her multiple times, it’s not something she’s ever expressed an interest in sharing. But something about tonight, about Emily’s no-nonsense attraction to her—it just feels right.
And then when Emily slides experienced fingers into her, it feels so good that Delphine thinks she might be able to come again, even without the wand.
Emily’s voice is raw with lust as she works her fingers in and out of Delphine and leans down to lick a hot stripe up the curves of Delphine’s stomach. “You are very lucky,” she says to Rebecca.
“I know,” Rebecca answers, promptly enough, but her voice sounds strange to Delphine’s ears. As if she’s struggling to be polite.
Emily gives Delphine’s cunt a final stroke and then a farewell sort of pat. “This is the kind of submissive I dream of having,” she says. There’s no mistaking the desire stamped all over her face as she looks down at Delphine on the bed. “I could play with you for years and still want more, sweetheart. You’re the kind of doll a girl decides to marry.”
She bends down and gives Delphine a deep, searching kiss. Delphine finds herself chasing it as Emily pulls away, that last word like a hook in her chest.
Marry.
Of course she doesn’t want to marry Emily—she hardly knows her—but to have someone look at her naked body and not only want to fuck her, but marry her, keep her, love her, and display that love to the world . . .
She’s never felt this before, this shimmering blade of possibility. These reachable, beckoning futures where she’s desired and claimed.
