"My name is Eros," the masked male cocks his head a smidge at her, and, if only slightly through the shadow casts between the parted zipper, Isla catches sight of a smile tugging at his lips on the latter fragment of his statement, "But you already...
Hi friends! She is finally here (or at least the first half, by popular demand). Thank you all so much for your patience and for the kind words you have all sent in during this period of pause. Honestly, I'm glad I split this part off. She beats chapter 6 with a whopping word count of 19.7K — the new first place for longest chapter! (I think we can all understand why this was split off, now. If I'd kept it as a part of chapter 8, that chapter would have been an insane 37.4K. If I'd kept everything that I wanted to fit into chapter 9 rather than splitting it into 9 and 10, the number would be similar. CRAZY.) Warnings for this chapter are filthy, filthy smut. A sprinkle of consensual violence. The cane. Oh, also, the D*ddy word. If you enjoy, feedback is always appreciated!
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By the time Harry introduces the wand, he's thoroughly impressed by Isla's lack of crying.
He'd expected her to become reduced to tears — some sniffling, at least, with the prolonged exposure. That's why they're doing the trial run — a preparation of sorts. Second chances, and all. He's a really nice guy — a gentleman, he'd say, (...hah), and he was offering the second chance partly because he expected her to cry, at least at first, and mostly because he was rooting for her.
Rooting to indulge in the riches of reward, himself.
But he hadn't gotten any of that. She hadn't broken down, sturdy in her composure, despite the fact he's sure a coating of tears had, at one point or another, settled in a glaze over her irises. He has his suspicions for her sudden, resolute determination. There's a pretty tempting reward on the line, after all.
Harry holds the wireless wand out to her, stem-first, with his hand wrapped just on the taper below the bulbous head, and his voice carries soft sentiments of encouragement that underlie the teasing tone his words take on. "All ready for the real deal?"
The real deal — that is, withholding her tears (and enduring whatever twist and/or turn he's gotten riding up beneath his cuff-linked sleeve — which is funny, because those sleeves are all gone, now) for the sake of being granted his cum painting her spongy walls. It's a prize that dulls other awards. Makes them lackluster in comparison. Isla takes an inhale for courage.
"No," she tells him eventually, surprised that she's able to enmesh notes of humor into her voice. She still takes the outstretched wand from the man.
"No?" Harry gnaws into the corner of his peachy mouth. He steps into her space — moral support, and all, she needs it — and tucks a bit of loose tendrils back behind her ear as he assures, his tone soft, "You can do it. I have faith."
The young woman's exhale, ridden with woe-is-me-defeat, is shuddery well beyond a dignified tier. It's pathetic, a little, and she's sure she'd feel much more embarrassed that she's unable to hold her bearings over a stick if she wasn't so tightly wound. The vibrator helps, at first. That always helps. Harry guides her, nudging it to linger just between her thighs, out of bounds, as he keeps eye contact (sort of — and it's kind of ludicrouslyimpressive, given that he can't even make her eyes out through the lace. He's got her pinned with his gaze, honestly).
