#apprentice deirdra

Seriously I am in love with this artwork.

In the darkness of the ballroom, floating under her spotlight like a painting in a gallery, Deirdra could almost believe that she was alone. She can’t turn her head, not with her hair tied like this, and even if she could, the light above her would hide anyone outside its bright glare. But if she focuses, she can hear the heavy breathing, the little pants and sighs that tell her the other exhibits are just as keyed up as she is. 

Nadia explained it to her weeks ago, when Deirdra first expressed interest in the art of suspension. This gallery event was the grand opening of the Midsummer Masquerade, the first in a series of sensual delights designed to offer guests a taste of all the diversions available for sampling over the course of the night. Exhibits — or rather, exhibitionists — would be suspended from the ballroom ceiling, tied carefully into positions that would showcase their best assets or test their endurance, depending on their preferences. Each one would have a curator there to perform the rigging, but also to monitor the exhibit and the guests to ensure that everyone was healthy and having fun. The exhibitors nearest the door, done up in black silk rope, would be for viewing only. In the center, bound in white silk, would be the exhibits which could be touched with permission from the curator. And finally, the two exhibits closest to the stairs would be suspended in the finest gold silk, free for anyone to touch. Vissenta, a veteran of the local human artwork scene, is one of them. Dee herself is the other. 

On that thought, Dee hears the double doors at the other end of the ballroom swing open, and the murmur of the crowd outside heightens. But no one speaks and no one enters until, from the bottom of the ballroom stairs, near enough for Deirdra to touch if she could just move her arms, Nadia’s voice rings out. “Honored guests, welcome. Welcome to an evening of sensual delights, of fantasies fulfilled, of desires brought forth from darkness and made real. Welcome to everything you never knew you wanted. Welcome... to the Midsummer Masquerade.”

As the last word fades, there is a snap. Thousands of short candles blink to life around the edges of the room, their heatless flames offering just enough light to illuminate the plush red carpet that rolls up the center of the room between the exhibits. Music, low and sweet, begins to echo from a distant corner. Muffled footsteps and hushed voices dull the sounds of breathing as the first guests enter the room. 

In her mind, Deirdra can see it, the glow of admiration and the heat of desire in a hundred pairs of eyes as people begin to take in the artistry on display. The endurance, the trust, the sensuality, the skill. Some of the participants are suspended to accentuate their particular assets — flexible hips, ample breasts, taut muscles. Vissenta is bound as if on her knees, her ass and thighs a glorious display that even Dee has to admit is mighty tempting. Other displays are pure artistry, including one that twines a pair of lovers into a knot nearly as intricate as the ones that hold them aloft. This was what Deirdra and Nadia had eventually agreed on, after trying a dozen different poses. A harness of braided knots loops her waist and breasts. One of her ample thighs is held aloft, the other left to hang low, her foot bound to her hair in a loop that forces her head back into a graceful arch. 

She sinks into it, closing her eyes and savoring the anticipation. She is waiting for the first murmurs of admiration or distaste, the first touch. She doesn’t have to wait long. A firm smack on her ass makes her shiver, and the voice that follows makes her smile.

“Nadia, darling, you’ve outdone yourself again.” Misery sweeps forward, and Dee can feel the flutter of delicate silk sleeves over her skin as her friend walks by. “The artwork this year is exquisite.”

Nadia’s voice is low and self-satisfied. “You know I would hate to disappoint my guests. How could I possibly keep something so beautiful all to myself?” One of her fingers trails along Deirdra’s jaw, and she shivers again, her belly clenching. And in this position, she realizes, there will be no relief. 

Misery chuckles at both of them. “Have fun, you two,” she says, and her footsteps fade away. 

Dee can hear the smile in Nadia’s voice when she replies, although the reply isn’t truly for Miz. “Oh, we most certainly will.” 

Deirdra trembles at the promise in those words, and then more hands are on her, and she’s lost in the sensations. Someone grabs her thigh the way a lover would before burying their face in her core and she feels herself go hot. Fingers pinch her nipples, pulling one and then the other, and she tries to arch into the pleasure-pain in spite of the ropes holding her. Fingernails glide along the crease where her ass meets the top of her thigh and she nearly comes out of her skin, whimpering for more. 

Nothing is enough now; not the pressure of the silk cords on her skin, not the lingering or feathering or bruising touches, not the cool of the night air across her dripping core. Deirdra is wound so tight with need that the seconds that elapse between each hand that lands on her body seem to stretch into infinity. But when she opens her eyes to plead for release, Nadia's gaze meets hers. Not yet, my love, say her hooded eyes and self-satisfied smirk. 

Dee's breaths are coming hard and fast now, her ribs straining against the soft silk ropes as she tries to breathe deep, to regain some control of herself. Her panties are soaked, molded against her mound from wet and from the fingers that test and tease her. Her thighs are shaking with need, with her desperate longing to press them together for even the tiniest measure of relief. 

Finally Nadia sees, and seems to take pity on her poor, unfulfilled wife. She steps into the circle of the spotlight and sets her hands to the ropes as if to adjust them — but it is only pretext. The Countess leans down, one of her violet braids dangling against Deirdra's cheek as she whispers, "they can touch you all they like, my wildflower. But you're not here for them. You wanted to show everyone you're mine? Then tonight, no one makes you come but me." She straightens and steps away.

Dee nearly weeps at the loss. She is going to die here, she's sure of it, because she can't possibly take any more of this stimulation. But of course she can, and she will, because Nadia demands it. 

In the mirror, Deirdra watched as her wife’s slender fingers slid around her waist. She admired them both together — Nadia’s elaborately done violet braids contrasted against her own wild copper curls; Nadia’s tall, slender frame contrasted against her own soft curves; Nadia’s dark, wicked smile contrasted against her own anxiously bitten lips. She sighed and rested her head back against her wife’s shoulder, right in the spot where they both loved her to be. 

“What is troubling you, my love?” asked Nadia, reaching to thread their fingers together, their wedding bands bumping together in a way that still made Dee’s heart stutter every time it happened. A small line of concern appeared between her brows. 

Dee turned her gaze away from the mirror and reached up to smooth a hand over Nadia’s cheek. “I’ll be fine, darlin’. Just a little nervous, I guess. You know how I get around crowds.”

The Countess leaned down to press a kiss to her wife’s forehead. “You do not have to go. I will make your excuses if you find it all too much.”

Dee whipped around to meet Nadia’s eyes. “No, honey, that’s not what I meant. This is too important to you — to us — for me to skip out on you just because I’ve got butterflies.” She reached for both of Nadia’s hands and brought them to her lips. “I just need a few minutes to remind myself why we’re doing all this.” She skimmed her gaze up and down Nadia’s body meaningfully. 

The Countess had worn a gown that looked much like the wrap dresses she favored for everyday wear, with one notable exception: every inch of the fabric was sheer. Only well-placed drapes of fabric and braids hid key points of her anatomy from public view. Deirdra, for one, deeply appreciated the look. 

Nadia did not blush at the blatant appraisal, but gripped Dee’s shoulders and turned her around to look at herself in the mirror. From there, she could see both her wife’s smoldering gaze as it traveled across her skin, as well as her own obvious reaction. Everyone in the palace, in fact, would be able to see it, because the outfit Nadia had chosen hid absolutely nothing from view. The teal silk bra lifted her pale, freckled breasts up for inspection, but the fabric stopped short of covering her nipples, which had peaked under Nadia’s gaze. The matching garter belt, a wide ribbon of teal lace, did far more to accentuate the curve of her ass and hips than to hide anything at all. A sheer silk robe offered the illusion of modesty, but it would be shed soon — after the Masquerade’s opening event, Dee wouldn’t be wearing it any longer. Every inch of exposed skin was flushed, already anticipating the multifarious ways it would be tempted and touched this evening. 

“This is why,” Nadia breathed, her lips brushing the shell of Deirdra’s ear. Her fingers slid across silk and skin and silk with never quite enough pressure to truly be called a touch. “Because I want to show the world you’re mine.” Her voice went husky, teasing, as she continued. “And I know you want them to see it, too.”

Dee shivered. A sound wrenched itself from her throat, one that might have been a whimper and might have been a yes.

Nadia’s fingers came back up to tangle in Deirdra’s curls. “Would you like that, love? For all of Vesuvia, all of the world, to see me make you mine?”

Dee’s eyes fluttered shut on a moan, and Nadia’s fist tightened, pulling her hair until she opened her eyes and answered. “Yes, Countess.”

And Nadia, the clever woman she was, heard the unspoken but. “But…?”

Dee bit her lip, even though she knew it would smear the lipstick her wife had so carefully painted on her lips. She wasn’t usually demanding in their bedroom. That wasn’t the dynamic they had agreed upon, and generally she trusted Nadia to understand what they both needed. But tonight she needed something very specific, so she met Nadia’s eyes in the mirror as she spoke. “I don’t want them to have to wait for it. I want everyone who walks in to take one look and know. That I’m not just yours in name or law, but in body and soul.”

Nadia smiled, a dark and wicked thing that sent tremors through Deirdra’s every nerve. “Is that right, my love?” Without waiting for an answer, she tightened her fist in Dee’s hair again — not too tightly, but just enough to guide her over to the bench in front of the vanity. She sat, and pulled Dee down to straddle her lap. “You will always be mine, and I am proud of that. And if you want everyone to know—” she leaned forward to nip at Dee’s lower lip— “all you must do is ask.” 

Once again, Nadia’s fist tightened in Dee’s hair, tipping her head back. Her blue eyes fluttered shut on a groan, one that was quickly followed by a gasp as Nadia’s lips and teeth descended on her breast. Bites came, one after another, deep and punishing. Dee clasped her thighs around Nadia’s hips, moaning and hissing with pleasure at each new sensation, each sweet sting of pain. It was good, so good, a promise of what was to come, and Dee let herself contract until she was nothing more than soft skin beneath her wife’s lips.

But too soon, Nadia pulled her head and hand away, sitting back with a satisfied little hum. Deirdra blinked away her daze and looked down to see bruises blooming red and purple like peonies on her skin— one after another, in the curling shape of the letter N. With a smile, she leaned in to press a soft, promising kiss to her Countess’s lips. 

“Will that do?”

Deirdra is from Caer Ellig, which is situated on the coast a bit south of Balochry and Malawi. (Think fantasy Cornwall for geography, and fantasy-mashup-of-gaelic-cultures for everything else.) She came to Vesuvia when she was 15, sent there for her protection by her family. Her primary magic is divination: tarot is her most popular service, but she also has dreams of the future, reads crystals and palms, and is mildly psychic. Do not try to lie to her or hide baked goods from her.

She is, as @vissenta-senadz likes to put it, Lesbian Dolly Parton. She likes it when people see her as a backwater hick and underestimate her. She likes it even more when she gets to use that to blow their ill-informed, bigoted opinions out of the water. She reads voraciously, especially weird metaphysical treatises and romance novels. She is your local mom friend. If you have met her more than once she worries about whether your feet are warm and if you're drinking enough water. Do you want a hug? She hopes you do, because she wants to give you one. But if what you need is a verbal slap on the back of the head, that's exactly what you will get.

She is my lavender-scented softgirl and I cannot overstate how much I love her.