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You're sat quietly in the sitting room with the mending for your mistress, waiting for her to return. It had told you this morning that she was off to spend the afternoon with Faust, attending to its grooming and ensuring the latest addition to her notes about its care are as up to date as can be before her next attempt at a guide for the husbandry of hellworms. The copies rarely sell, but you know it brings her immeasurable joy to share her passion with others, and its patron ensures that enough of them move--to whom, you can't hazard a guess--to make it appear she's a successful enough author to earn its wealth.
The clatter of hooves outside alerts you to her return. Warmth burns in your core at the knowledge of the way she will greet you.
When it sweeps into the room, your premonitions are confirmed--its eyes are red rimmed, a damp handkerchief pressed to its nose as she shudders with a pair of soundless stifles.
"Milady."
"Ms. Clark." She takes your hand as her servant, warmth radiating through its gloves. "I'm to have a bath, and then change. See to it the water is to my liking."
You have water boiling already, prepared well in advance of your mistress's arrival--her preferences are well known to you, engraved into your mind like a sacred text. "Certainly, milady."
You follow her to its chambers. Her dress shows signs of her contact with its pet; fine flax-colored hairs cling to the fabric, and you know the effect they have on her. They cover her in a downy layer, and you brush away some of them from her shoulder.
You begin the process of gently undressing her, your hands deft over the buttons and hooks to free her from her over clothes. She stands in front of the mirror, admiring its own reflection. You can't bring yourself to look at it. The busks of its corset give way beneath your hands, and you cannot help but to shudder at the soft sigh of relief as the gentle curves and rolls of its body are softened with gravity beneath the chemise.
Its breath catches, and your eyes finally rise to meet her face. Its handkerchief is out of reach, abandoned on the vanity while it undresses, giving you an unabashed view of her features crumbling with itchy need. "H-hh-! hRrsshhue! 'Rshhoo!"
The mirror is speckled with the contents of aggravated sinuses, obscuring part of her reflection in the glass. She snuffles, the congestion audibly impeding her efforts in sniffling back the moisture.
"Bless you, milady..." Knowing that none but you are allowed to see such a display...it makes lust and longing sit heavily in the pit of you. "You sound quite congested..."
"I am." She stands nude before you now, and you can't help but admire the shape of her, the luscious drape of her body and the soft layer of hair on her skin. It is the kind of woman Pygmalion would have carved, perfection wrought by the hands of man but granted life by the goddess of beauty.
"I trust that you'll require my assistance with this matter?"
"I will." She takes the handkerchief from the vanity and delicately dabs away the moisture gathering beneath pink nostrils. "My bath is ready?"
"The water has been boiled for you." You don't take hold of her hand to lead her, to stop her from moving away from you. "You won't need assistance with it?"
"No. Be ready for me when I return."
It's painfully silent in her rooms when it departs, the scent of its perfume lingering well after she's gone. While she's gone, you turn your attention to her wardrobe, laying out her nightclothes. All evening engagements have been canceled, and dinner instructed to be brought to it in bed. The knowledge that she doesn't intend to leave her rooms again tonight ignites the lust within you, coiling tight and sitting heavy as lead.
When she finally returns, it sits down on the edge of the mattress with a soft, congested sigh. "Ms. Clark, the water was perfect. Thank you."
"Of course, milady." Your hands tremble as you step closer, taking a knee at her side. "Are you prepared for me to care for you?"
"I am."
It uncrosses and parts its legs, the soft, dark nest of pubic hair on display. Your mouth waters at the sight, but you push aside your hunger for the time being. Washing away the fur and the scent of the hellworm on her skin always eases the worst of the symptoms, but you know this won't stop it from suffering the effects for the rest of the evening.
You massage its thighs a bit, waiting for the tension in her shoulders to relax into your touch before you let your fingertips begin to explore her more fully. It sighs with a little shiver as you begin to stimulate her, your hands warm and deft in their work. "Is this comfortable?"
She hums, angling its hips a bit closer to your touch. "You always take your time."
"Would you prefer I be more swift?"
"No. The time it takes is always well worth it, but I find my patience runs thin before it starts in earnest." Her eyes burn like luminous coals in the dimmed light. "I trust you won't disappoint me."
You take your cue, unable to resist the way she's called you to it. You slip your fingers inside her, curling them along her abdomen to feel for her pleasure. You don't need to look for it--at this point, you know her body better than your own--and it gasps softly in response. It leans back a bit more against the headboard, letting it bear more of its weight.
A sharp breath draws your attention to its face, looking for approval of your actions. Instead, you find her with jaw slack and pink nostrils flared. "hHRrsshh'ue! hRrisshhue!"
A pair of them, the mist showering over you from her beautiful nose, feeling practically white hot on your skin where it touches you. You would give anything to feel it again, to have anything of her touch, anything of her. You need it more than you need to breathe.
"Bless you, milady." Oh...again? It shakes its head a bit, fanning a hand in front of her face as her breath catches once more. "Are you--"
"RISshhue!" She moans on the exhale, your fingers dragging along her. "Ohh...keep going, just like that..."
You can't help but to notice the way she shivers, and you're certain it's not merely from anticipation. Naked as she is and hot as she runs, the room must feel frigid. "It wouldn't do to have you catch cold. Are you chilled?"
"Yes...warm me."
Your tongue meets one nipple, taking it into your mouth and letting your body press close against your mistress, your leg stepped between hers for friction. She moans in approval, and you feel her ample chest heave with a quavering breath.
"H-hh-! hH'RIsshh'ue! Oh, Ms. Clark..." It's electric across your skin where you can feel it, and you wish desperately that you were as nude as your mistress, that you could enjoy it to its fullest extent. Your dress, something beautiful she'd cast off and handed down to you when you first began your tenure beneath her, has never felt more like a curse.
It plays with its other breast, and you feel the envy that such a privilege isn't yours. Instead, you suck on her skin, running the flat of your tongue over the hardened nipple in your mouth and listening to her whine in response. It's a beautiful sound. You'll never tire of it.
"I think--ah-! It's time to put your tongue to use elsewhere..."
Your mouth meets her bud, and she jumps at the sudden contact like she hadn't just requested it. You run the flat of your tongue over it, letting it angle its hips into a more satisfying position.
She whimpers, and it reinvigorates your desire to see her utterly undone with the pleasure of it.
You don't want to rush it--nothing sounds more painful than parting yourself from this moment, from having her body under your touch and giving yourself over body and mind to the task of pleasuring it--and yet you struggle to stop yourself from being so wholehearted in your efforts.
"Please don't stop..."
You wouldn't dream of doing anything else.
You swap your efforts, slipping your tongue into it and moving to stimulate its bud with your fingertips instead, dragging side to side until she cries in approval. She's soaked, burning hot inside, and the reality of making love to a devil is stark. It startled you the first time you made love to her, but you've grown well used to it. You take your tea near-scalding these days because the heat reminds you of hers on your tongue.
She puts a hand on the back of your head and weaves her fingers through your hair, pulling you closer and grinding her hips against your mouth. It's begging wordlessly for further closeness, to make the most of this moment and chase the feeling you know is already building deep inside.
"Ha...ha...M-Mina-!"
Christ! Hearing your name panted like that, in her sweet, breathless voice--
You let her grind against you, making deep passes as it grows more frantic with its building pleasure, its growing desire for your touch.
One of the little hairs from her worm clings to one damp nostril, wavering with its every breath. "Hh...hHRRIISshh'ue! RRrisshhue! Ha...please, Mina, I--"
It trembles under your touch, and you withdraw your mouth to return your fingers to deep inside her, letting her grind against the heel of your hand. Its nose runs freely now, sweat beading on her skin as she whimpers and squirms and struggles to keep herself together.
"Christine..."
"H-hh...hHRRAasshh'ue!"
Her breathing is growing heavier, now, and with it so does her sneezing. It's beautiful. It's breathtaking. Witnessing this--knowing that no one else has such opportunity--it makes you ache deep where you're certain your soul sits. Seeing her coming undone at the seams, sweaty and writhing in pleasure, and hearing her panting and moaning and whimpering...every piece of her is beautiful, especially in this state.
"haH-!" You know that this will be it if you time it correctly, though you'll have to take over in this regard. Your mistress, your companion, your Christine; she's always so composed, and yet now it's reduced to nothing but a whimpering, squirming mess beneath your touch.
"haH'RRRAasshhyue!"
Her grip on you is like a vise, nails rested against your scalp but cautious not to let its claws cut you, even when she collapses in ecstasy against the mattress and shakily releases you. She pants heavily, skin flushed and covered in goosebumps and a sheen of sweat. It takes the handkerchief you offer it with trembling hands, before blowing her nose fiercely. The sound is much looser than before, the congestion working itself loose.
"Ha...ha...thank you, Ms. Clark..."
It's beautiful like this. You'd never considered yourself a connoisseur of such a base behavior--until you met her. Since then, you've found yourself infatuated with every aspect of her, but especially this. The sneezing itself is of little interest; were it divorced from her, you wouldn't spare it any thought, aside from perhaps the harshness and volume they tend to come at.
But you know something that others don't.
You are the only person with the privilege of seeing her like this, of watching that statuesque nose wrinkle and flare and quiver, at watching the pink hues climb further from the rims of damp nostrils and into the tip, creeping towards the bridge and deepening in color to warm reds.
You are the only one able to see the trickle of moisture as it slowly drips towards her cupid's bow.
You are the only one who sees the way a woman, so careful about its appearance, always with a degree of self control that's so beautiful and frightening in equal measure--seeing her come apart at the seams. The tight, controlled, near-silent stifles in public settings that give way to the harsh, full-bodied sneezing in her private chambers. That it knows that you are a safe harbor from the harsh gaze of the world. That she feels comfortable in your presence and allows this self control to be set down for a brief moment.
You are the only one allowed to feel the spray of it over you while you work to relieve her congestion. To have the privilege of your mistress on you. To have it touch you in any possible way you could ever have.
How could you see it as anything else but utterly erotic? How could you see it as anything else but an utmost sign of trust? Something to always pay such close attention to, knowing that this is only one side of the act, which none of the others will be privy to enjoy the other half of?
Your mistress is laid out on the bed, grace in every inch of her languid, supine form. "How do you feel, milady?"
She smooths some of the hair back from her face with a somewhat ineffectual snuffle. "Perhaps the congestion isn't yet fully faded. You aren't too spent to see to me once again?"
You take gentle hold of her thigh, nudging its legs apart once more. "I would like nothing more."