M/Y

There is a knot right on her clit that has Yasha rocking her hips even before Molly's done tying the ropes around her shoulders. He's /good/ at it, practiced on both sides of the bindings; makes her look feminine and imposing and imposed upon all at once. While she still has her hands, she smooths a palm over the trio of rope diamonds up her middle, just to feel how they press into the give of her belly when she inhales deep.

"Ah-ah," Molly tuts, "I need those, m'dear."

She's obedient about bringing her arms back behind her, but there's no /command/ in Molly's voice, really. He knows the nature of their arrangement just as much as she - which is to say, not at all, only that it suits them - and his respect makes her feel warm more than his touch.

Once her wrists are tied behind her, level with her tail bone, Yasha gives up trying to hide the movement of her hips. She's not soaked through the rope, not /yet/, but Molly has proved often enough that he can get her there.

"How're you feeling in there?" He says, crawling unsteadily on the mattress until he's sat crossed-legged in front of her.

And it's strange, the way her thoughts come easily, but words feel cloud-covered and rough. She barely keeps herself from saying /empty/, and instead, manages, "Like water. Like the rain."