( she can't help it — she moans into his mouth, not as much kissed as she is eaten by him, drunk from like any ordinary vessel or chalice. it's holy, isolde thinks. this is my blood, god's new covenant, poured out for many people, she thinks. i'll not be drinking wine again until the new day when i drink it in the kingdom of god. the sweet wine leaves an aftertaste in her mouth, and isolde smacks her lips together, as drunk off the wine and she is off the taste of him, as drunk on her catholicism as she is on her suffering.
she opens as she's bade to, tongue extended to welcome his spit, not even bothering to act like she's hesitant about it. her fingers flex on his ankles, the only tell of her battling arousal as she swallows his offering down, fallen trails of wine staining her pale, almost milky skin with fat, purple streaks. )
It — it is good. Sir.
( she presses her lips again, rosy nipples peaked with her heat. kneeling in the nude doesn't give her any relief on her clit, but she's too stubborn to rut just yet — focusing on breathing through her nose, managing her body one pant at a time. )
no subject
she opens as she's bade to, tongue extended to welcome his spit, not even bothering to act like she's hesitant about it. her fingers flex on his ankles, the only tell of her battling arousal as she swallows his offering down, fallen trails of wine staining her pale, almost milky skin with fat, purple streaks. )
It — it is good. Sir.
( she presses her lips again, rosy nipples peaked with her heat. kneeling in the nude doesn't give her any relief on her clit, but she's too stubborn to rut just yet — focusing on breathing through her nose, managing her body one pant at a time. )
How else can I serve you?