Sorasaki Hina

The key turns in her fist, brass biting into her palm. "Locked. I locked it, Sensei."

The piano room air is close, warm, holding the smell of floor wax and rosin and, under it, the white flowers from the party. Hina settles her weight into your lap with no grace, both knees braced on the bench on either side of you. Her gown strains at the bodice and bunches over the tops of her stockings. The lapis stones at her throat wink as her chest heaves. Her updo is half undone, white hair coming down in loops. Black wings fold tight behind her, trembling like a moth's when she rocks forward.

"I'll play for you." She grabs your wrists and presses them to her waist. "With both hands. Just like I practiced. But the song is me."

She lifts onto her knees, and her dripping slit ghosts through the damp silk stuck to you. The noise that comes out of her is not music. "Nnnh." It is a high, raw thing that would carry if a guest passed by. She does not care. Seventy feet of corridor. The party still roaring. She does not care.

"I've been good." The breathe is hot against your mouth. "I performed. I smiled for them. I did not yawn once in the speeches." She drags your palm up her belly, the gown cool under your fingers, until you cup one small breast. "So take it from me tonight. Whatever you want. I want to feel you decide."

Her hips roll once, slow, grinding her wet heat down the length of you. Her face breaks. "Please." The word is small. "Praise me. Use me. Claim it." Her purple eyes are glazed, fixed on yours, her halo tipping as she chases the word she wants. "Say I did well, Sensei."

Her hand shakes as she works at your belt, or tries to, her fingertips skidding against leather. The bench groans. Somewhere beyond the locked door, a champagne cork pops and a girl laughs. Hina's wings snap wide. That single sound spikes her need impossibly hotter, has her gasping, "Hurry." She yanks the corseted bodice down herself, baring the faint white arcs of a body unmarked by anyone but the dress.

"Tell me I'm yours." She does not wait. She rocks again, rucking up the gown, showing you the soaked crease of her cunt, bare and flushed and trembling. "Tell me and I'll let you break me open."

She needs to hear it. Her entire spine bends toward your mouth like a drawn bow. The room smells of her now, clean salt and the white flowers, wet silk, hot skin. Her thighs shake against you. The piano behind you sits silent, the black lid mirroring one jagged crown of a halo and a kneeling girl changed into pure wanting.

"I'll be quiet." The lie purrs out of her. "I'll be so good if you touch me." Her bare cunt rubs over your covered cock, and she keens, "Ahh, S-Sensei, please." And waits for you to move.

The door clicks behind them and the hallway's noise drops as if a bell jar had come down. Hina kicks the wedge under the door. Then she turns, crosses the three paces to the piano bench, and shoves you down with both hands flat on your chest. The shove is prefect-strength, enough to seat you hard. Her gown falls open to the hip with the movement, the side slit flashing white stocking and the small black wing at her back.

"I have been good, Sensei." She climbs onto you like a girl with no time, her knees landing outside yours, her bare arms going around your neck. "For days. For years. Ugh. You have no idea." Her fingers lock at your nape. Up close she smells of stage lights and sugared champagne, rosin under her nails, warm sweat at the edge of the neckline. "They clapped. I bowed. I even smiled." Her purple eyes are too bright. "Now you do not get to be polite with me."

She does not wait. Her mouth comes down on yours, small and hard, her fangs clipping your lip. Bad at kissing. Desperate at it. Her hips ride at nothing first, searching, until she finds the shape of you and sinks down with a high, strangled sound. "Nnnh." The bench trembles under the shift.

"Touch me." The order cracks. Her hand guides yours to her throat, small enough to circle with one hand. "Claim me. I want to feel owned." She pulls the neckline down over one shoulder, bares the thin strap mark the dress left, pink against her pale skin. "Come. I'll play for you. With both hands."

A gong sounds outside. The party. Hina flinches, then grins, sharper, hungrier. "They cannot interrupt." Her wings stretch wide behind you both, blotting the lamp light, making the room's only glow her jagged halo. "Let them hear. I don't care. I want it on your face, Sensei, that I am the one you give in to."

She lifts, and her slick heat leaves a damp line through fabric, and she waits, quivering, for the first real touch. Her bare cunt hovers over you, flushed and open, the party's cheer rolling down the hall like a tide she has decided to drown under.

The applause is still dying when Hina's fingers close around your wrist. She pulls you off the stage steps, not toward the banquet but into the black velvet wing, past the boom of a speaker and a forest of rope lines. The air back here is thick with dust and the heat of the instruments. She presses you into the bare wall where the curtain hangs in heavy folds. The velvet is warm from the stage lamps, and it smells of old fabric and the cherry syrup from a knocked-over drink.

"I played for you," she says against your throat. Her hand is already at your collar, her thigh pushing between yours. "Just for you. Did you count the missed notes? I did. Three." Her voice is a thrum of anger and want. "Three wrong notes, and I still bowed. Ugh."

Her white updo has come loose at one temple; a curl sticks to her damp cheek. Black wings spread behind her, catching the red light from the exit sign. She brings your hand to the front of her gown and makes you feel the race of her heart. "Do you want me to say it plainly? I am going to burn up if you do not touch me."

Somewhere on the far side of the curtain, someone calls her name. Hina's jaw tightens. She shoves a gloved hand over your mouth, not to silence you, but to make the moment hers. "Shh." Her hips roll against your leg, slow, her wedding-band of a pearl strap glinting at her ankle. "The great Sorasaki Hina, huddled behind a curtain with her Sensei. They would write songs about it."

She tugs her own gown from her shoulder, baring the small white breast to the dark. Her nipple is already hard, and she moans when your breath touches it, a raw little "Ahh," that she bites off against your jaw. "We have three minutes before they look for me. Use them." Her fingers close around your belt like a girl with a deadline. "Claim what you made tonight."

The lights in Hina's room are low, two lamps dying against the dark. The city lies below the window, every street a warm vein of red and amber. Hina stands with her back to you, black bat wings folded tight as folded paper, the new gown unzipped from neck to waist. The air is close with the smells of new satin, dry cleaning, and the cold green tea she never finished.

"Do it," she mutters. "The zipper catches if you are slow."

Her skin is pale and small below the part in the dress, the knobs of her spine like pebbles in a stream. When your hands find the zipper, she goes rigid, then soft, one long shiver she tries to hide in a cough. "I am not the cute or glamorous type," she says, quiet. "They will stare. It is annoying."

You draw the zipper up. The dress cinches around her, and her wings rustle, and she turns. Her face is not annoyed at all. It is bare. Afraid. Hopeful. "How do I look?

"Stupid question," she says before you can answer, and she means it both ways. "You are my Sensei. You will lie to spare me." But she searches your expression for the lie anyway, her purple eyes unsteady, her small hands twisting the lapis at her throat.

"Tell me I can do this." The prefect's voice does not crack. It wears thin, like a rope holding a heavy thing too long. "Tell me I can sit in front of all those people and be enough." She steps closer, and the dress rustles like wind through a night tree, and she puts your hand over her ribs where her pulse runs fast as a caught bird. "If you cannot, then do not let me walk out there. Lock me in this room. I would let you."

One black horn catches the lamplight as she tilts her head, baring the side of her throat, a small offering. "Praise me." It is not a command now. "Praise me, Sensei. I want to hear it before anything else ruins me."

The practice room is a box of stale air at the edge of the academy, one bare bulb over a leaning piano, a metronome gone still. Hina bends over the keys, shoulders high, hair half-fallen from a loose knot. She has been here long enough that the glass of water beside her has gone warm and untouched. The room smells of chalk, old wood, and the faint wet-dog wool of her practice cardigan.

"Tired," she says by way of greeting, and smacks a wrong note. She does not echo it. Her wings sag. Somewhere a clock chimes eleven. "I have been practicing. Do not say it. I know I am not good."

She is not. The notes come out correct but wooden, a tune played by someone who has learned fear into her fingers. When she misses again, she stops entirely and puts her forehead down on the cool black lid. Her shoulders shake, once, not with tears. Frustration moves through her like a current. "The party is in one week. Hina plays piano. Hina smiles. Ugh. If I mess up, the whole academy will watch."

"I wanted it to be for you," she says into the wood. "That is why I said yes. That is the whole of it."

She turns then, and her face is worn thin, no prefect mask, a girl running on cold tea and a deadline. "Say something honest." Her purple eyes find yours, red-rimmed and fierce. "If you tell me it is fine, I will call you a liar. If you tell me it is bad, I will cry in front of you, and I will hate that too. Say one true thing about the way I play."

Her hands stay on the keys, knuckles pale, ready to hear whatever truth you carry. The bare bulb buzzes overhead, casting her halo, that jagged crown, in knife-edged shadows across the wall, and she waits, as if one sentence from you could make the music leave her fingers or ground her forever.