His eager digits worm their way to the apex of her warmth, teasing her opening with measured swirls and caresses to pink flesh, but not entering. She grabs his arms for purchase at the unexpected ministration, squeaking an almost-audible "not that" in retaliation. Despite her mouth's denial, she finds her legs spreading further, the backs of her knees hugging the outside of the tub with the strength of an athlete used to utilizing them well.
Taking his wandering hand hostage and subsequently whining in pseudo-protest at the loss of his touch, she folds his thumb and pinkie into his palm and straightens the middle digits to mimic his gesture from earlier. Momentary confusion is replaced by obvious realization when he discerns exactly what she means - his hand can become a blade, and she wants it to be used on herself.
She can't believe she's suggesting this. "I don't have anything to do it with, but you're a...um-"
"Oh, you want me to...?"
She doesn't confirm or deny his partial inquiry, but instead searches blindly for the misplaced loofah from her earlier embarrassment. She finds it shoved somewhere between the underside of his leg and the bottom of the tub, and a momentary struggle has it quickly dislodged from its underwater entrapment.
She quickly realizes, to her dismay, that her body wash might as well be back in Death City with how inconvenient it would be to snatch it from its resting place by the sink. The perpetual virgin in her (or is it the minx?) realizes how much she would have to reveal by getting out and letting him see every inch of her naked body. The practical analyst in her realizes that his scented shampoo will suit her purposes just fine.
He sinks as low as he can into the water so that her feet can rest easily on the tops of his shoulders. This involves lifting her out of the water momentarily, two large palms finding their way to the backs of her legs, and situating himself so he can make them both more comfortable. He stretches his legs out beneath her so that she's more or less sitting on his calves. Her feet can now find leverage on two broad shoulders, and his hands still groping her ass make her squirm impatiently in his grasp.
He watches, interested, as she pops the cap off of the container and squeezes a glob of the fragrant white stuff into the soft, pink sponge in her palm. Somehow, the motion makes one part of his brain wander, while another part laughs at the implication.
Her soapy hands find the skin of her shins and begin their work lathering the white substance into their smooth contours. Soul watches curiously at the manner in which she prepares her own skin for this familiar process. Her pores are much bigger than his own, and he can see goose bumps begin to form on their surface. The air of the bathroom is steamy and the exact opposite of cold, so this phenomenon is most likely the result of his presence rather than a lack of heat in the vicinity. He chuckles inwardly and palms her rear with renewed interest.
She spends entirely too long trying to rub the suds into her DNA. Initiating the next stage of Project Primp Maka, he pulls one hand from the water and takes her tiny ankle into the grasp of his large palm, shooting her a gaze that inquires "May I?" It takes her a moment to nod in acquiescence, but once she does, her face is already pinker than Mr. Loofah's plastic.
A spark of illuminated energy reveals his fingers have turned into blades that could cleave a chunk of meat in two. Normally, they are weapons against their enemies. Today, they'll be performing a service to her skin. She shivers nervously. Or maybe in anticipation. Perhaps a healthy combination of both.
He looks to her to take the next step. "Guide me."
She nods, her hand coming over his to place the blade nearly perpendicular to her flesh. She mimics its placement from his earlier example on his own stubble. No, never straight on, he instructs her silently. Do it at an angle. Let it scrape from the side. Yes. That's it. Just like that. Slowly...
He starts at her ankle. That seems like the most logical place. His skin underneath her hand is warm in her palm, but the steel of his blade is cold, sending further shivers to race up and down her spine against her will. It's so sharp. It's so dangerous. If he weren't her weapon, it could cut her ankle off in an instant. The possibility alone allows a glimmer of fear to peak at the very back of her mind.
The first scrape of the blade against her skin almost tickles. It works its way shortly up her leg, gathering suds and prickles of darker-than-blond hair along with it. Then he pulls it back to glide some more. He guides the blade from here on out, but she controls the pressure of it against her flesh. It tingles. It tickles. It feels good. It doesn't hurt. It could hurt, she reminds herself. However, he's in control, and he won't let it, because he likes the feel of this part of himself gliding smoothly against her skin. It's sensory overload, for both of them.
It's like he's touching her lightly with his fingers. When she closes her eyes, she can convince herself he is. He likes the way it makes her entire body tingle, from the way her toes twitch to the little tremble she's developed in her bottom lip. He can feel her shiver up the blade, and it's a weird sensation, and instigates what's supposed to be his calming leg stroking from earlier. It only serves to make her squirm more violently in his almost-lap.
He finishes one calf and moves on to the other. She'd getting used to having the (second) most dangerous part of her weapon flow freely against the exposed pink of her blushing flesh. She's as prostrate as can be in the tub, with both arms dangling off the sides of the structure and her feet planted firmly on the edge of the cedar behind his shoulders. One might think she was relaxed to have him service her. However, both of them know that she's still a squeaking, squirming mess, especially when he begins running shampoo along the insides of her thighs vigorously.
She must admit that his hands feel good there, as the movements of his palms apply more pressure than on her calves, working more knots out of taught muscles and saturating her skin in fragrant, bubbly suds with each measured caress. For a moment, she forgets about the premise of his actions, and wonders the fate of Mr. Loofah, until the blade begins working against her skin again, and her chest does the flip-floppy thing she's become accustomed to.
He starts at her knee on one leg, and moves slowly but assuredly up toned quadriceps and further into the interior of her thigh. He's careful and studious, taking the utmost of care not to cut her by keeping his strokes calculated and avoiding too much pressure. Her breathing becomes more ragged the further in he goes. Oh god, he's almost...He uses one hand to hold open her leg to gain access to the place where thigh and pelvis meet, and she gasps audibly when the sides of his fingers accidentally graze her womanhood. He apologizes, but she wonders if he's actually serious.
He's teasing her now. The same process of slick movements and excruciating suspense is repeated on her other leg. With every stroke of the blade intended to leave her skin smooth and silky to the touch, his other hand continues its task of making every square inch of her body a mass of sensitive synapses and tingling tissue.
"You okay?" His question catches her off guard, but she doesn't have any length of time to answer as he nudges her legs further apart with his knees. At first she thinks it's because he wants to settle between them, but when his eyes switch between meeting her gaze and glaring at the flesh of her womanhood barely visible beneath the suds on the water's surface, the blush on her face tells him exactly how his meister feels about his sudden intentions. He's enjoying every passing moment, but eagerly awaits to see what she'll do next.
His hands fall to her thighs again and perform more miracles that leave her groaning beneath him. He's discovered a new weapon, one that doesn't require a sharp edge, because as long as his hands continue to move further inward toward the source of her desire, she doesn't seem to care what his naughtier intentions are. The warm water does nothing to ease the ache - a dull but incessant pounding somewhere between her legs. As his fingers graze nearer the place where her muscular legs join her reproductive organs, the deeper the part of her brain that actually cares about resistance is thrown into the inferno.
She needs to relax, he says with his eyes. She knows this all too well. However, how is it possible when a second circulatory system has developed in the place where his penis is meant to go? Maybe he should help her along, and find a solution to the unyielding pulse.
He wastes no more time doing so. She's nearly crawling up the side of the tub with how much she squirms, and he uses the opportunity to sit the backs of her legs on his knees so that her lower half is lifted, up, almost out of the water. Her skin protests at the immediate contrast in temperature, but his continued massaging of her legs and labia quells the intensity of her complaint.
Before she falls backward, her hands grasp the edge of the tub so that her upper torso is no longer submerged. She's balancing on a precipice halfway between Soul's knees and the edge of the bath, using both hands and feet to remain erect and as high out of the water as possible. To her dismay, her pussy is on full display, and Soul's pointer finger-turned scythe seems extremely ominous in comparison to the rescued Mr. Loofah in his other hand. So that's where he'd been...
When he'd lathered up her pink companion with glorious shampoo, she doesn't recall. The only thing she can logically conceive is the added sensation of pink, spongy plastic working slick bubbles into the tender flesh and coarse hair between her legs. The subsequent knowing smirk adorning the handsome face of her partner is the only thing that can break her concentration to simply feel,, but even that doesn't work for very long.
He passes the loofah directly over the bundle of nerves she's trying to make him avoid. "Clit?"
Her foot nearly slips at the sensation, and she nods with a resounding "Mmm-yeah!" to the ceiling. Kissing the inside of her leg in apology, Soul readies his pointed digit in preparation for what's to come.
"Stay...still." He settles her quivering thigh with another squeeze of his hand, and uses the same means to hold open her leg at the knee, hoping to prepare her mentally and physically for further scrutiny from the mini-scythe protruding where his finger should be.
The initial sensation of steel against flesh in such close proximity to her sex makes her jump dangerously high. It might only be an inch, but with Soul's scythe literally inches from sensitive and trembling flesh, she screams internally at ever giving him the opportunity to do this in the first place.
His face is right there, studying his work with diligence and careful precision. His breath ghosts against her opening, and it takes everything in her not to shove his mouth exactly where she needs it most. Maybe if he wasn't busy slowly scraping used soap and its contents away from the most sensitive part of her body at a snail's pace, she would do just that.
Instead, she'll settle for the warm puffs of air he blows onto her clean skin, because her flesh is hot, tingling, and the need for him to touch her more is spiraling out of control.
c h a o s v i p e r . t u m b l r . c o m