9 - Ariadne #2
“Five then,” she giggles. “All the better, for I have surpassed your quota, and bested you, all in one day.”
Ariadne bites her lip, realizing what this means.
“I’ve won my reward,” Iona whispers against the skin of her neck.
It’s all Ariadne can do to keep from surrendering, from letting Iona have her way with her.
She curses her relentless competitiveness when her hint of an idea takes form.
She may not have her staff, but her wand is tucked away in her boot, and she can still cast small spells with only her mind, though it won’t be easy.
“You haven’t defeated me,” Ariadne says, and with great concentration, she incites the growth of a thin vine that sprouts from Iona’s preexisting stalk. She wills it to grow longer, and longer, using her ankle as a trellis.
Iona pulls away to glare up at her. “You are strung up and helpless! How could you claim otherwise?”
“If an enemy had you in this position, would you just keel over and let them kill you?” Ariadne tilts her head, the vine crawling at a snail’s pace up the leather of her boot.
“No…” Iona pouts and crosses her arms. “But you are only delaying the inevitable. Hang there for the entire afternoon if you must. I shan’t release you until you’ve admitted I’ve bested you.”
Ariadne shrugs as best she can with her arms stretched out wide by the vines, and Iona rolls her eyes.
“Fine, cling to your pride if you must,” Iona says. “But I shan’t be deprived of my spoils.”
Ariadne’s next words are silenced by Iona’s kiss, a kiss clearly meant to disarm.
Iona sucks on her bottom lip, tugging it between her teeth only to release it, then lick at her top lip.
When Ariadne opens her mouth, Iona slips her tongue inside, sliding it against Ariadne’s with slow, calculated strokes, until her brain empties.
The vine she’d been coaxing up her ankle goes limp, falling back to the ground, and she admonishes herself for all her effort lost. She tries splitting her attention in two, unable to resist Iona’s fervent kisses, but unwilling to abandon her attempts at retrieving her wand.
Iona only makes it worse by reaching up to cup Ariadne’s cheeks, her featherlight touch drifting along her neck, to her breasts, her hips, until she slips a hand inside Ariadne’s trousers. She moans despite herself, her vine withering away again after making it halfway up her calf.
“Your capacity for stubbornness can be admirable, but is this silly contest truly worth your deprivation?” Iona asks, sliding her fingers back and forth with agonizing slowness. “Or do you believe you are the only one of us capable of driving the other mad with want?”
Ariadne’s inner muscles constrict at the threat in her words, wondering how long she could possibly last when Iona knows her body so well. She’d been fool enough to teach her and now suffers luxuriantly as Iona watches on with a gloating smile.
“I-” Ariadne clenches her jaw when Iona slips a finger inside her. “I shan’t surrender.”
“Are you certain?” Iona’s grin widens as she pulses her fingers, marking the unmistakable constriction of Ariadne’s inner muscles as she fights against the sensation.
“I am not in so vulnerable a state as you insinuate,” Ariadne protests, her vine finding its way up to her knee, mere moments from slipping inside her boot and twirling itself around her wand.
Iona raises an eyebrow, withdrawing her hand from Ariadne’s trousers, and she tries to keep the disappointment from showing in her expression.
In a disorienting shift of equilibrium, the vines haul Ariadne to the ground of dry leaves and dense soil. Four vines keep a tight hold on her wrists and ankles, while the others proceed to rip her clothes to shreds until she is left in a very vulnerable position indeed.
“Iona,” Ariadne chuckles with nervous anticipation. “I’ve yet to yield. You have no victory yet.”
“Like hell I don’t!” And she stomps her foot in frustration, which only makes Ariadne chuckle adoringly at her, stoking Iona’s irritation. “I was most acquiescent to your whims when you declared yourself the winner.”
“Well, submission is in your nature, love. Not mine,” Ariadne retorts.
“Oh, spare me.” Iona laughs and puts a hand on her hip.
Ariadne glowers at her. “My view of you is often from above, if you can recall. I would be more than happy to remind you.”
Iona opens her mouth to respond, then seems to think better of it.
“What?” Ariadne prompts.
Iona takes her quite off guard when she says, “Are you honestly implying that Rebekka… ”
Flushing with mortification, Ariadne strains her neck to give her an incredulous look. “Are you truly speaking of Rebekka while you have me-”
“I am only skeptical of your claim that-”
“Upon my word, I cannot believe-”
“In the library, I would not say Gisela and Nenet were simpering beneath you. They had you eating out of their hands,” Iona continues. “Not that it matters much at all, except in principle.”
Letting her head fall back, Ariadne huffs, her cheeks burning.
“Am I meant to assume you only refuse to submit to me?” Iona asks. “I would find that most unfair.”
“You… have never wanted that before,” Ariadne says.
“I want that now.” Iona’s pendant glows as her clothes fade away into nothing. She holds Ariadne’s gaze unflinchingly. “And considering I have earned my victory -”
“Only when I yield,” Ariadne says firmly.
A flash of something dangerous crosses Iona’s eyes. “Is that so?”
Lamenting her choice of words, Ariadne holds her stare but does not respond.
Iona’s wicked grin has her blood rushing south, watching intently as Iona comes to kneel between her spread legs. She sighs with frustration when Iona reaches for her boot and pulls it off. Her wand, her final instrument of escape, slides out and falls to the ground by Iona’s knees.
“Ah,” Iona grins. “I see now why you delayed.”
She gathers her hair in her hands and twists the lustrous strands into a messy bun at the crown of her head, then takes the wand and weaves it through, securing her hair in place.
“Now, will you yield?” Iona asks.
“No,” Ariadne shakes her head.
“Very well.” Iona pulls off the other boot and tosses it to the side, the vines at Ariadne’s ankles tightening and slithering so they wrap all the way up to her knees.
Her hands clench into fists when Iona reaches out to stroke her again where her wetness has gathered, a treacherous indication of her arousal despite her attempts at concentration.
Then Iona crawls up her body, leaning in close so her breasts dangle only a breath away, her hardened nipples so close to Ariadne’s mouth, but when she lifts her head to try and capture one between her lips, Iona pulls away with a haughty grin.
Her heartbeat quickens when Iona comes to straddle her, pressing their cunts together and grinding against her, causing ripples of pleasure with every swirl of her hips.
“Otvoren,” Iona incants.
It’s a spell Ariadne does not immediately recognize, but she quickly learns what it does when her mouth opens and can no longer close. No matter how she strains her jaw, her lips cannot meet and to her chagrin, her every reactionary sound is left unmuffled.
Iona pulls her hips away, and when she draws back down, it’s one of those perfect, overwhelming strokes that has Ariadne squeezing her eyes shut, but when normally she could bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, her moan is obscenely loud, making her blush with embarrassment.
Iona giggles breathily, her eyes flaring. “Do that again.”
Ariadne tries to speak, but none of her words can take proper shape in her mouth before another moan is drawn from her, even louder than the first.
That’s… That’s not fair. Ariadne gasps, wanting her to go faster.
“I never agreed to play fair,” Iona says. “Only to win, which I have.”
Ariadne grunts with indignation. She's unable to move, unable to thrust up from beneath as she tends to do, setting the pace, spurring Iona on until she loses control.
Willing herself to relax, she reminds herself that her objective remains the same, except now her wand will be slightly more difficult to acquire in its new position. She wonders if Iona’s hair will unravel on its own, but she’s made an impressive knot that withstands her undulations.
Iona is deftly composed as she gauges Ariadne’s every reaction, employing an impressive amount of patience and attentiveness that proves lethal.
Though Ariadne tries to keep her expression neutral, to hold back her vulgar moans, every time her muscles tense, her breath hitching compulsively, her legs pulling at the vines in an attempt to clench her thighs shut, Iona misses nothing.
She grips one of Ariadne’s thighs as leverage while her other hand reaches up to caress Ariadne’s breasts, pulling at one nipple, then the other, until she can’t help but squirm, her sneaking vine going limp yet again before it can pull the wand from Iona’s hair.
Ariadne sighs with frustration, which Iona mistakes for passion, her eyes blazing with desire.
Her hips begin to piston almost aggressively, keeping a vigorous pace that has Ariadne crying out in a most undignified manner, betraying just how glorious it feels, until she’s so close to falling apart that her thigh trembles beneath Iona’s hand.
But before she can reach the precipice of her pleasure, Iona slows her hips, rolling them in smooth, gentle circles, and Ariadne lets out a heavy, shuddering breath.
When she opens her eyes, Iona stares down at her, the sight making her stomach flip.
Then the spell on her mouth fades, allowing her to speak.
“Yield,” Iona says, her short pants undercutting her command.
“No,” Ariadne says, but her voice breaks embarrassingly.
Trying again, she wills her vine to lift off the ground like the head of a python, reaching for the wand where it pokes out from Iona’s bun.
“This will be a very long hour,” Iona mutters, as much to herself as Ariadne, for she is just as desperate for release, if not more so.