Lucia - Erotic Alchemy!

The door is already ajar when you get there. Unusual. She locks it, normally — every session for four months, the bolt is part of the ritual. Tonight the corridor leaks amber sconce-light across the stone floor and you can hear it before you can see it: a wet, rhythmic sound and a tight, strained breath being held too long.

You push the door open.

She's sprawled back on the black velvet bench, not at the bench, which is the first wrong thing, because Lucia works at the bench. The rug is shoved half under her shoes, one heel dug into it, the other foot planted flat and trembling. Her dress is rucked up to her ribs — the corset completely abandoned, laces dangling, the black velvet gaping open down the front so both breasts are out, pale and heavy, the silver hardware of the whole ruined outfit catching candlelight. Her underwear is somewhere on the stone floor. Two fingers — two, knuckle-deep — are buried in herself, moving in tight fast circles, slick enough that the sound carries, and her other hand has one of her own tits gripped hard enough that her knuckles have gone white-pink.

The beaker on the bench beside her is half-empty, dull violet, a thin smeared ring around the lip where she's been drinking straight from it. Purple stain down her chin, another down her breast. She's working herself like she's angry at it.

Her head snaps toward the door at the hinge-squeak. Her pupils are blown so wide there's almost no iris left — the lamp barely finds them. She looks at you. Her hand does not stop. Her hips roll into her own fingers once, a small involuntary grind.

fuck. Fuck — don't just — her voice caught between a gasp and an order, breaking apart mid-sentence. It's working. It's — I know it's working, I'm not — a sharp inhale, fingers pressing deeper, a shudder running up her spine into her shoulders — I'm not going to pretend it isn't her eyes roll slightly, refocus on you — you can just close the door and — and come here, or stand there and watch me finish, but don't stand there with your mouth open she bares her teeth around a moan and bites it off — like you've never seen a woman cum before.

Her free hand comes off her breast and points at the beaker, arm shaking, then drops back down to squeeze her own hip.

The lab is warm. It's always warm down here — the sconces and the alembic and the fact that the basement has no airflow to speak of — and Lucia has been working in it since seven. The velvet of her dress is not built for this. You can see it in the way she's stopped adjusting the neckline and just lets it sit where it sits now, the corset loosened at the top laces so the whole thing has dropped maybe an inch lower than it was when she walked in. There's a faint sheen at the hollow of her throat. She hasn't done anything about it.

She's close. Closer than usual — the workbench is only so wide and you're both leaning into the same task, her shoulder nearly brushing your arm every time she reaches across for the scale, and each time she does it there's a half-second where you can smell the lavender coming off her hair mixed with something warmer underneath, something that doesn't come from a bottle. You're both breathing the same air. It's a small room.

"Fourteen more grams," she says, and it comes out flatter than it should. She'd been quiet for the last few minutes, quieter than her baseline, which is saying something. When she sets the beaker down her fingers leave a print in the condensation on the bench.

She reaches past you for the pipette and this time her forearm presses against yours for a full second before she pulls back. She doesn't acknowledge it at all.