She--notices the reaction.

"I want you," she breathes. "I don't want you to hurt me like that but I want you. Is that crazy of me? Is it naive?" She lifts her eyes to meet his. "Do I care?"

He stares down at her, pressing his hands against the wall.

"I want to feel you shaking with pleasure," he says. "I want to hold you in my lap and make you read out loud from the books people write about how they think I used to rape my slaves."

"I could do that. Not--not yet, it's not safe yet--but I could do that."

"Mm. Then for now I want to watch you fuck yourself."

She gives him a look of intense want, and breathes, "Yes," and finally manages to tear herself away from the barrier to investigate the chest of drawers.

The chest of drawers contains a variety of relevant objects!

...She picks one out that's still significantly smaller than he is, but a little larger than last time. She walks over to the bed, shivering in anticipation, flops down on it, spreads her legs, and--looks up at him.

He is staring intently at her, his hands pressed to the wall; it ripples where his claws dig into the surface. "Go on," he murmurs.

Breathing heavily under the weight of his scrutiny, she slowly eases the instrument inside. It's unyielding and cold, and the signs of pleasure she gives are mixed with ones of mild discomfort.

"Beautiful," he says in a hushed, hoarse voice.

"Tarakova," she moans, and closes her legs, trapping the object within. Her hands move up to her body, tweaking her nipples and caressing her stomach, clearly taking her cues from the books with an excellent memory and just as clearly an unpracticed amateur with no muscle memory for it.

"You're so lovely," he says, "gorgeous girl, I want you, I want you, I want you..."

She makes a much higher-pitched noise at that, one hand sliding back between her legs. The combination of that touch and a particularly sharp twist to one of her nipples has her back arching off the bed, a groaning gasp escaping her lips.

He digs his claws into the wall. It stands firm against all his strength.

"I want to fuck you, I want to hold you and touch you and kiss you and hear the sounds you make with my cock inside you, I want to make you beg and then give you everything you ask for."

She groans at this, long and loud. "Please," she says, "please do that, please come over here and take me, this is so so good but it's not good enough--"

He growls. The wall continues to hold.

She whimpers, and spreads her legs a little, lets her inner muscles push the toy out enough she can push it back in again, lets her other hand wander down from her chest to rub circles around her clitoris while the first one fucks herself with the hard, inadequate object.

Tarakova keeps growling. It is a very good thing that this wall is here, or he would have done something unwise already.

"I want you," she breathes. "Please, I can see you throbbing, this doesn't do that, what would it feel like--"

"If this wall wasn't here you'd be about to find out - you're so lovely - I'd take you like a slave girl, I'd fuck you like my very own Nimire, pin you down and sheathe myself in you - you're beautiful -"

She throws her head back and moans. "Please," she whimpers, "please, please, please, please, please..." Thin lines of tears trickle from the corners of her eyes. The hand on the toy gives it a little extra twist.

"Oh, oh, you're gorgeous when you cry..."

"Is that," she gasps, "is that why you're not over here yet, is that why you're not in me yet, do you want to see me cry--I can do that--" she gives a half-theatrical wail and the tears spill harder.

"Beautiful," he breathes, taking one hand off the wall. "My Annisetimara. Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," she says, and she can feel the words shift something in her head, in her heart--"I'm yours," she repeats, and she means it more this time--