#kelrima

Strength and resolve are reaped dead by her touch. His soul is ferried to a suffering afterlife—a mixing of mythologies. He really, really should not be doing this. 

But Tarima wants Kelrec at such an intensity it makes her wrap herself up for him. She ends his office hours early because she cannot wait, locks down the room, dims the lights with a blink of two holy hazel eyes. A trenchcoat in cusp-of-summer weather is shed to the ground before Kelrec can protest. He watches Tarima's coat flutter to the floor, buttons making metallic clanks against one another. He watches the fur inside of it, thinks — against his will — about how it must have felt to rub against Tarima's bare skin, to be wrapped around Tarima for so long. He looks at Tarima's discarded clothing and does not look up.

"This was the surprise I was talking about," Tarima whispers, moving to relax on his sofa. "I thought you'd like it. Why won't you look at me?"

Kelrec shifts in his seat. As he hardens he feels his blood turn to venom. If he looks at her—if he looks—he might not be able to—

"You're ashamed of me," Tarima finishes. "I knew it."

"No!" Kelrec blurts, too eager, too vulnerable. His eyes shoot to her without thinking. "No, Cadet Sadal. I simply—"

Her head rests on her hand. Black and pink lace covers both breasts, with soft rosy bows tied lazily over each nipple. One of the straps has fallen off her shoulder, and the lace drapes down in a way that almost reveals her entire left breast, the flesh around her pink nipples bright and visible and waiting for his devoted mouth. There are pink bows on each hip, the only thing keeping the dark mesh fabric clinging to Tarima's waist. No one has ever prepared themselves for him like this—Tarima prepares herself for him like stuffing a turkey with citrus and herbs and forces herself into the scorching ovens of his mind—she's begging to be strung apart, she doesn't know what she's getting herself into, she's so young, she's so persuasive. She's the spark he has been missing. She's going to kill him one day.

"You do like it," she notes. "Good. Now come here."

He stands up. Obeys. He has no choice, but if he did he would still obey. He is a good dog. He is good for Tarima. It's better than letting Tarima be with someone who might hurt her feelings; she's so sensitive

She's on top of him almost immediately, grinding down against his cock with cruel fervor. She kisses him, won't let him breathe, guides his hands to her waist, around her ass. As her teeth graze over his ear, he pulls at one of the satin bows, loosening Tarima's panties up. He tells herself she has entered his mind, that he isn't growing desperate and hungry of his own volition. He tells himself that next time he will be stronger. He's the adult. He's the Chancellor. He's the one with the power. Tarima laughs at his little reassurances, and her laugh is so beautiful it could damn kingdoms down to ash.

"How do I look?" she asks as Kelrec undoes the other bow. 

"Surely you know how I feel…"

"I want to hear you say it."

He lifts Tarima's bra over her head. She's entirely naked now except for her boots, rocking on top of him. Pinned. He tries to craft some sentence, some way to verbalize his desire, but every word that comes to mind elicits another pang of nausea. If he says it, he has to admit it.

"I," he breathes, looking down at the soaked spots forming beneath Tarima on his uniform pants. "I—can't—"

Tarima rolls her eyes and groans, too loud. She throws her hands up, climbs off of him, and he breathes a sigh of disappointed relief as she begins to pace. Her boots make a cacophony of taps as she walks, and each noise makes his essence unravel faster, as if some form of radiation is rewriting him until Zeeren Kelrec is merely a fleshy ball of need. God, he needs her. He needs.

"I have an idea," she says. It's too sudden; he shivers. "Put it on."

"The—?"

"I'm not a coward," she explains. "I'm being nice. I'm going to show you how to make a girl feel pretty." When he doesn't respond, she adds, "You know if you say no I'll just make you do it anyway, right?"

Kelrec gives a hesitant nod. The diseased truth is that he would give her anything. He thinks about it as he undresses—he'd give her anything, and it flows beyond her abilities. Law still cannot answer the question is it murder even if you consent to being killed?; the debate has colored case after case over the centuries. Consensual cannibalism when stranded. Guilty sacrifices. Everyone is going to die and everyone's wishes should be respected, until—

Is it still wrong, if the young girl wants you to fuck her? It has to still be wrong. Is it still wrong if she won't let you say no? Is it still wrong if you would never tell her no, even if your lips could form the words?

He watches her hand move to her thighs as he ties the bows around his hips. Her slender fingers move between the gap and rub over her clit as he adjusts the bra around his chest and gives her a defeated, submissive shrug. She motions for him to sit back down. The fabric is itchy, and tight, but the sensation doesn't matter as much as she does.

"There you go," Tarima whispers. She sits back down on top of him, runs her hand down his chest, fiddling with the fabric and brushing her fingers playfully over his nipples. "Chancellor, you're so fucking hot," she whispers, kissing into his neck. "You look so good all wrapped up for me. You know you're mine."

"I'm yours," Kelrec pants.

"And I'm so lucky to have you," she continues. "Look at you. You're irresistible." 

Tarima kisses him, consumes him with her body. She moves over him, grinding and kissing and biting down, running her hands over his chest and thighs and stomach like he's the only tangible thing in her sphere. But when he finally submits—when he finally melts, lets his mind wander past morality—she only laughs and pushes him to the side, forces him to recline on his back, head flat against the cushions.